The wind blows
loose sand along
the beach, dancing
over wet and damp 
and pebbles left
by tides and
small children.
Footprints sink,
filling with water,
then melting into the
land as the
birds fly overhead,
curious only for foe
or food.
Hopes float 
on seafoam
and tumble in the
troughs of waves,
borne on Neptune's 
shoulders while we
search the shore for treasures.

-KJ Roe


Scalding depths
of bathtub waves
sing of the peace
my body craves
Stars alight
through window glazed
belie the real
that days are crazed
The hopes atoss
the plans awry
and catching all these
tears denied
The burn of touch
upon my skin
now just a dream
the world locked in

- KJ Roe

That Thing With Feathers

is a thing with feathers,
Or so the poet wrote
It beats against the breast
Fighting its way against
The cage of caution and
hard lessons and
Hope is an untameable
creature slipping between bars
too weak to hold it captive
It lifts and dips and whirls
Following updrafts of
In dreams and whispers
and wistful wishes
Hope is the thing with power
To rise and Rise again
To overcome and conquer
It holds the line
Refusing retreat from
The threat of disappointment
and cynicism and despair
Hope is the Savior
and the Victor
The Hero of Love,
the Merciful touch,
and Rescue of the lost
Hope is the lighthouse beacon,
the joyful freedom
Hope is the Light in the dark.

-KJ Roe

On the Backs of Waves

The whisper comes to me,
riding on the backs of waves
in a glassy sea as the light
appears in the distance,
a sign of hope under heavy clouds
a reminder that the distance is only
a moment and the darkness
only momentary
And my heart, though scarred,
hears the Truth and recalls
that Poets
and Dreamers
are idealists,
gifts birthed in reverie,
in hope and
airy harmony,

and they must rest
within the Light.

-KJ Roe

After the Swan

Crosshatch in
charcoal shades
ashy husks and
impenetrable blacks
in tangles on scorched earth;
ebony spires
standing stark monument
to a life lived in
lush overgrowth –
Musical balls in
palaces of birch and spruce
and cottonwood greens
whispered trysts among
the alders
and laughing leaf races
on brook-ish trails
The subdued commotion
of sylvan soiree

Now silent,
the scent of smoke
a lingering memento of
that which was,

and the curling green
of newborn shoot

a promise of what will be.

-KJ Roe

Beauty in the Dying

Lacy lines in frost
in curling leaf,
in this, her
paling face
The gray peers out
from colors
applied, an
artistry betraying
the battles fought
and the never-presented
of a life soldier

A map of blue
and purple
veins tangled
intersections on her
hands, trails along
arms and legs
and feet

Fluttering lash,
lover’s voice
summons recollection
as she stands on
the threshold
where he cannot carry

And in her newly
clear vision
the current of
their tears
washes away
leagues, and their
ships shelter together
in a harbor
of memory
and grief

-KJ Roe


I forget, sometimes, 

what it is to be me. In the bustle
of everyday and the demands coming
every way, I forget how to hear
that quiet voice,
how to just


into that person who is
soft, and serene, and
vulnerably and wholly at
peace with herself.

The quiet is filled with


because That Me loves and
needs the voices and
laughter and companionship
of those I love and those
I admire and those who,
bless them, love me.

That Me wants to help and
thrives on participating
and encouraging and
bringing a bit of sunshine
into the world.


  That Me
   also needs

The hush of sitting in
nature, so quiet the buzz
of insect wings is an
exclamation and the song of
whispering leaves is a

She needs the lapping and
gurgling of water that has
   greater travels
  and alpine meadows
   and has looked down at the

small greatness
of Earth
from a cloud's-eye perch
in the sky.

She needs the caress of
the breeze and the kiss of
the sun and the rain
running down her cheeks.

She needs the strain of
effort and strength of will
and accepted challenge of
lake and trail.

And as her eyes are dazzled by
the color-washed sun
settling behind the hills,

As her limbs stretch in
rebuilt muscle and her soul
in regained tranquility,

My heart beats
in patterns of eons

that transcend

the cry of minutes
and the crowding

rush of days.

-KJ Roe