Fire
Love is like a spark:
a flame,
a beacon
of hope and refuge
from a frigid world.
Sometimes it NOVAS into exciting life:
lip red, gasoline fed,
eager to light the world.
Vibrant;
Hot as a woman's passion,
laughing,
dancing. y!
l
Sparks that f
A bonfire lasts all night,
But leaves
Dying embers
In the morning light.
It takes a little longer
to start a fire
with kindling;
kind words,
a gentle touch,
glances that compliment;
smiles….
Save the logs
for later --
build a bed
of coals;
glowing, growing,
bot too fast,
but meant to last.
These flames also
ap
le and d a n c e
and I sit here
entranced!
in front of my fire…..
Cloud Cover (with nocturnal emissions?)
The thunderheads curve in grim grins
above my bared head; their laughter rumbles
and booms about
like a cheap flask passed haphazardly throughout
a soaks' convention:
filled with false spirits,
bloated with insubstantiality,
towering with depression.
Ah! they are risible,
while i, deflatable,
cower beneath their scornful derision.
"Where is she now,
that bright star beneath which you basked
so blithely,
while we,
darkly imbrued with mundane stains, cowered away
lest gratuitous beams
vaporize our dark dominion?"
In deed.
And I, in need of sublunary consolation
(o moon of my delight),
regret, ah! deeply, the passing of the light…
which is somehow related to my lack of sight.
And in the night – the long, Stygian night –
how they drip their viperish might!
Autumn Bomb
It was in the late fall that I truly fell;
when the leaves were turning the color of unfulfilled promises,
and the skies were mottled with
overly-ripe clouds,
ready to deliver much more than
the weatherman had promised
but not nearly as much as a lover hoped.
My fall was as silent as those leaden
drops from weightless supports,
and as heavy in their impact.
In the meanwhile, the ground soaked up their moisture and mine
with equal uncaring thirst.
Fool’s Gold
Alas, Chrysostrom!
That you did love in vain is lamentable;
that you did love without reason is tragedy.
But:
Were Dulcinea in truth Aldonsa,
or Marcela the image of Medusa,
would you still love her?
Sacrifice for her?
Die for her?
Et tu, Brute?
Morning light
When I had you
I became a king,
and built a castle
by the sea.
But you left…
The tide came in
and crumbled my dreams
into
grains
of
sand
leaving memories
like bile
in my mouth.
The morning light
dispelled the night’s
opiate darkness.
Once again,
I am the court jester.
sexual revolution
tell me,
ms lillywhitebody,
does living
in your ivory tower
provide fulfillment
in every sort of way?
when you sing
the lovesong of j. alfred platonic,
should i
just hum along,
touching your mind
in an ososensual sort of way
that transcends the bawdy,
and disdain such course plotting
as a neanderthal past time?
but how free thinking
can i get?
Song of Freedom
Just as the sun does not stay in one place,
I wanted my freedom, and left with no trace.
I asked for this (not wanting to give):
No strings or commitments, and thus I now live.
Let loose the Furies; to anger give vent…
Each time I cry “fool!” it’s a wasted breath spent.
No good to yearn for what is now gone;
Can one turn back the clock or undo the wrong?
So all I can ask is what you will give
In the way of solace that might help me live.
Sign me a song that’s gentle and sweet,
Of meadows where sunlight and cool breezes meet.
Whisper a poem that is noble and kind,
Where the searching soul sees what he longs to find.
Cry me a tear in ironic praise:
I’ll get what I asked for the rest of my days.
