Five Poems for Lovers
Created | Updated Jan 9, 2004
For James
Fast, fast baby, then you tell it like it is,
and I see the raptured places where the passioned beauty lives.
I see all of a broken tail, a stripped out flyin' force.
To f*ck, to breathe, to cut back feathers, engage in earthly course.
Enamored breath proceeds from me and siezes up your brow.
I quirk, I tilt, I lick my lips, and dare to tell you how.
I break up rubble, drop kick concrete, grin and clear out space.
I flick my wrist, reach out a palm, blink at a frenetic pace.
I kiss your mouth and look once more at the place where black has been.
Smile at night, cast light, laugh with all my trembling might,
ask the earth for a little green.
Having mothered now my earthy plot, I regard the spark in your eye,
and ask you give the tears you've shed for the contact that's passed you by.
Gently, I graze your perfect face with a wistful little breath;
compared to you my every creation is like a man approaching death.
For with my hands I merely revive cold dirt on fallow earth.
But in your eyes...
is the life you share, that allows my spirit to give birth.
*
Poem for A..
It’s like this sometimes.
An elliptical waking dream,
my fears swell and recede in cycles
but, always, my breast heaves.
Deceit makes itself easy.
I open myself thus;
a hand still clutched over my heart.
You can’t afford to lie.
I rely on reality for its temperance.
I am too revealing.
Add some scenery
to this seeming impossibility.
I’m not too smart for all this.
How or why doesn’t occur to me.
You glow, I glow;
our climax is reciprocity
I see you from a greater height.
Our mutual revelations,
a truth greater than eye contact.
My gaze may burn you should we meet.
Shall I just pass by,
one glance stopped short,
one pained gaze
removed from time?
Shall I walk by you in this way?
I am not too proud
to pause at your door, extend little fingers,
to touch the space between us.
Eyes sodden with rainfall,
I linger near,
kiss the silence
of what I don’t hear from your window.
Would I be a presence enough
to capture your favor,
to summon your lips,
to consummate once without words?
I am your voice of reason;
You are my revealed desire
in this present heartless manifestation
of those hopes and fears of Man.
We are virginal in this;
our bond.
We are muffled for lack of sound.
It’s ethereal like this sometimes.
*
Lovely
We drove to bury a baby girl today.
I sat in the back,
my long dress a little too warm
for a September Saturday afternoon.
The car was an old hatchback,
dirty with harvest dust.
The air lightly scented with roses,
the bouquet behind me, grazing my cheek.
Two pallbearers up front,
a friend and a lover.
They discussed things as boys will,
animated; my mind wandered elsewhere.
Your song came on the radio,
the one you sent me after you died.
The one that expressed your feelings of failure and loss.
I prayed they woudn't make fun, ruin my moment.
They did not, I gratefully absorbed words.
'I can still remember just the way you taste.'
It's true - I really can, every body part.
Even your curls grazing my tongue.
Gently, this time it wasn't borrowed pain I felt.
Not that pleasant voyeuristic kind;
it was two months ago that we buried you,
my face, my motions, paralyzed with grief.
I move a little more freely now,
and carry pink roses up the hill
to where baby girl will be laid,
as though back into a womb of satin and earth.
I look pretty today,
roses reflecting on my skin.
I wonder if you notice me
as I search you out in the Idaho countryside.
I recall that letter I wrote you, months ago,
begging you to let me be lovely to you,
wishing to God that I could be your angel.
I looked up to a blue horizon.
I am lovely to you.
You always were my angel
and it pains me.
I must carry myself now.
Standing over a tiny grave
I gaze at my present lover.
He smiles gently, kindly,
folds his hands serenely in front of him.
I resign to move forward, to celebrate,
to not take my life away
from those who love me.
When we get home we make love.
I am also lovely to him.
*
We Are Followers of the Great Commission
I see stars
I want to shoot through this life
I am chasing a dead man
suicide ever on my mind
We are soulmates in our lunacy.
I am a goddess, perfection
I am free, direct
I shove my way to the front of the line
to secure my well-deserved lashing
We are all of your ecstasies and night terrors.
I am dying in the friendly fire
of the loved ones surrounding me
I weep with familiarity
in observance of Good Friday
We are just misplaced martyrs.
I am a man of renown, blessed
my cup is full of life
I am 13 years old, pregnant, on a dirty street
begging the boys to kick my stomach
We walk in the footsteps of Christ.
*
In Love With the Line Cook
I sit like a voyeur
off-shift
in the emptying café.
I see you baby
And I roll my straw wrapper
In remembrance of you.
I shift in my seat
edgily
swallowing my own heat.
I see you
through the kitchen window, baby,
and I suck my straw
in remembrance of you.
I sit here and write, babydoll,
aware
that my brand of odd
carries no warning label.
And I write to you baby,
upswept
in my gratitude for you.
Fast, fast baby, then you tell it like it is,
and I see the raptured places where the passioned beauty lives.
I see all of a broken tail, a stripped out flyin' force.
To f*ck, to breathe, to cut back feathers, engage in earthly course.
Enamored breath proceeds from me and siezes up your brow.
I quirk, I tilt, I lick my lips, and dare to tell you how.
I break up rubble, drop kick concrete, grin and clear out space.
I flick my wrist, reach out a palm, blink at a frenetic pace.
I kiss your mouth and look once more at the place where black has been.
Smile at night, cast light, laugh with all my trembling might,
ask the earth for a little green.
Having mothered now my earthy plot, I regard the spark in your eye,
and ask you give the tears you've shed for the contact that's passed you by.
Gently, I graze your perfect face with a wistful little breath;
compared to you my every creation is like a man approaching death.
For with my hands I merely revive cold dirt on fallow earth.
But in your eyes...
is the life you share, that allows my spirit to give birth.
*
Poem for A..
It’s like this sometimes.
An elliptical waking dream,
my fears swell and recede in cycles
but, always, my breast heaves.
Deceit makes itself easy.
I open myself thus;
a hand still clutched over my heart.
You can’t afford to lie.
I rely on reality for its temperance.
I am too revealing.
Add some scenery
to this seeming impossibility.
I’m not too smart for all this.
How or why doesn’t occur to me.
You glow, I glow;
our climax is reciprocity
I see you from a greater height.
Our mutual revelations,
a truth greater than eye contact.
My gaze may burn you should we meet.
Shall I just pass by,
one glance stopped short,
one pained gaze
removed from time?
Shall I walk by you in this way?
I am not too proud
to pause at your door, extend little fingers,
to touch the space between us.
Eyes sodden with rainfall,
I linger near,
kiss the silence
of what I don’t hear from your window.
Would I be a presence enough
to capture your favor,
to summon your lips,
to consummate once without words?
I am your voice of reason;
You are my revealed desire
in this present heartless manifestation
of those hopes and fears of Man.
We are virginal in this;
our bond.
We are muffled for lack of sound.
It’s ethereal like this sometimes.
*
Lovely
We drove to bury a baby girl today.
I sat in the back,
my long dress a little too warm
for a September Saturday afternoon.
The car was an old hatchback,
dirty with harvest dust.
The air lightly scented with roses,
the bouquet behind me, grazing my cheek.
Two pallbearers up front,
a friend and a lover.
They discussed things as boys will,
animated; my mind wandered elsewhere.
Your song came on the radio,
the one you sent me after you died.
The one that expressed your feelings of failure and loss.
I prayed they woudn't make fun, ruin my moment.
They did not, I gratefully absorbed words.
'I can still remember just the way you taste.'
It's true - I really can, every body part.
Even your curls grazing my tongue.
Gently, this time it wasn't borrowed pain I felt.
Not that pleasant voyeuristic kind;
it was two months ago that we buried you,
my face, my motions, paralyzed with grief.
I move a little more freely now,
and carry pink roses up the hill
to where baby girl will be laid,
as though back into a womb of satin and earth.
I look pretty today,
roses reflecting on my skin.
I wonder if you notice me
as I search you out in the Idaho countryside.
I recall that letter I wrote you, months ago,
begging you to let me be lovely to you,
wishing to God that I could be your angel.
I looked up to a blue horizon.
I am lovely to you.
You always were my angel
and it pains me.
I must carry myself now.
Standing over a tiny grave
I gaze at my present lover.
He smiles gently, kindly,
folds his hands serenely in front of him.
I resign to move forward, to celebrate,
to not take my life away
from those who love me.
When we get home we make love.
I am also lovely to him.
*
We Are Followers of the Great Commission
I see stars
I want to shoot through this life
I am chasing a dead man
suicide ever on my mind
We are soulmates in our lunacy.
I am a goddess, perfection
I am free, direct
I shove my way to the front of the line
to secure my well-deserved lashing
We are all of your ecstasies and night terrors.
I am dying in the friendly fire
of the loved ones surrounding me
I weep with familiarity
in observance of Good Friday
We are just misplaced martyrs.
I am a man of renown, blessed
my cup is full of life
I am 13 years old, pregnant, on a dirty street
begging the boys to kick my stomach
We walk in the footsteps of Christ.
*
In Love With the Line Cook
I sit like a voyeur
off-shift
in the emptying café.
I see you baby
And I roll my straw wrapper
In remembrance of you.
I shift in my seat
edgily
swallowing my own heat.
I see you
through the kitchen window, baby,
and I suck my straw
in remembrance of you.
I sit here and write, babydoll,
aware
that my brand of odd
carries no warning label.
And I write to you baby,
upswept
in my gratitude for you.
