Why is it so sensual
To wash a lover’s hair?
Is it the scent of blossoms
Borne away on fingertips,
Or the gentle lapping of
Small waves at the water’s edge?
Is it the deep stillness that
Descends slowly on the heart,
Or the final yielding
Of control, the gift of trust?
Perhaps it is all of these
But this much I remember:
She bowed her head at the sink,
Letting the warm water run
And when she looked back at me
I knew I could not refuse.
Posted for the weekly Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.
(a monchielle)
You took a risk last night
Standing up there alone
Where you slowly allowed
Your pure voice to strip bare
Defenseless to the crowd.
You took a risk last night
Wearing that shining dress
That caught each colored glint.
You could not help but shine
In that dim firmament.
You took a risk last night
Turning your face to us
As your soul fell apart.
You became translucent
Singing your broken heart.
You took a risk last night
And we loved you the more
For letting us hold you
Even for a moment
As a lover would do.
It was a great pickup line, if I say so myself:
What a fabulous feeling!
You’re too lovely for my eyesight.
But tonight, I’d say my love is big enough to handle it.
Unfortunately, I got flustered:
My, my, I say! What a lovely sight.
Your fabulous feeling butt is big enough for two.
I’d love to handle it tonight.
Damn.
A simple laundry-day sonnet, to share with friends over at the wonderful dVerse community. Welcome, and enjoy!
A line of laundry baskets snakes around
The living room, as if about to shed
Its skin of cotton blends, in sleek casts found
By herpetologists beneath the bed.
Some days this house is full of mystery,
The mundane rendered beautiful, each small
Activity transformed for eyes that see
But do not judge too rapidly. I call
This attitude a discipline of grace,
Embracing imperfection with a smile
That lets me love the serpents I must face
In every daily task. For all the while
I long for past success, I must confess
There’s much to learn in cleaning up a mess.
What pain I endure every time that I say,
“We apologize unreservedly:
Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day.”
Your son cut his hand when he started to play
With the chainsaw you bought? Well, duh! You see
What pain I endure every time that I say
We’re sorry to losers like you, sharks who prey
On flesh like lawyers? When I gush brightly,
“Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day,”
What I mean is, “Get lost, you leech-head, and stay
Out of my way or I’ll show you clearly
What pain I endure!” Every time that I say
How I feel to my boss, he turns me away
With, “The customer’s right, just make them happy.
Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day!”
Well, he’s wrong – there’s no way we should have to pay
For your stupidity. It’s killing me
What pain I endure every time that I say,
“Thank you so much for calling; have a nice day.”
(Hey, the lockout is over – here’s a villanelle for the NFL – for friends over at dVerse, a great site to check out if you haven’t already.)
You wonder what it is I’m thinking of
As we are locking lips here in the car?
I have to say my heart is filled with love
For all creation – the bee, the wood dove
And giant men in spandex near and far.
You wonder what it is I’m thinking of
As you fumble with the seatbelt and shove
Me backwards, inflicting the biggest scar
I have? To say my heart is filled with love
For you is true, but it is not enough.
You know how my libido seems sub-par?
You wonder what it is? I’m thinking of
Owners and players standing hand in glove
Proclaiming peace like buddies in a bar.
I have to say my heart is filled with love
For you, but mostly ‘cause you’re splayed above
Me like you caught a touchdown from Bart Starr.
You wonder what it is I’m thinking of?
I have to say, my heart is filled with love.
(a rather loosely-informed sestina on my second-favourite vice)
According to my newspaper the time
Of greatest flowering in European cultural life
Coincided with the advent of the coffee
House in cities like Vienna. Poets lost love,
Philosophers thought deeply, Shrinks shrank, and great new
Symphonies soared above the pervading creative buzz.
Surely it was not always so. The buzz
More generally heard before that time
Was the gentle snore of citizens tanked up on new
Wine or local ale. Such widespread alcohol slowed life
To a crawl beyond mid-morning, for who does not love
To lie down when half drunk anyway? Imagine, then, coffee,
On its introduction from the east. A single cup of coffee
Could rouse a person with its distinctive buzz
To new heights of creativity. Quite soon, the love
Affair with this dark stranger from the shores that time
Forgot had spread from cup to saucer, transforming life
For the noveau-jazzed across the continent. The New
World, similarly, benefitted from the new
Caffeinated order. The Thirteen Colonies made coffee
A staple to accompany the westward spread of white-faced life
Swarming native land like a great cloud of queenless bees, their buzz
Stinging like a pickaxe blow in railroads and then in factories, where time
Triumphed over human scale, and simple love
Disintegrated into commerce. The love
Of money, wide-eyed, unblinking, brought a new
And harsh reality to bear – a far cry from the time
When agriculture and its rhythms reigned. Now coffee
Represented all that served to amplify avarice, that buzz-
Cut every wayward tree, and scythed through individual life.
It seems there is a rule in life
That we must pay the price for all we love,
And surely we have paid in full for the buzz
First tasted many centuries ago. Those pioneers knew
Not what they were playing with, and their coffee
Dalliance has robbed us all of a simpler time.
But then again, with the buzz of life I get each time I grab a venti toffee nut caramel white mocha frappuccino double blended with no whip cream and extra caramel drizzle, my love for this beautiful drug is brewed anew – The world would be so much less poetic without coffee.
(A silly fable written to a prompt over at the wonderful Poetic Bloomings site.)
As Paganini stumbled
Through the ancient stable door
His haughty countenance crumbled
Before the congregation on that floor.
A dozen stallions strong and fleet
Were breathing on his nose
While all around his trembling feet
Stood arching rows…
Of cats! Their green eyes blinking
With a look so fierce and bright
That Paganini started thinking
They were spoiling for a fight.
The atmosphere grew bolder
As a Siamese stalked near
And jumped up on his shoulder
To whisper in his ear,
“It’s come to our august attention
That your musical career
Has caused too much pain to mention
For the members gathered here.
The bow you boast is magical
To spin music without fail
Is only fully functional
At the cost of a flowing tail,
While the singing strings you love to stroke
To drive the ladies nuts
Can only really be baroque
Thanks to someone’s mother’s guts!”
A noisy chorus raised the roof
Of that bucolic dive
Presenting him the awful proof
He’d not escape alive
The violinist trembled
And sank down to his knees
Before all those assembled
Mewing pitifully, “Please!…”
But the angry crowd came forth in packs
With cries of “hiss!” and “neigh!”
And on a hundred hairy backs
They carried him away
Ten miles, before they cut him loose
With a note clear and nefarious:
“Leave off your animal abuse,
Or we’ll bust your Stradivarius!”
Next morning he awakened
In an empty country lane;
His night had left him shaken,
He swore he’d never drink again.
But just as a matter of careful course
After this nocturnal spat
He lavished sugar on his horse
And was nice to every cat.
A rush of silver
Was your final gift to me.
Then awful silence.
On the step, your eyes slid shut
As my heart begged you to stay.
We started pumping iron on the porch
The summer that our river burst its banks.
He stood in the driveway with his shirt off
Glistening like a sword drawn from the sea,
Shouting, I am strong now. What have you left
To offer, old man, before I slay you?
Eye-to-eye we fought to keep our balance
Two strangers astride the Leviathan
Each one thrilled and yet terrified. It was
Blood-lust and it was hubris that tossed us
Until we washed up on our backs, arms raised
And flexed and raised again without talking.
Something’s blocking the sun, I said at last.
Your pride, he spat. No, I smiled, your biceps.
Penguin Poems 