Category Archives: romance

Portamento

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As if the sunrise welled and overflowed,
an inkling of light, then creation bestowed.
Anticipation moments pass
from intra-chordal throes,
at last to grounded melody in phrase.

Or let me express in other ways;
a passion builds in smaller plays.

First, the pedal points of tone suffice,
a basis for embracing life.
Like moon and stars and sunlight greet
the common ground beneath our feet.

Tunes of commonality composed
above this founding base suppose
synchronicity imbued,
and many intervals accrue.

Yet, with the suspense here to next
a lingered moment’s desired effect
mellifluous, and tasting sweet,
such to sweep you off your feet.

As memories are long and vast
our songs with portamento last.

In a moment of selective focus

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Seeing narrow and close

the fresh rain that hangs like tears

from a florid pome and blurred green surrounds it.

The pinnacle of small details – the tip of a pen pressed

at the page or the placed dish inlaid with memories.

The indentions of your slow intake of breath fills me as you read

the texture from a leather-bound book.

Obsession takes a toll, roughshod over the global view

of landscape and horizon. Still and fixed,

the single moment aches in a story with pain

and the point that tarries after a kiss in the foreground, surrounded by rain.

***

quietness

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It is  her quietness that fells me;

my mind, last uninvolved in the world –

now filled with an aubade, the chirping rhythm of songbirds.

The deep breathing of her sleep –

Coming to, a morning of whispers

and ascending light on the far wall

here holds a new frame of reference

and rushes in a new momentary silence

at its crescendo.

 

 

Break

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Here waiting for the sunrise while I dwell in morning’s dim –
my harboring of hope is ill and sweating in its sin.

Watching for the light to catch the interim it steals,
moments pass – I’ll blink. I’ll miss it – other ones appeal.

Green is grey in darkness, with no blue above unrolled
just before the sun ascends, brandishing its hold.

Growing splendor on the mete, just above the line –
Beauty oft arises from the edge and redefines.

Naked time and space fill with the life-affirming glow,
just as love embarked and plunged into the dark fallow.

And as I sit in warmth and contemplate what hope will bring,
greens emerge, blue unrolls over every living thing.

*************

 

Dyad

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It’s careful planning
in open seasons,
speeding on the highway-
none are most enchanting
than sultry evenings.

It’s dampening ground
then freezing compost-
warming to the sunlight,
glint and once again crowned
each day, sol profound.

It’s noisy joy
come silent druthers.
Minus equals pluses
and divisions are ploys
with burnished alloy.

It’s swaying elders
in the blue dimmet.
Twinkle and a glimmer
of days when he held her,
she’d swoon and swelter.

It’s now and tempted
cosset the twilight,
The token now doublet,
a bell sound presented
with geminate thread.

Quench

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Most times it is a crumpled ball,
this sheet of words, intact and small –
wound around and bunched within
my secret thoughts and synonyms.
Folded, once or more, the verbs
bundle but do not deter
the escalating captive theme-
a wish once held inside the dream.
Sometimes, I unwrap the leaf
bending back the freed motif
to see your smile and hold your hand
then I crush it back again –
A crinkled memory, held in close
that now I render in repose.

Crux

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As hills become mountains and the lakes lead to streams,
then writing this poem is more like a scheme
to capture them both-though it seems in excess-
The climb and the ascent to narrowed obsess.
Shunning all reason of what comes to rest
on cliffs or near jetties in scenes I know best.
A beauty there waiting in sunlit repose,
her eyes slightly dimmed,as she dreams – I suppose.
And there at each waypost she lingers ahead
culling the scenery I’ve conquered and bred.
And where I go next is of no end, this I know.
She’ll be in the heights or the river below.

Potential

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I’ve seen where the snow melts to rivers,
passing over the cusp of terrain.

Poured lonely and loved into vessels pressed
by eons, it froths and drives.
Pulling and pushing the raw,
Filling and turning the wanton mutation
of these bends and falls to impatience
and hurried decline.

Cold and clear – this water, 
a gypsy surge
bathed with benevolent favor
and no time on its journey
for deliberation.
Embraced at its finish
and swirled among the pools
of a quintillion bonded kindred souls.

Real

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A real poem may awaken you before dawn
as you watch the shadows scrape away the dark
leaving pits and imperfections in the light,
things that trip or hide from you at night.

A real poem may drink coffee black or filled with cream
while watching rivers rise to meet the banks
and how it meets the line of trees, carrying debris,
then leaving it behind as water recedes.

Truest poems hear the second hand,
the sound of resonation in a quiet mind-
rememb’ring things you heard just yesterday
that click and talk, and will not go away.

And last about the poems that you feel
inside, the ones that cry or laugh or wince or smile,
Embrace them with your joy and gratitude,
caress them at the dawn and let them soothe.

Pattern

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Going forth from dot to dot,
and lines to sect, and textured plat
– I feel her form in jazz – all that
time, melodious tone and scat.

And though the curve she’s wont and apt
to slide and clutch, her eye for voicing
taut and slack.

The tremble that I feel is naught
set side by side her ending thought.
And once the silence lingers hot,
Is she the pattern that I seek, dare not?