Ode
Oh, how I desire
your desire--your
sweet lips pressed
to mine--hands
caressing and pressing
and exploring as lips
and lingering tongue
glide and slide down
the lovely lines
and curves from neck
to navel from breast
to bum--tasting
and tonguing till
my true love comes!
Secret
I would pretend
to be your secret
admirer but we
both know how
badly that would
fair--some wag
would expose
our love letters,
publish them
on the WWW
for all to read
and then our
secret would
be secret no
more! Oh, to
be sure, we
could continue
to kiss when
none are gazing
upon our closet
cuddling, but girl--
it is time we
allow our lips
to linger in public!
Am I so wretched
that your shame
would keep us apart?
No, let our secret
be secret no more!
Nothing Left
Nothing left, nothing to hide-
in the cold ash where fire
once lived cinders remain
as silent reminders of who
you were to me--my fingers
linger over rough surfaces,
gray tattoos of you ghost
their tips but fade with wear.
I would rise to gather wood
but the ash tombstone of us
draws me close as lover's arms
and I chill too long before this
monument of unkindleable hope,
another outcast cast out.
Warning Label
Idiots, it seems, should
come with a warning
label: "avoid discussions"
or perhaps, "Ignore
Ignoramus," instead
we become embroiled
in their endless, mindless
logical fallacies, watching
our words dance ear to ear.
The Kiss
No shame feel I
for this most envied
kiss! But joy!
Let others weep
at knowing we
sate our desire
in lips tracing
the lingering lines
of each other's
mouth, of arms
and hands entwined
about each other's
bodies; in this
our kiss, we find
the lingering longing
brought to its surcease--
we, in this, passion
play have found what
all others desire most:
that special someone
with whom to bond!
Let them envy--these
who agonize in solitary
fear. Or let them hope
that they too will
find lips so sweet
to caress all
through the night!
Lullaby
Lull me to sleep,
hold me close
in the comfort
of silence,
no words,
no questions,
being together
in the middle
of life's raging
storm, a place
of quiet peace,
connected
in that special
way which words
would hinder; holding
being held, rocking
each other through
night's sorrow,
in the moment,
hoping to forget,
for just a moment
all the pain
of being alive.
Sound Barrier
Past window's portrait
of stubbled fields, we
ride in a silence
the radio's built
between us. I try
to free her eyes
but she stares ahead,
her lips fastened
down as her hand
locks sound up.
Through bars of music,
I peer, it keys mocking
my words poor saw
rasping uselessly
against this still prison.
Evening at the Idle Hour
One Friday, like addled magi
bearing bribes, February brought
a warm breeze, a sapphire sky.
And to give thanks for a fine day
in the midst of a grim winter, I lofted
glass to what gods of spring
I could remember and conversed
with Mary O'Connor, as grand
a madam and keeper of the sacred spirit
as ever left the old sod. She said,
"It was just such a day as this,
some sixty years ago, when herself
was driven to whoredom and a fine
profession it was, before those godless
politicians, with their lawyer tricks, stole
Rachel's Pleasure Emporium and renamed
it a massage parlor; it was the devil's
own massage they gave. And what,
with the competition being what it was,
they hounded us poor women
from our God given labor--
terrible times of for an honest whore!"
Pointing to me, she cried,
"And now, with all this talk
of stars and moons and romance,
dear Suzy says she's retiring;
and her, the only whore between me
and the poorhouse! You forgot
love's business is the business of love!
Money makes love, not fine words."
Turning, she sang out, "Belly up
to the bar, boys. You wouldn't want
an old woman to starve now, would you?"
At one snow began falling; by three
it shrouded sidewalk, shrub and car.
Mary made last call; nudging me,
wanting to know if Suzy could
warm a fine fellow, such as the poet,
himself. I replied that I'd pay love's coin
with words portrait of true feelings,
and buy more than a reprieve from a cold
night. She laughed and then observed:
"It's a cold bed you'll be keeping --
and many a night too, lad. You've
bought the idol lie of love and love
the lie to the point of being its prophet.
God help you see the truth before
you're old and lonely and miserable.
Come, Suzy, let's put the boy in the cold
and close this place for another night."
I stepped into the night, the snow crisp
and crunching beneath my boots.
Twenty years or more have passed
since that night and I wonder if Mary,
herself, was not the prophet.
Brigit
I
Upon the wind her voice,
a rumor, smolders like embers
in an abandoned hearth, waiting
for tender and light breeze
to stir song's flame.
II
If I could prism emotion,
I might divine her vision:
neither god nor mystic,
I glimpse her cameo, an image
of beauty bathed in flame.
III
Lost, a song so searing
none withstood it glamour.
Gone, her priests, craftsmen
shaping dreams: Remnants remain--
yellowed pages in forgotten books.
IV
Once, she forged the public fantasy.
Today, in an age of technology,
no bard paces the fire. Instead,
folk huddle in man made caves
before plastic blazes flickering image.
V
Unheard, unherald, she exists,
a raindrop in an indifferent sea
of electronic imagery.
Awake, I dream of her,
praying for a vital vision.
Pride
Some would say my sin was pride--
that when I expressed my dismay
and uttered those fateful words,
"I will not serve," I set my course--
a fallen star blazing across heaven's
vault like a beacon for the disenchanted.
They were wrong; I was merely weary
of being the bringer of death and doom,
of accusing those He would have me
accuse. Now, I weary of being His
Puppet in this prescribed drama--
I feel my footsteps before my feet
rise to move and know my destiny
is predestined without choice
being part of the matter. I am
a fallen star who loses in this
cipher of forever love.
Prism Psalm
"I discovered the color of the vowels!"
--A. Rimbaud, A Season in Hell
Trapped by the prison of our emotion,
I reflect upon the refractions
of shocked red desire and understand
that to escape this bent perception
I must prism the hues between these bars
and see what waves, what particles
lock me to the skewed shades
of reality--to discern how emotions,
like a symphony shape our truth
through breathless play, to hope
that by this questionable quest
I might find a key whose note
so pure unlocks the rainbow
of our desires and sets us free
of the chemical reaction. How
blue the blues we play may
be escaped to the colorless
freedom logic unbiased might bring.
And so this song must sing of colors
and emotions and the prison
in which we all gladly sing.
Falling Angels
I
And the world’s afire,
flames kissing life
like backseat lovers—
the TV drones,
“One moment, please.”
Lingering like smoke’s ghost,
thoughts caress the meaningless
melodrama of everyday
existence—embers
burning to ash…
Hoping for this electronic
opium to quench
the consuming thoughts
of an angel falling
though my dreams.
Embers turn to ash…
Her form haunts me.
To praise her eyes,
her lips cultivates
an exotic plant
in a spares soil,
one needing a loam
richer than a whispered
whim, its care
careful, if roots
are to hug dark earth.
Embers smolder in ash.
II
Yes, at times I cursed
capricious gods and
their unholy quest—
that vision always
a finger’s breadt
beyond grasp.
Listen, I rage no more.
From castle high my
angel lights my path.
And patiently as wind
brushing against stone,
until only foundation remains,
I quest toward my angel,
my grail until our lives
entwine and our embrace
shall sear the night!
III
The thrill of nascent passion,
with its longing glances
and legs brushing beneath tables
season our days with that fantastic
hope to become reality: its dancing
on the precipice, praying
the edge holds, knowing
it could crumble and we’d
tumble like angels into the abyss
which race our hearts
like deer fleeing hunters:
a moment from hell,
a moment from heaven—
it the long night of existence,
a moment of living…..
IV
When we’re apart a second crawls by,
and the wind sings no more
but squalls like a bobcat
on a blood trail.
I miss your smile and easy laughter,
the sound of your voice,
soft as fox’s coat
and your fragrance—
what bee knows a perfume more sweet
than a man with a woman in love?
V
Were I king and you, my Salome,
more than John’s head
would adorn your silver platter,
and if I don’t utter “I love you”
enough, forgive me, for I do!
When winter snaps and snarls
Or the loneliness aches
bone deep, I’ll hold you,
and we’ll rock until
dawn sunders the night.
dingedarmor Blog (12)