Tag Archives: Romantic Style

Summer in Chelsea

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There’s a summer in Chelsea,
a lazy, flush sunrise –
a dew, with its mettle
at morning, then stripped of its guise.
Full glow and blushing
in the mid-day, with nothing
borne except the breezes
that prattle and patter the leaves
and the warm air that settles,
the ardor that thieves.
Just before rain-drops
and thunder arrive on the scene
to swirl and knead everything
before the employ
of the night,incandescent,with hushes
and wants. Pooled sweat and twilight
and intimate haunts.
Indeed, a summer in Chelsea,
and she beams nonchalance.

Concomitant

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There is a slight twinkle
near the sun, and it brings a magic notion
down to one. There is a water droplet
near the stream, and it doesn’t bother
or even seem to care if it’s apart-
the teeming, rushing flow reprieves.
A single green leaf among the red and golden sheaves
and fading starlight, tropes in morning dark.
Waving grasses, stand in endless fields
beneath the doleful skies of clouds with daylight, now concealed.
Wisps of raven hair that battle with the breeze,
as eyes (that smile) seek out the day’s reprise.
And this, a thought to consort with the one,
the charm that twinkled with the sun.

 

the last

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As it happens, I get lost in the sky
where sunsets stroll away.

A peaking light around a corner
beyond the frontier of yesterday

I look to the last remains
even when the shadows begin
and wrapped from behind in covers
I gaze toward a fading din.

I dream of passion reds
that trail to orange, bleed to pink.
Turning around in silent awe
to indigo in a wink.

And there the fire ignites upon
this early autumn eve,
a lover of the colored sky
embraced without reprieve.

I find it in the feet of bell tones

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I find it in the feet of bell tones,
after sorbing the sound as struck and deep.

I see the auric crest at the tip of leaves
in the moments of late summer’s wanton eve.

I feel the arc that bows in honor
of poetry heard, and hopes that won’t cease.

I hear it in the intake of calm
from the instant of lighting, the droning that sleeps.

It caresses the silence just beyond music,
and lingers on fingertips framed in release.

It walks in the tawny remembrance of noon-tide,
and ploys in the finish of our masterpiece.

And sounding the whisper of midnight and morning,
the tolling of hours when time passes, sweeps

away the cache of conflagration
leaving morsels we should keep.

I find it in the feet of bell tones,
with sounds that amble soft and sweet.

Air

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Can you walk among the grasses, ornamental in your step?
Unseen, wavering in the flutter, moving with the ebb.

Do you glide among the flushing, hues of sanguine be your veil?
Camouflaging simper, as you sweep through with avail.

Will you pace ahead in rhythm, accents driving your advance?
Pausing, as an instrument, to cause my soul to dance.

Opening a gateway, hearing sounds of air
watching, waiting for a glimpse of allure unaware.

Can you wander through my field of view, as I write a verse?
Something about movement, and a guise you can’t rehearse.

Espial

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I find that beauty walks along
the pathway paved with grit and stone
hovering with each stride.
Moved with light, so to prevail
above the fragments, dirt and shale-
a footfall in each instance, hails
her balance undenied.

And as I watch her sunlight glow,
her poise and pace, from head to toe,
where she walks and ploys-
I am drawn with nothing said,
no words to compensate ahead
and on the pathway, I am lead
in muses lame and coy.

So watching beauty, as she spies
her lover in the western skies
fade just out of sight,
I wander in the settling dun,
scuffling, as I ramble on
and wonder then, without the sun
if beauty rules the night.

lagniappe

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Because mornings emerge from misty bayous
and moss that hangs and touches the sky-
a reflection in glass.
Because the thickness in the air wraps
the sunlight and holds it close.
The moments are a drawl, and a legacy of
stillness waits-
it waits between each drawing breath,
lingers between each morning glory
and rain lily-
a sweet kiss from a drowsy boo
and its momentary entanglements.
Even before the first note sounds
the blues, there is beauty conjured in the
slim to none spell-
and it is some kind of wonderful,too.

a foothold in the daisies

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The clouds are just now learning how to speak.
There’s a foothold in the daisies,
and a slow descent of water from the creek
The sun is rising amber, slow and weak.

The melody of morning turns
it’s ear upon the repeat cooing dove
and smells of honeysuckle
wafted in from somewhere down the grove.

A single tuft of flowers out among
the complete scene of hurried traffic,
other places here and in-between-
a foothold in the daisies –
a shared embrace,
devotion to a yellow speck in space.

And safe return to where began this whole mystique,
and I am learning -just now- how to speak.

arc

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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.

Bird, bees, flowers, trees

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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.