The Poetry Of.
Harold Lorin.........................
Show Them No Mercy
This is the sweetest season.
She sits on the hill with high knees
Pulling the weeds
Just above the stones that make a path.
The evil vetch. Arch enemy of all
Gives way to her. Even from here
You can sense her swell of triumph.
These are the quiet days when we
Are as we have always been
Or as we wanted to be
When her hair was blacker than the iris
And her fragile waist fingers
Between my fingers.
Joys
We have invented our own joys.
A Brahms Sextet.
An exhibition of Post-Moderns
The blossoming blue iris.
Ephemera. It is enough for us
Children tending their own children
Will not be for us.
We brood on how we harmed them
As, almost furtively,
We plan our next trip to France.
Another Year
And now she's stayed another year with me
This lovely ageless beauty
This pretty girl
All whose times and stages
Are written in my heart
In sunlit image and in
Text more sacred than the ages.
Below the trivial tremor of what they call
Domestic life
Lies my passion
Lies my sense of her hand in my own
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