Barrellofart Poetry (50)

In contemplation
Of your precisely stitched brows
There above the delicacy of your lashes
And crystalline eyes-
Somewhere between sapphire
And diamond, perched brightly
High upon the bones
Of warm and broad cheeks-
Pulling supple, sanguine lips
Into that ebullient, effortless smile
With which I simply cannot help
But fall endlessly in love-

I wish to touch your face
And draw you towards me

The contemplation of love
A sickness of the early morn
When my sleep is chased away
When myself I find forlorn

Elusive, yes, quick and fast
Found again I hold it tightly
Healing slumber now in my grasp
Enjoy the peace I pray for nightly

When I was little
My Grandpa wrestled bears
Every Sunday
Out in the woods
Behind the small house
He built for us

At least
That's what he told me
And I believed him
For many years
Even after
I had figured him out

Such Angels down from clouds were tore
From heaven to ground, on this earthly shore
Uplifted, their arms, beckoned back to that home
While here I was left ignored and alone

Righteous I thought, I always would be
Their interest, seems though, was other than me
Their cries come in waves, they wish to be warm
From the mortality, cold, which crept up their arms

I sought just a friend, a simple request
Not firmness of leg, or softness of breast
But there they desired, and wouldn't look away
Or for one lonesome man, to stop, and to pray

What mark do I bare, emblazoned my head?
What face do I show, they so seem to dread?
Am I not human, do I not love?
Ought they not look down, instead of above?

Calloused my heart, I took to the streets
When then by chance, a friend I did meet
Who dressed all in black, suggestive- assertive
Her hither-come smile, sharp and perverted

"A friend I can be, for little a price
my eternal embrace, the cost just your life."
Her words lingered on, as I contemplated
A lover eternal, my heart seemed elated

When once I had sought only affection
I was shamed and deplored, which lead to reflection
The value of my life was I found was diminished
By those I petitioned for simple kindness

When once I was worthy, their eyes they averted
They desired their warmth and left me deserted
So here in the fire in those hands I am placed
Sold to the wicked for her simple embrace

Sometimes at night
When I lay my head to rest
I close my eyes and imagine:
It is the pillow which is old and tired
and it is I who am light and fluffy.

I didn't ask for this
But when it found me, I took it in
And I nurtured it
So in as much as I enjoyed it
And it became dear to my soul
as I took it in
Fed it
Watered it
Kept it warm
I become familiar
With this little thing
Called 'love'

Like deeply seeded hatred, bursting in rage
Explosives below the soil move the earth
Shuddering, in violent fits
To reveal the secret, destructive hand
Of a hellbent people

Which soar from the wounded earth
Up, out from hidden places
Massive, roaring, high-riding death
Searing the very sky
Which darkened clouds cover
Over the very pits of hell

In silence, they have saddled
Each warhorse, a warrior, a weapon
That in Godlike majesty
By his very touch, might consume
And conquer, the enemy, by myriads

Because love is a kind of eternal swansong
Of being found, or lost, or sought
And because love is all things we know innermost-
Those which describe our very existence to us

It is taste, and touch, and smell
The almost liquid nature of hair
Or the scent of the pillow which is your lover's shoulder
Or the sinking pit where one should lay, but won't
In your bed, or in your stomach

Because love is both holding
And having lost something which to hold
And having neither to held nor lost but wanting

Because love is timeless, but perhaps not so much
Where in the early hours we all seem to find it
Together, entangled, or shooting like a star
Beyond our grasp, but caught and examined in our minds
Either way, dissolving our sleep

Because love is so bitterly and joyously human
No matter how incomprehensibly personal
I need not dedicate this to anyone
Surely it is everyone's love poem

There is a certain faith of which I am particularly fond
Not one in which I find fulfillment in ignorance
Where promised luxury and happiness abound
But rather from a stark and real sense of wealth

Not so simple as faith in money, tho
That is not where I find my consolation
This life is far too short for such a thing
As embarrassing and meaningless as fiscal power

To know that she maintains her faithfulness
To reward the efforts I have attempted
Which, in the same way, cannot be bought
But only given to one they feel is so worthy

This, in return, strengthens my resolve
That I may be her rock and fortress
And my confidence the steel threshold
For the gate through which she takes refuge

It does not require ignorance to find pleasure
And the thought that there is pain and death
Need not consume the entirety of life's measure

Is the bitter reality of an unhealing world
So hard to accept as that singular truth
Or do you fancy your divine design so much

It is not a matter of mutual exclusivity
That there may at once be pain or pleasure
But tandem existence and preference for one

In preparing my dinner I find some safety
My philosophy supported herein- Enjoying apples
While still feeling the knife which cut my skin

Or in the death of my beloved great grandmother
Who without examination found more joy than grief
Her own happiness she left us in passing, as if willed

What woe and contempt we may cause if we live this way
With our eyes turned shut against good things
From those who have died so that others may live

Fight the good fight, indeed! There lays righteousness
But do not ignore any feelings of which we are made capable
Deeming that some have merit, and others aren't given to know

I thought I wasn't good enough
To hold your heart forever
And that once lost might return
With magnified appreciation

My apparent apathy instead
Fuels the fires of your rage
That may take my indecisiveness
And burn it to the ground

January is upon is, and our days are cold and quiet.

The humid, song-filled nights of summer are now long-since gone.

The idea- That there is motion, or action, in the land, beyond or by our own powers, is something hard to be believed at all.

My thoughts turn to a woman, whose interest was once peaked, against all regular course, and what might have been.

But now, in the mystery of her absence, in the cold and solemn winter nights, I sit here, attempting warmth, by the rubbing of my hands, and the ignition of my memory for her.