A blanket and old cotton robe
draped from her teenaged sister's top bunk
help keep out the monsters
that haunt my five-year-old daughter
alight with a keen imagination.
They're a blossoming warrior's shield
through which none but family may pass.
There is nothing in the dark
that isn't there in the light, I tell her,
remembering how like her
I would pull the covers over my head
to hide from ominous dark shapes
lurking in the night-light gloom.
I wonder if some day,
will she stand where I now stand
watching the milky way slip silently
across the desert sky?
The film of stars is like a blanket
that somehow shields me,
an aging warrior alight with a keen imagination.
I wonder if my sweet daughter
will also wrap herself in the comforting march of stars
exorcising life's demons?
An older poem but I still gaze up toward the nighttime sky and take comfort in its vast possibilities.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Your Presence is Electric
Your presence is electric!
The curve of your buttocks
and the soft swell of your breasts
send a blue fire sparking through my veins!
My nostrils flare and tingle
with the scent of your body.
My mouth waters in anticipation
of the taste of your lips.
Fuses blown, circuit breakers tripped,
the back surge of power generated
courses unchecked through all my connections
entangled in a web of hot wires fused
to each nerve charged with desire.
Your presence is electric!
Your being a dynamo, and I
short circuited with lust
wait anxiously for your voice,
for a touch,
for the power of lightning
alive in your flesh.
Love poem, lust poem, even after all these years my bride does this to me!
The curve of your buttocks
and the soft swell of your breasts
send a blue fire sparking through my veins!
My nostrils flare and tingle
with the scent of your body.
My mouth waters in anticipation
of the taste of your lips.
Fuses blown, circuit breakers tripped,
the back surge of power generated
courses unchecked through all my connections
entangled in a web of hot wires fused
to each nerve charged with desire.
Your presence is electric!
Your being a dynamo, and I
short circuited with lust
wait anxiously for your voice,
for a touch,
for the power of lightning
alive in your flesh.
Love poem, lust poem, even after all these years my bride does this to me!
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Where My Love Finds Denial
Tracing the gentle curves of your breasts
and running my fingertip across your belly
in the teasing tickle of love making,
my finger pauses at the tip of a long scar
stretching from below your sternum
to the coarse thatch of pubic hair.
We are beings of light.
The strength of our souls emanates
in fine tendrills of luminescence
from our navels.
Your scar, cold and white,
belies the black strand of despair
that eclipses the glow of your being.
It is here my finger pauses
touching the source of darkness
I have sensed in you.
It is here where my love
finds denial.
This is a true poem or should I say a poem of truth, perhaps. It happened. There was a scar. We are beings of light. All of this. And because of these things, these true things within the poem, I have had many tell me the poem spoke to them in some manner about a failed relationship. There is something deeper here, I think, than love denied. You decide.
and running my fingertip across your belly
in the teasing tickle of love making,
my finger pauses at the tip of a long scar
stretching from below your sternum
to the coarse thatch of pubic hair.
We are beings of light.
The strength of our souls emanates
in fine tendrills of luminescence
from our navels.
Your scar, cold and white,
belies the black strand of despair
that eclipses the glow of your being.
It is here my finger pauses
touching the source of darkness
I have sensed in you.
It is here where my love
finds denial.
This is a true poem or should I say a poem of truth, perhaps. It happened. There was a scar. We are beings of light. All of this. And because of these things, these true things within the poem, I have had many tell me the poem spoke to them in some manner about a failed relationship. There is something deeper here, I think, than love denied. You decide.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Philosophy
Each day contains a wealth of sights and and sounds,
of joy or sorrow, of pleasure or pain.
Each day reveals a secret of the gods
in this wondrous world of sunshine and rain.
We are alive! We can think! We can feel!
It is these things and nothing more we need -
To bathe our toes in sun-warmed ocean sand
or run to catch a floating thistle seed.
Philosophy upon life's wonders fed
will seek no answer more, but pause and stare
at what marvels a searching hand may find
and all the inherent mysteries there.
There you go! A sonnet!
of joy or sorrow, of pleasure or pain.
Each day reveals a secret of the gods
in this wondrous world of sunshine and rain.
We are alive! We can think! We can feel!
It is these things and nothing more we need -
To bathe our toes in sun-warmed ocean sand
or run to catch a floating thistle seed.
Philosophy upon life's wonders fed
will seek no answer more, but pause and stare
at what marvels a searching hand may find
and all the inherent mysteries there.
There you go! A sonnet!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Desert Kill
Burdened with the weight of fresh carrion,
feathers struggle in the dead air
seeking the elusive updraft
that gives an easier flight to aerie.
Soon there will be a patient stand at guard
as the present and future meet
in the yaw of hungry beaks.
Each year the shells grow thinner.
Each year more of the destroyers
pass by on the muddy river far below.
Each year there are more beaten paths
to every arroyo and promontory,
trails lined with stumps where mesquite once grew,
trails dissolving from the summer rains
into unwelcome canyons of the next millennia.
Some day the rodents will run riot on the mesa,
their fleas shrieking plague and hallelujah!
the eagles are gone, the coyotes are poisoned.
Only the fire ants will partake
in the desert kill.
feathers struggle in the dead air
seeking the elusive updraft
that gives an easier flight to aerie.
Soon there will be a patient stand at guard
as the present and future meet
in the yaw of hungry beaks.
Each year the shells grow thinner.
Each year more of the destroyers
pass by on the muddy river far below.
Each year there are more beaten paths
to every arroyo and promontory,
trails lined with stumps where mesquite once grew,
trails dissolving from the summer rains
into unwelcome canyons of the next millennia.
Some day the rodents will run riot on the mesa,
their fleas shrieking plague and hallelujah!
the eagles are gone, the coyotes are poisoned.
Only the fire ants will partake
in the desert kill.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Fear of Fire
Color floating on the breeze
has caught my eye, a butterfly,
And no, I may not try to run
and capture her, I must not try!
For if we touched the spell would break,
She'd never fly again.
And I would have to bear the blame
for causing such an end.
My love for her must be content
to mark her flight among the trees
and take my joy in watching as
she dances on the sun warmed breeze.
But oh! Such colors strike a flame
that burns within my heart
and fills me with a crazy need
to tear my world apart.
For want of something I can't have
do I follow my lust and run
the risk of losing what I have
for colors flashing in the sun?
No. I just stand here helplessly
imprisoned by my wild desire
to touch and hold the dancing flame
yet fearful of the fire.
has caught my eye, a butterfly,
And no, I may not try to run
and capture her, I must not try!
For if we touched the spell would break,
She'd never fly again.
And I would have to bear the blame
for causing such an end.
My love for her must be content
to mark her flight among the trees
and take my joy in watching as
she dances on the sun warmed breeze.
But oh! Such colors strike a flame
that burns within my heart
and fills me with a crazy need
to tear my world apart.
For want of something I can't have
do I follow my lust and run
the risk of losing what I have
for colors flashing in the sun?
No. I just stand here helplessly
imprisoned by my wild desire
to touch and hold the dancing flame
yet fearful of the fire.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Oh, To Never See Cortez Again
Clouds are crashing
against the jagged mountain skyline.
Ice on the wind rattles the blackjack pine
and the forest sings with a susurrant waving of boughs.
Puffed white against cobalt blue
cumulonimbus underbellies stretch darkly
with the promise of snow.
The mountain receives them, impaling and holding them
until the vellum of mist rips
spilling the gift of moisture onto the cold dry rocks.
A mile below in thevalley
rain is tapping on fogged windows.
The gently pinging litany of the drizzle
is the prayer of hope for Spring flowers.
It is this cycle that engorges each wash
with rock crushing water
cascading into shallow streams
swelling finally into the green river
that once ran to the Sea of Cortez.
But the sea no longer tastes the snowmelt.
Red canyons are drowned behind concrete dams.
Now the moisture is scattered helplessly into the air
above the thirsty creosote and sajuaro plain
by fountains, stale artificial lakes,
swimming pools
and golf course greens.
Still, the clouds return from the Pacific
and the cycle begins anew each season
despite this broken spoke in the wheel.
And a river that searches for the Sea of Cortez
rushes to a pointless death in Phoenix, Arizona,
never to rise from the ashes again.
In 1994 this poem took third place in the Flagstaff Festival of Arts Statewide poetry competition titled Arizona Anthem. And yes, I know there is a split infinitive in the title. So did the judges. I may have placed higher but the grammar police busted me on this one. I did it intentionally. I really did. I toyed with "Oh, Never to See Cortez Again." I liked it - I liked the sense of never to the sea of Cortez sense of it. But.... there was this "to boldly go" thing in my head and I liked the rhythym and - so, I split an infinitive! I dangle participles too, you know!
p.s. by the way - in this same statewide contest, my daughter Megan took 1st place in the under 18 division for a sweet little poem titled "friends." She was 7 years old at the time! I got a nice placque, she got a paper certificate - it should have been the other way around.
against the jagged mountain skyline.
Ice on the wind rattles the blackjack pine
and the forest sings with a susurrant waving of boughs.
Puffed white against cobalt blue
cumulonimbus underbellies stretch darkly
with the promise of snow.
The mountain receives them, impaling and holding them
until the vellum of mist rips
spilling the gift of moisture onto the cold dry rocks.
A mile below in thevalley
rain is tapping on fogged windows.
The gently pinging litany of the drizzle
is the prayer of hope for Spring flowers.
It is this cycle that engorges each wash
with rock crushing water
cascading into shallow streams
swelling finally into the green river
that once ran to the Sea of Cortez.
But the sea no longer tastes the snowmelt.
Red canyons are drowned behind concrete dams.
Now the moisture is scattered helplessly into the air
above the thirsty creosote and sajuaro plain
by fountains, stale artificial lakes,
swimming pools
and golf course greens.
Still, the clouds return from the Pacific
and the cycle begins anew each season
despite this broken spoke in the wheel.
And a river that searches for the Sea of Cortez
rushes to a pointless death in Phoenix, Arizona,
never to rise from the ashes again.
In 1994 this poem took third place in the Flagstaff Festival of Arts Statewide poetry competition titled Arizona Anthem. And yes, I know there is a split infinitive in the title. So did the judges. I may have placed higher but the grammar police busted me on this one. I did it intentionally. I really did. I toyed with "Oh, Never to See Cortez Again." I liked it - I liked the sense of never to the sea of Cortez sense of it. But.... there was this "to boldly go" thing in my head and I liked the rhythym and - so, I split an infinitive! I dangle participles too, you know!
p.s. by the way - in this same statewide contest, my daughter Megan took 1st place in the under 18 division for a sweet little poem titled "friends." She was 7 years old at the time! I got a nice placque, she got a paper certificate - it should have been the other way around.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
