A camber in her first and last embrace
and welling tears I wipe against my face.
Lingered time, that passes under breath
and desires to leave are changing less and less.
Words do not exist to tell this tale,
just kisses, fumbling hands, and hearts impaled.
The bird that spreads it’s wings to fly
aloft in winds and lullabyes
will often finds a hiding place
with little bustle, subtle grace.
The bee at work, no time to spare-
buzzing, fluttering, from here to there
to stigmas moist with other fare
but not a sound to make aware-
The flower blossomed, spread in view
with pink and yellow, vibrant hues –
and undulating sun and dew
confessed in morning light, anew.
And ever green, the pine tree stands
accepting flight with steady hands.
Each bough abets, make no mistake
and comforts those who stay awake.
Encompassed by her stare
as she reveals a confident esprit,
and wanders in my mind to be omniscient,
salient for me.
Deluged by her rhapsodic reign
and drenched in love time and again,
a dousing seems a welcomed bane
upon my weary soul and stain.
Subject to her word and tome
complete and perfect, craved and honed,
every act a sin – atoned
and riddled cunning, bone-to-bone.
In a room with over-sized books
and a dungy wing-back chair,
I am invited to sit
and look at maps of Belize
and Montenegro, tables espousing
cotton production
in the deep south, where is the world’s leading
smelter of tin,
or diagrams of different zoological
families.
Garden paths of azaleas
in a gulf between tall oaks,
Photographs of Lennon on holiday
and Lenin in state,
and the virtues of handmade linen,
all woven and attentive
to my browsing.
Bindings jut and overhang
from the shelves,
like spanish moss speaking,
knowing that I choose the ones
who pronounce themselves
and embrace my turn
of the page.
********
I was spending time in a library this week, when I happened on
the oversized book collection in a quiet room with
a single chair. So much about this collection and this
environment spoke to me.
I am afraid of
painted wood,
of silence, the absence
of touch-
all empty hearts.
Do not conceal the grain.
an errant
beauty that meanders
repeats patterns,
a sorcery of contrast
that speaks of light and dark,
grown in the embrace of time.
Smoothed in polished hue,
yet textured and aching
for traces
to sound
and hear its voice.
The vibrations that
act upon a contoured soul
and adjoin
with tongues of parity,
a shape that’s shared and sown.
*******************
While sitting at my work table, I noticed the beautiful wood grain that wove through the surface, and this poem emerged.
There on,
her window sill blossoms
with planter box flowers
of slow jazz and Stanleys.
Her hand in the sunlight,
its daughter, light and blue.
Of red poppies,
love and forever –
displayed in tune.
And sometimes her crush
of the embraceable gypsy,
-of you
and your charming
pinned notes of heart’s spade
and peonies,
cause her to croon and cascade.
Her fingers lace
through clusters and letters,
still photographs of the
of scarlet fragments her
tears leave in the dirt – along
with the packet
of field daisy seeds
from me.
I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.
Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.
To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.
I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.
I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.
My vista has left.
It got up and walked away,
taking its burgeoning poetry
and florets of blush
just beyond the hill-
where I last see a wrinkle
in the day.
Perhaps, it will sail away
and live at sea, content in knowing
that final curtains are best
without remorse. Every green patch
a relic of what was bewitching for me.
Tossed by storms in darkness,
with no one to notice.
Cowed in heat and sun.
Awoken in grey mists
that cling and impede
their run.
Maybe, one day it will land aground
after years adrift. Someone will see
and write words that begin a scene anew.
The beauty of the vista, adorned
with yearning – causes me to run
with all abandon
to meet the last wrinkle
of the day.
*****************
It is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve participated in the past, but I don’t think I will this year – time will not allow me a post every day. I’ve been on a bit of a down-turn lately with inspiration for writing and experiencing my own emotional lows. This poem conveys a little of that struggle, the loss of “vision” – though I’m not sure I’m totally happy with it. I share it anyway, as a work in progress, because writing is something I must continue to do.
I don’t know why, I just do. I hope readers will continue to read.
All the best.
Not proven,
more-so in being,
taking its place within a theorem
of tact and diplomacy.
A region in space
that local weather might clear away
to see, but not believe-
though purpose is reason enough.
It can be filled with sun or cats –
Or emptied of lust and water.
In time, supposing-lovers meet.
There is something curved about the form,
with gentle perceptions
arc and whorled but not touching.
Gaps are infused with
first blush – in dawning fashion.
A silhouette slowly fills to capacity,
their conclusions unite
with no sound-
only an apparition
of what could be true
and the assumption of profession.
Likened to an oval space
where I’m pressing to the wall
and move ’round its circumference
with caution and recall.
I sense it as a darkened play
just beyond my reach,
and substance in the shadows
are thin and disbelieved.
Her touch, in words, assuages fear-
a hold to ban the ill,
the empty holes and voids,
the impressions- touches fill.
Grip me with affection’s tongue
fast with lake and sun,
embrace me with your tumult
that leads us – come undone.
Such is this, caress’ way
in aftermath beyond,
a soothing wisp, a kiss she shares
and looming dark is gone.
Taps and Ratamacues 