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.
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.
If all wishes were granted
the world’d come unglued-
some mountains would topple,
most governments too.
Would granting fulfillment
kill thirst on the vine?
No fruit of the spirit.
No waiting in line.
The songs about lovesickness
would drop minor chords,
and poets would dally
with limericks and torts.
To grant all the wishes
might invoke riots
where folks with day-yearnings
might want for the night.
Humankind’s never happiest
and not satisfied
unless something to strive for
is there to divide.
Yet, curious the issue
that lingers about –
this striving and conquering
leaves others out.
Their wishes pummeled,
Yes – they have them too.
If their wishes die
then the world’d come unglued.
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.
In the green, a want
is growing – still and hopeful-
rapt. And knowing that the spell
is brief,
a pin-point moment -lust-
a thief glances – no-
it clutches
hold and deepens,
dilates what was touched
and seasoned.
Lines and edges, flecks and flux
core and flesh, entwined amok.
And somehow, moments in the end
a cured and coupled image
penned, a brush too lightly
to offend,
and focused there,
she starts again.
The public order
of the ocean,
a blur of mist and foam.
The captive sounds
of marching throngs
so felt this far
from home.
A crushing flood
of tides and breakers,
twelve bars into song
assuage the mystic
caravan singing,
everybody
let’s get stoned.
Shrieking, cry the gulls
above the din
of skin and groans.
I toss a shell.
It’s gonna rain.
I feel it
in my bones.
it begins as a wisp
neither taut nor explicit
a scribbled idea
on a plain yellow post-it,
sitting for weeks
til the stickiness faded
then moved ’round the table
it’s purpose degraded
and ultimately lands
in pile, curled – misled
like so many of my thoughts
of desire go unread.
The petals, her soliloquy,
quivering with imbued poise
and rapt, the mind’s quick fancy
to capture her employs.
Among the quichens grows a kree
a site-astoric flustsymbly.
A kree is there, not roneously,
but freet and gorl and groverly.
And how it came to grow just there,
the primmets wonder with atious care,
For quichens do not keep or share
their time or place or own elsewhere.
The primmets garnered brave and asked
the kree just how it came to pass
that it was given reign to mass
and live with quichens, in their class.
The kree looked puzzled, audly moussed
the primmetts had not gaged – deduced
the kree was here for years to roost
and shared it with the quichens fruste.
Sometimes, I weep, yet cannot
see the edge’s line and filigree.
Add to this – dim appeal,
obtuse affection, not fresh not real.
Creek beds flow in pouring rain
tears evolve, invoking pain.
A polish on the floor reflects
the one light on, that one affects.
A square persona, mirrored there
in lust’rous promise, staid and clear.
Such consequence – o tainted eyes
beneath a sad and milky sky.
Taps and Ratamacues 