Archive for August, 2012

Fair Lady
August 26, 2012

FAIR LADY

Fair lady of heart’s summer drought
Who slakes my thirst like Spring rain
Soft and delicate her fabric,
Her covering lines every gentle contour
Her skin catching evening’s sun, turning
hues
Prism-like into a palette of pastels
Few sights have drawn such yearning…
Few moments given such pull
To simply reach and touch so rich and
velvet skin—
Just to touch and nothing more.
Such gentle face and laughing lines,
Parenthesized by dimples,
Calls forth my own joyful laugh in
response.
If I had her for one starry night, all to
myself—
What a wonder to see those tiny
sequins,
Canopied light, sprinkle lightshafts
Down on her golden hair—
It would only take one such breathless moment to assure me
I would lack nothing by spending the
rest of my time
Just so–a captive of that very time
capsule—
To laugh, to love, to live.
You are the stuff from which dreams
are made—
It is you…yes, it is you…it is you.
If she would turn to me and look
For one brief moment, I think I would
melt,
And if not I would remain some clear
substance
For her to grab and hold.
At once she can see clear through me.
Would that it be for who I want to be
And not who I am…

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Fair Lady
August 26, 2012

FAIR LADY

Fair lady of heart’s summer drought
Who slakes my thirst like Spring rain
Soft and delicate her fabric,
Her covering lines every gentle contour
Her skin catching evening’s sun, turning
hues
Prism-like into a palette of pastels—
Few sights have drawn such yearning…
Few moments given such pull—
To simply reach and touch so rich and
velvet skin—
Just to touch and nothing more.
Such gentle face and laughing lines,
Parenthesized by dimples,
Calls forth my own joyful laugh in
response.
If I had her for one starry night, all to
myself—
What a wonder to see those tiny
sequins,
Canopied light, sprinkle lightshafts
Down on her golden hair—
It would only take one such breathless
moment to assure me
I would lack nothing by spending the
rest of my time
Just so–a captive of that very time
capsule—
To laugh, to love, to live.
You are the stuff from which dreams
are made—
It is you…yes, it is you…it is you.
If she would turn to me and look
For one brief moment, I think I would
melt,
And if not, I would remain some clear
substance
For her to grab and hold.
At once she can see clear through me
Would that it be for who I want to be
And not who I am…

Time
August 20, 2012

TIME
Time is so ungrateful in its insistence.
We haven’t much of it.
How can we protect ourselves
From its relentless chase?
We can, you know.
Time reminds me of a muscular dog.
You walk it or it drags you.
One must master.
How can I master time?
Ride it like a bull in a rodeo,
While it wears my body parts out?
In the end both win.
Time claims me.
As I reflect on the ride
I can see how I have won the contest.
The prize is mine as long as I stay on the bull
To direct it.
To control it.
To master it.
How do you direct time?
Tell me of your rodeo struggles.
Where are you going?

Anarchy of the Heart
August 17, 2012

ANARCHY OF THE HEART

How long did senseless reign

Of feeling rule the heart?

Where all actions purposed

Deep within they start

Up from the center ushered

Protocol to write

To copy out in longhand

Dictums penned in spite

For no discerning cause

Reason then had fled

Data, schedules, certainty

Spewed forth, wasted, bled

As smiles of meaning crept then

When dawning thought birthed slow

Flew right in releasing

Kilowatts aglow

So what’s the better way now?

Is it copy, hard and fast?

Or by our sight and sound selves

Governed, decided, cast

Moving towards our eighty years

Paragraphed by rest stops

Taking in the scenery

Chuckled forbearance adopts

Chaos gone awry now

To order given way

Once anarchy of the heart

In peace holds fact at bay.

WEAVE
August 17, 2012

WEAVE

.

I examined it so very closely

Through fine thick ancient loupes

And followed each separate thread

The cottons, wools, and jupes

As they wound their way in concert

Each bound to pre-set paths

I watched them as they rose and fell—

Patterned corrugated laths.

They bore unique colour splendid

Here white, there red and a navy blue

The sunlight bounced right off them

Riders giv’n every beam a hue.

.

Then I fell back a step or two

That I might not be remiss,

Envisioned the total masterpiece

A smile, a tear, a kiss,..

The red was from a woman’s purse

Clutched tightly to her breast—

Loves gift to her on taking leave

As war’s unwelcome guest.

A spot of blue, so navy deep

From the corner of my eye

I saw was torn from old blue jeans,

Clad the saddened son sitting by.

The white that piqued my every sense

Dazzling my mind anew

I saw on every villager

Crowding round the bier to view.

He was a part of each of them,

Their future, present, past;

He had helped raise every one

Their priest gone home at last.

.

As he lay quiet in coffin closed

Beneath the quilted flag

That they had made from what they had

Be it purse, or jeans, or rag,

The colors brilliant in the sun

Glistened boldly, wet with tears

Which prismed like a million stars

Branding memories for lifelong years.

Calculated Cocktails
August 16, 2012

CALCULATED COCKTAILS

Cocktail party cornered

Collar starched and stiff

Drink half-full in one hand

Abstinence belied midriff

Brown stains on his teeth and nails

Sweat pouring from his brow

Surrounded by the products

Of success from past and now.

The nut bowls long been emptied

French dip on his tie

Beyond weak jokes and then some

With one last chuckled lie

Religion, political parties,

The secretary’s style,

All points of conversation

Sprinkled with pensive guile

Gauged humphs, rakish guffaws

Sneers and snively hot-airs blow

We must be most agreeable,

The Boss is here, you know.

Stale, gray cloud, familiar thick

The air hung just waist-high

Room-sized miniature of Downtown

A 5 o’clock rush-hour sky;

.

Another aimless cocktail fest

With just the town’s invited best

Only the names change…

The faces are the same.

That old coat
August 16, 2012

THAT OLD COAT

I’ve seen it worn so many times

A hand-me-down from old friends

Where have they gone?

So fashionable the pattern

When it was brand spankin’ new

A flare, the cut, herring weave, too

The hint of sexy and dashing dare

.

That old coat.

Less fashionable now

But functional, and “proper”

Befits the airs of the civic-minded

Career-focused, briefcase-swinging

Yes, practical, economical it is

.

That old coat…

Comfortable, a little threadbare

But oh, so warm

Huddled on a bench

Beside longtime friends

Discussing politics

And the kids these days

Watching as the leaves fall

Our stone bench an island

.

Those were the days

Money, sex, and power

The coat’s kept me well,

Dressed for all occasions

Now it just touches other old coats

Shoulder to shoulder

And winks at winter coming

Once again.

RAMBLING
August 14, 2012

RAMBLING

There was a time when I thought

I should never write to anyone

About my “peanut butter roses”

But would rather in my corner

Sit munching on them

While playing the “sole” “soul” man

On guitar

Drinking my half-empty

Never half-full

Cup of bitter black coffee

It’s sunny to have someone

To smell with you

The peanut butter of life

I only wish I could write in 3-D.

Even that hasn’t enough depth.

Flat paper absorbs my ink-self

Flowing into the cellulose

Almost never fully extracted

By other eyes

With ink-absorbent retinas.

But smell the two-dimensional flower:

I want to look down

Omnipotently on the world.

The closest I ever was,

Standing on a mountain

Surveying the towns below.

Hardly the same

Looking down, down, down.

How far does down go

Before it becomes up?

I guess it depends

On which way you are traveling.