Poems by K. Stan Tinos

Her hand once held the silver moon on high,
A vow unspoken in the night's embrace.
Now vacant winds through hollow chambers cry,
And love's ardent glow has fled without a trace.
The bed, once warmed by her impassioned sigh,
Now bears the chill where fervor burned away.
No voice disturbs the hush of last goodbye--
But silence mocks the dreams of yesterday.

Her chestnut tresses, soft as woven thread,
Once tangled through my fingers, light as air.
Now severed strands lie where our visions bled,
And all that's left is time's unyielding glare.
Her eyes, twin torches guiding fortune's tide,
Now coldly turn, unmoved by love ignored.
Where Chronos grinds to dust what Fate has tried--
She walks unbound, while I stray, unmoored.

I call her name--O night, your cloak denies!
No echo stirs, no presence lingers near.
Her lips, now foreign, bloom in other skies,
Their phantom touch still whispers in my ear.
A golden thread once bound her soul to mine,
Now snapped and lost upon the heedless main;
Yet in the gloom where lost hopes entwine,
Her visage smiles, immune to love's refrain.

Like dawn that gilds the sky yet brings no heat,
She slips beyond the grasp of what has been.
I reach, I plead, but luck will not repeat--
No touch, no shadow stirs where love had seen.
Yet in the hush where sorrow silent lies,
A whisper lingers, frail as autumn wind,
For love once lost still sings where longing dies,
A ghost that haunts, yet never hopes to mend.

Our pulse isn't broken; it's charge
no words dare explain:
Jagged thoughts like live wires, thunderous, unbarred,
a primal cry in dawn's cold flame
or midnight's hum. We dive, we plunge
through searing highs and crushing lows,
where feeling drowns what reason chose,
that cautious voice, a measured lunge.

Not "sadness." Not quite "joy" expressed.
Like neon rain on streets unblest,
a mind aflame with stars confessed,
where clock-hands stutter, halt, arrest.
Some days we're maelstroms, fierce and wild,
Some days mere embers, cooled, unlit.
No measured metronomes are we,
we fracture, bend, remake the script.

So feel it raw, that voltage surge
through synapse-storms in rogue design:
Minds that race, then crash and purge,
senses that scream, unconfined.
Not unhinged, but tuned to soul
that thrums beneath the surface calm:
A chaos ancient, bold, and whole,
our difference is the lightning's psalm.

No cure required. No "fix" to find,
just hands to hold when darkness slips.
We ride the swell, unbound, maligned,
while the world sleeps with sealed lips.
For every mind that veers off-grid,
a cosmos logic never kissed.
We're a storm forged through mortal flood,
Humming: We exist.

O God, who formed the boundless skies,
Why does Thy mercy ebb and rise?
The stars obey Thy firm command,
Yet I am lost a grain of sand.

Kings' hands, with crimson deeply stained,
Through time, Thy grace and pardon gained.
Their swords were raised, their banners flew,
Yet Thou didst hear their cries anew.

The cannons roared, then fell to rest,
And war's dark fields no more oppressed.
Time's flood has washed their sins away,
And cleansed the scars of battle's fray.

The Pharaohs ruled with iron might,
While tyrants burned, then fell to night.
Their deeds, though fierce, by time were veiled,
As ash and dust their legions paled.

But I, who wear no crown nor shame,
Who struck no blow nor dealt in pain,
Am left to hold this unnamed sin,
A wound that festers deep within.

Thy grace absolves the vain who mourn,
Yet I, in shadow, dwell forlorn.
Bound unto sins I cannot flee-
Is mercy's gift too vast for me?

The wind alone shall heed my cries,
While cold and silence stretch the skies.
Yet if the world from ash may rise,
Then hope, though faint, within me lies.

Come with me, O my sweet love!
The golden dawn in silence breaks--
a hush enfolds the dreaming grove,
as Earth from shadowed slumber wakes.
The wind intones a whispered spell,

a tale of joy that paints the sky--
O hold me close, lest Heaven spy
two souls where once one soul did dwell.
Your eyes--twin flames subdued by pain--

now trace delight where grief has lain.
Come, flee with me--O love, take flight!

The morning pales, its light outshone--
the Sun, in crimson fury crowned,
shreds the last veil the dark had thrown
and floods the hush with roaring sound.

The trembling leaves, like ghosts, arise
to murmur truths the night concealed;
while echoes haunt the glade and hill,

and vow what dawn has now revealed.
Fly, fly with me--on wings untamed--
to heights where raptured voices sing,
and time dissolves in boundless flight.

Why veil the day in borrowed gold
when Beauty burns, though pale and true?
The lily bends--its grace untold--
no art could shape such bloom anew.

Let not false garlands dim the flame
that stirs within your quiet breast--
for Love, when chained by pride or shame,

becomes a jest, not Honor's guest.
Let sorrow fell and time release--
O love, come now--our souls complete!

The nymph once danced in golden air,
A whirl that swept through autumn's glade;
She wove her joy with fleeting care,
Through fern-lit haze and twilight shade.
The meadow sighed--its hush laid bare,
By hymns she spun in soft ballet.

In every swirl, both shade and sun
Entwined above with trembling grace;
Her mirth and grief became as one,
A dream no time could yet erase.
She danced of springs not yet begun--
I watched, spellbound, her fleeting trace.

The heart makes gold from tender rain,
From petals kissed by dawn's embrace;
Now she glides through the woods again,
Her presence warms the misted place--
Her dance unbinds each buried chain;
Today, I tread where echoes race.

And--even our brightest hours gleam
With ghosts of bliss too bright to last.
Her dance, now but a fading dream,
Resounds across the haunted past.
Her spirit bends--a willow tree--
Weaving new life where brooklight casts.

In every twirl, the moon and sun
Entwined above in trembling skies.
All mirth and grief were forged as one;
All ache dissolved in sweet disguise.
She danced of love not yet begun--
And I, spellbound, traced her rise.

The heart spins gold from balmy rain
And blooms in May's profuse array.
Now she glides through the woods again,
Her celestial form ignites the day--
Her dance unbinds each buried chain;
Today, I weep where shadows sway.

Yet still--the brightest hours gleam
With ghosts of bliss too bright to last.
Her dance, now but a fading dream,
Becomes an echo from a haunted past.
Her spirit bends--a willow tree--
Weaving new life where brooklight streams.

Too veiled, O Lord, Thy shadowed path,
To guard my soul from life's cruel form--
Thorns enflamed by Heaven's wrath,
Crush blooms beneath Your raging storm.

Each lantern's wane, a ghostly breath,
Reveals the shades' relentless dance:
Lost lovers bound to twilight's death,
Their vows devoured by the void's expanse.

The lilacs bleed to spectral mist,
Where willows bow and softly weep,
While maples dye the clouds' gray twist--
Torment's crest no grace may keep.

In wars where mortal cries are cleaved,
And maidens shrouded in ashen plight--
No saints arise, no heavens grieve;
Souls condemned to endless night.

Too dim, O King, Thy distant grace,
To quell this spirit's fevered trance--
This road erodes the sacred trace,
As specters weave their grim romance.

"Flee!" I plead, yet dread their state,
For flesh bears sin's eternal stain.
"Cold shades--too frail, too lost, too late
To cross the void toward Hell's domain!"

Descend, O King, through soot and pyre,
Where doubt rends faith's unraveled seam--
Though empires fall and screams conspire,
I clutch the oath, Your burning gleam.

The sun rises
not by duty, but by request,
its golden fingers stretching
only when the clouds consent.

Love, ancient and pure,
flickers as a timid flame,
its warmth conditional--
a gaze returned,
its strength measured in exchange.

Justice, sworn to fairness,
peeks from beneath her veil,
her scales swayed by whispers,
tipped toward the highest bidder.

Kindness--why must we keep score?
A hand extended,
yet a ledger waits in shadow,
each act a debt to be repaid.

And truth--oh, fragile truth--
we let you dim,
once so radiant,
now you shuffle in tattered rags,
your voice drowned
by half-truths and convenient lies.

Even the stars, once eternal,
are now reduced to currency,
their light spent on fleeting clarity,
while the earth trembles beneath,
burdened by the weight
of all these conditions,
all that remains unspoken.

Why do we walk this fragile stage,
our virtues tethered to strings,
our hearts ensnared
in this theater of compromise,
where nothing is true,
nothing absolute,
and everything--
everything--
is for sale?

Is it wiser to guard our fragile peace,
Or step into despair's depths,
Bearing a flicker of hope?
Is it divine to shield from pain,
Or more divine to bear it-
To tread shadows, shoulder someone's grief,
And make it our own?

To heal, to comfort; and by comforting,
Ease the ache of a weary heart.
A grace devoutly wished,
Yet not without a cost:
In solace, what sorrows do we inherit?
'Tis the burden of compassion-
The weight that makes courage noble.

For who would brave the silent cries,
The echo of despair unanswered,
The chill of isolation's walls,
When we could stand as a beacon,
A steady light in the storm?
To comfort is to risk,
To risk is to love,
And in love, we find a light so pure
It guides them toward reprieve.

Thus, conscience binds us as one-
A yearning to heal the fractures,
To crown the world with hope.
Salvation lies not in solitude,
But in hands that mend the fray.

Yet softly now,
The choice remains: to reach or retreat.
True strength is boundless compassion,
Daring to weave courage with despair
And forge a path toward healing-

But my strength falters.
I've borne every shadowed life,
Given peace while losing my own.
Now, in my need, no hands extend,
No light breaks through my night.
Alone, I stand, emptied, unseen-
A flickering flame consumed.

And yet-
In the quiet of shadows,
I wonder is this the cost of love?
To give until nothing remains,
Yet leave behind a warmth in others.

So let the darkness take me,
If it must.
For if my spark has kindled hope,
Perhaps, in time,
A brighter flame will rise.

Bodies caged where freedom's hymn once thrummed--
not iron, but the venomous rasp: you do not belong.
What marrow lingers when tenderness is rationed to crumbs,
and brothers gnaw tongues to gorge on dust?

A mother's breath shatters on midnight's teeth,
her labor a requiem--sons bartering joy for hollow steel.
Yet in the cracks, courage roots: fingers knotting fingers,
not in war-cries, but the silent liturgy of survival.

(Do you see it? The fault-line in the glass--
one tongue chants psalms, another croons the sea's lament.
Both veins bleed the same ancient river,
yet currents twist apart
as thunderheads loom, parched for rupture.)

Another mother cradles bruises like relics,
her lullaby the creak of deadbolts, the rasp of keys.
Love, once a hearth, now ash pressed into concrete--
a father's smoke-choked dreams stain the ceiling,
while children tally scars like stars,
charting galaxies of want.

They say a boy sprinted through Eden's ghost,
his sneakers pounding a dirge into dawn's throat.
Bullets outran his pulse--
another anthem gutted by sirens.

This soil remembers the first tongue it silenced.
Still, we till seeds into its gashes. Look--
the elders stitch wounds into wisdom:
survival is a dialect.
Mourn not the fallen,
but the fists clenched so long
they've forgotten how to cup a cheek,
how to breathe: you are mine.

Streets seethe with poison.
Syringes christen cribs.
A mother's howl dissolves in static.
But here, in the wreckage, a sapling claws through:
To love in this scorched world--
is to riot.

(Can you hear it? The hum beneath the havoc--
a thousand voices thrumming: we are still here.
Beneath hatred's eclipse,
the sun is a stubborn verb.
Clutch your kin. Even shadows
are born from light.)