The stream (all workshops)
It is mid spring as I drive by
this clear and tumbling foot hills creek
and stop before the bridge so high
dismount my truck to take a peek
This stream which many call a river
runs to white descending waters
as if it is afraid to dither
on its way to final resting quarters
Now is the time which in riffles run
above the heads of quiet pools
white sucker fish spawning in the sun
they lay stacked up like utter fools
I spied a dainty bruise
powdered away, by a vacant stare,
another pair of pale white elephants
get to prove that they're not there.
Empathy, is probably
that word I'm searcing for,
heros never get the chance to leave
except in times of war.
Great, are my expectations!
Overly zealous, are my dreams!
Do the rest get off scott-free?
Should be a law, or so it seems.
I dance to melodies both bright and swift
diminished only by the rising sun
and yet, within the swirl where chances sift
I struggle with my smile when song's begun.
I stumble when my dreams and heaven meet,
as "fancy free" and quicker dancing feet
will join the dark to scribe my written word,
and blend its voice to song of mocking bird.
welcome with the rush of words
echo down the hall
the carpet dark
walls deep red
I remember when the moon
rose red
the August heat thick
in its swelter
the stars were sweating
and falling like feiry
persperation
you leaned forward
the serious face
examing me
never sure if I was high
or imbibing
Tarpaulin
Let me be
your human canvas
carve me like
you would on stone
my fingers bleed
words upon the page
yet I am only
flesh and bone
pacing my steps
upon the stage
only mortal man
who writes his soul
crying out
to the thin air
I beg of you
to treat me fairly
look down upon me
if you dare
but don't ignore me
with your silence
for I would be
your human canvas...
and like the tender glint
of a thousand august stars
that tangle in darkness
I travel over you
my breath
the nameless wind of sky
exhaling
between peaks of mountain breasts
my sweat
of summer salted seas
falls
in a gentle shower
as if to moisten the mound
of your fertile flesh
you wash against me
like waves over smooth stone
and I swallow the warmth
of your flooding stream
for you, I'd go through one hundred thirty six realms of hell
my eyes burning with poems,
place the red leaf of it in your hands,
I would breathe into your mouth
your Venus on a half-shell,
newly emerged from your
vision of her solitary confinement....
her brilliant hair flowing around your ankles
the pleasure of your love
plucked from Aegean Seas
and etched into the pale blue brocade
of sky between your need
and your holy desire
her star falling
into your body
a semi-rude awakening
uncalled for
who opened the blinds
who let the sunshine in
where is my identity
it was right here last night
where did this one
come from
I hate new things
well, it seems I used to
now having second thoughts
I really do like it
this new sense suits me fine
"off with the old, on with the new"
who said that
was someone here
I thought was a dream
no, really, what happened
I am smiling before noon
this could be our
documentary
soundtrack would be
the tv you leave on
how every night
the orphan of us
grows lonelier
inside its shadow
here, clothes
remain in suitcases
we fear hanging
preferring bruised
from travel
the manager
tells us
previously
she was beautiful
before the hammer struck
before the man
smashed open her head
and broke it apart
as you undress me
i observe
the brushstrokes of blood
oh little trembling bee
i am finely tuned in
(to your wavelength)
and turned on by
your swaying body
thus i announce my desire
little bee my heart racing
at your name's mention
pale faced and weak in the
knees (when you're near)
i love your sweet glances
with all the chances
we are taking while trying
to disguise our inclination
toward one another
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.