The Poet

The poet,
In timid vice and phrase
Resounding off the cliffs
Of a literary canyon,
Rummages through the dross of common days,
Brings forth jewels, sunwashed.

An Acting Troupe In 1939

Dwelling in the valley
At point blank range
Like walking a tightrope
With weights at the end.
A sinking situation
For the desperately still.
But a braver face
Must be put on things,
“for there the honor lies.”
So we will act well
In the daily living
And the silent nights
Of quarrellings but few
For this was not the time.
There were procedures
And documents
And interviews with uniforms
And noises in the streets,
Glass shattering, smoke,
And the running,
Always running.
Rationing wasted us,
The sounds awoke us,
The people betrayed us.
The showers killed us
At Three AM with little sleep,
But cold coffee to rest behind,
In hopes of peace.

Compromise

For the enticed wanderers
In the shadowy halls of affection
Waits the necessary question,
Beyond which answer lies,
The goal of the hunter’s eyes,
The desire of earnest lover,
The need of ill kept spouse
And the gentle paramour.

The disciples of Eros and Agape,
In confluence of necessity,
Sit in rooms of compromise,
Shyly setting a vaunted price
On the values of inhibition;
On the toll for its attrition.

There are the ones indeed
That, coming to this query,
Fear a committing deed;
Who would much rather tarry
At the bed of indecision,
Than examine this contention.

And with scales that see clearly,
But oftentimes too late,
The prize it costs them dearly,
The cautious ones remain
Poised between love’s lasting fate,
And passion’s finite gain.

Impulsively, the breathless,
In impatient young caresses,
Choose immediate rejection
Of future chance distresses,
In favor of quick reaction
Found in heated interaction.

After honest contemplation,
Of the careful question,
It is open handed lovers,
Who in these halls discover
They’ve nothing true to offer
But vows to love the other;
Who find to their elation
The gestalt of their relation,
Agape and Eros refined
In union of flesh and mind.

Feet Of Clay

Finesse guiding the creator’s hand,
A graceful touch in respect
To that which grace requires.
Shaping the shapeless.

A forming, formulaic intimacy
Rhythmic strokes; caresses
That wood can never understand;
That stone could never feel.

Clay guided with breathless motion,
Tenderly accepting the absence
Of being; though truly meant to be.
Humbling in its patience.

Concrete image veiled,
Its own identity defined fierce
In the fire, stoked in an embrace
Where life is discovered, redeemed.

The metamorphosis of heat,
Bringing damp clay to flesh,
Stiff, resolved, cherishing
Independence as a varied form.

Tough outer skin,
Hiding timidly the context
Of beginnings ever so accepting;
Of predetermined fractures.

So beautiful and magnificent
This firm, fortuned one.
So incompliant and easily shattered
So much like us.

Talk To Me

The subtle ebb and flow of conversation,
Ambiguous remarks; temptations to the mysterious
Course of another beings delights, confident betrayals
Of self; to be as confidants of fearfully wrought intimacy,
Enjoying for seconds or more the teasing option; the script written
In hurried silent thought biased with desires and fears,
Of the mortal flesh and soul.

Aristocrats and dignitaries may perfect the art, Of dissembling; the shadow casting mage may entice, With only a simple twist of word, Not to forget the hands, But it is the bodily conversation of lovers, Intimacy intertwined with spoken sacrifice Who equally embrace the moment.

Beautiful Creation

The true dissolution
Of the weathered saint,
Threadbare robe loose
On ravaged flesh;
The elementals pay little heed
To the spiritual dedication,
His goal and purpose is.

The minstrel’s blurring fingers,
Magic on the strings; keys,
As if the idiot body could remember
Such climactic phrasery
Of rhythmic melancholy,
In such tender moods.

The carpenter’s rough grasp,
Placating the hewn wood,
His labors intense, patient,
For only time can bring the
Hidden tree to life again.
Only time can wear it back.

The poet’s joyous wonder
At the sentiment and memory
Invoked with a simple meter;
The delicate twist,
Revealing the inner life
Of the living word.

Each one and others,
Pieces of the whole,
The gestalt of the creator,
Endowing the art of creation,
Be it sound, word or soul.

Three Bed, Two Bath

The walls have ears
But are mute to express
If only for a little while,
In a shambling silent way.
Their memories must,
In aged slowness,
Remember each hand
Pressed out for guidance,
Escorted by plaster;
The felt tip markers at age three,
Spelling ‘Mommy’ in the corner
In bright red shiny ink,
A juvenile plea for attention;
The new coat of paint,
Blue watercolor on the walls,
And varnished wood,
The tender feeling of appreciation,
At age twenty;
And if only distantly now,
The dim sound of love and life,
Echoing in close comfort,
Now drowned out
By the noise of termites,
Feeding in the back room,
The dust lures them in.
It always does.

Copyright © 1999 Netstorm2k