Lighted

Fir bough
Scent
Fills each joyous
Inhalation
And it is
Up
To
Me

Bundled package
Branching
Setting firm, strong
Foundation
And it is
Up
To
Me

Spreading arms
Reaching
Waiting to carry
Decoration
And it is
Up
To
Me

Proud symbol
Touching
The expectant senses
Heightened
At your arrival
And it is
Up
To
Me

Guiding parent
Leading
My young blessings
Forward
Showing what’s lighted
And it is
Up
To
Me


Ken Goree


I put up the Christmas tree tonight.  My kids will come home to the lights and scent that set the holiday season in motion.  My mother used to be the one who carried on the rituals and traditions that put the final polish on our wonderful lives.  I guess now, it is up to me.

Untouched

Unfeeling,
Unfocused,
Shoulder to wall
Seeing,
Tasting,
Smelling,
Cloud crystal halos
Circling winter moon
In cold night,
But
Drifting
Soul,
Realizing the rift,
Wonders at emptiness
Sad
To
Be
Untouched


Ken Goree

Frost

Frost

White crystal blanket

Covering in cool beauty

Bringing forth shivers

Ken Goree

Foot

It used to be, that when I said something

Those words would roll out with just the right ring

When spoke in the past, t’was diplomatic

Calming effect, didn’t cause any static

But now, no matter, what I happen to say

It never seems to come out the right way.

I open my lips, and try for a song

My words don’t you know, they come out quite wrong

I do honestly try, not to offend

I really do wish, my “mis-saids” would end

So I realized that, apparently

The foul taste of foot, must appeal to me.

Ken Goree

I didn’t actually say anything to “put my foot in my mouth,” but I have seen it done repeatedly by acquaintances lately, and I have been in situations where it seems like it would have been a very easy thing to do.

Cauldron

Cauldron
Boil and
Tumble
Of mist filled
Crater,
Stretches outward
Cloaking
Unknown
Cruel
Dangers

Descending
Into shrouding
Vapors
Of low sunken
Cloud,
Sounds dampened,
Deprived
Senses
Construct
Mysteries

Figures
Materialize and
Darken,
Solidifying their presence
Ahead,
Common, made
Wicked,
Within
Alien
Landscape

Murmurs
Speak softly
Of
Unseen black torments,
Grown
Vivid, perilous,
Born
From
Magnificent
Imaginings

Crashing
Sound, causes
Bolting panic, conquering
Logic,
Racing scramble,
Fleeing
From
Gaining
Terrors

Shale
Kicked away
By
Frantic scrambling feet
Gaining
Abyss’ rim
Sunlight
Evaporating
Foul
Nightmare


Ken Goree


This morning, I was enjoying the dense fog swirling around me as I stood on my back deck.  I sipped at my coffee cup and watched it add its own mists to the morning.  Ducks in the wetlands pounded wings at the water as they, startled by fear of some thing real or imagined, took flight through the trees.  As the day wore on, memory of the morning slipped from my mind.

This evening, while in my writing group, the subject of fog and its beautiful mystery was brought up several times; conversationally in one person’s description of her day, and another time in a poem shared. 

It seemed like a good direction to take, as I sat down to write my poem.  I hadn’t intended to write something that seemed “dark.”  It just evolved that way through my process.  Like many of my poems and stories that have a malevolent presence to them, I don’t think of them that way.  To me, they are a recollection of the wonderful, delicious fright that one can produce with the imagination, especially as a child.  When my writing takes a dark road, I am experiencing my own special brand of nostalgia.