mi diego, te amo,
you are not faithful to amantes either,
but you see my belleza,
mi amante hermoso.
call me amigo, lover.
amigo will last,
its warm, steady glow,
like the hunter's luna,
will not turn to a shadow of itself.
mi amor
sings to your heart.
the hunter's luna,
a force beyond my control
pulls me to you.
mi amigo,
mi amante hermoso.
mi amor,
my eyes are of the sky,
not the earth.
their light pulls the seeds of yours to bloom.
when clouds form on your brow,
they sooth your troubled thoughts;
when thunderclaps rustle your sleep,
they nourish the drought
of your longing heart.
mi amor
sings to your heart.
the truest sky,
a force beyond my control
pulls me to you.
mi amigo.
mi amante hermoso.
mi diego,
your words betray confusion,
yet find patience in soft besos.
your touch warms my skin,
wine soaked tears en la noche
call on the moon to pull you closer.
the sun in my heart
clouds with the desire
to kiss you under every sky.
mi amor
sings to your heart.
a moon, a sky,
forces beyond my reach
pull me to you.
mi amigo.
mi amante hermoso.
Song-like, I add this today as the full moon pulls all of the water in my body to the surface on this night before Halloween. This year, it will be my lover... mi amante hermoso.
found
She lived marginally. On the fringe.
Her head in pages. Covered in ideas and fantasies about what passion could be,
would be, once she found it.
As
a girl, she walked alleys. The back of the houses, the yards, fascinated her.
Once she found a book. It was not marked. In it were words that she didn’t
understand. Women and men finding each other. Men penetrating places that
seemed impossible to one who knew only the mind. The idea was frightening,
though somehow compelling at the same time.
She
lived years only dreaming of the possible. Dwelling in the impossible, until
one finally one came across her naïveté and filled it with what was her truth,
her dream.
The
man wore a uniform. His chest was splashed with sparkle and feathers. On a
night when all seemed hopeless, she found the polish. Found the letter behind
the ornament. She was drawn to him. Kissed him. Told him that he was what she
knew in her depths was meant to be. The night was alive. The time was not
right. She pulled him into a dance that he couldn’t find his way out. She
didn’t stop at the thought that others saw her. She was magnetized to his lips.
Pulled to his breath. Wanting what she had no business desiring. He found her
pulse and returned her impulse.
The
shower of her kisses led them to a small place. His hands slipped her dress up
to her waist. The hands were knowing, determined. Quietly he impassioned her.
But others found them. He sat under her. She looked down and absorbed his dark
head and broad shoulders. Her breath stopped at the beauty that was between his
legs. The idea of it was overwhelming. The desire penetrated every pore of her
self. What had she ever done to deserve even the sight of such beauty?
Pulled
away by time and space, she marveled still at the loveliness of the man.
Wondered if he would ever find her a second time.
He
came to her again. His kiss melted her. A hand on her back led her. The tongue,
full and languid, pulled her out of the day. She found space to be. The
possibility beyond dream, beyond light.
Wondering how to react to naked
desire, natural desire, she opened herself as far as she knew how. His pulse quickened
against her submission. His penetration finding space in her held dormant by
years of neglect.
The
movement of him against her was dizzying. The farther he went into her, the
more she gave over to the desire that she kept hidden from the world. Pleasure broke
over her being. The harder he pulsed, the wider her dream evolved. Delight
sprung from the core over and over again. His drive soothed every tiredness, awoke
every desire.
Sated,
he fell to her breast. His heart beating love and lover. She touched
his pulse and found herself.
Lowering her kisses to the source,
she built the desire again. The fading fire needing only
a pulse of heat. The tongue wrapped around the beauty of the first night. Madly
tasting that which was fire, he sprung alive again. Crawling to him, she felt
him and begged for more. His erection the life source, the difference, between
living and only being alive.
Over
him, holding her warmness against him, she found the strength to ride it. Pulse
against it. Hold it. Explode against it. The man held her gaze. Held the sight
of what captured him. Breathed her. She melted.
let the right one in
belly button to
soft hollow
at the base of the throat
squared-
armpit to waist,
more rectangled
perhaps;
not one dimensional
but vallied and hilled in
soft waves;
my carcass is
not expansed enough
to hold how I feel.
lulled into a zombie’d
state, I thought
all I had to do
was love.
play in moments
contemplating,
you’d say obsessing,
the loveliness of you.
hours, hours, hours-
knee to knee,
sated, intoxicated,
off-kilter.
I planned, prepped,
cooked, opened bottles,
laid the table.
was that the bell?
have you come?
my door will open
to you,
I will let you in.
they are big,
these pulses,
crushing out –
intimidating, daunting,
maddening
against the tangle,
but they can settle-
yes, they have a life
of their own,
so much life
that they will
live beyond
what you have known.
ah, but you have never,
really,
leaned in-
examined,
sat down
to feast
on the savories and sweets
locally sourced across my
belly and breast.
is that the bell ringing?
have I planned
enough
for the visit.
have you come?
if you do,
I will let you in.
not for what you are,
or what you say,
but for what
you could be,
could mean.
I worry
that you don’t have
an appetite
for what is
me.
but if you hunger
and thirst,
I will let you in
to feast
rectangled, vallied, soft
hills.
I will let you in.
waiting
waiting is hard as the days move around me
in whirling whirlpools
pulling me in and spinning
me around to a spot
different from where I stand now.
waiting is harder when my lips long
to stay on yours longer
than the brush you measure out to me
in rations; I can get some wonder bread,
but I sure can't get what I want.
waiting is even harder knowing that so much time
will pass that not much will
be unknown to discover,
and without contact, I fear,
less desirable traits may become intolerable.
waiting is what I have to do you say to me,
so my horses are held-
they are chomping at the bit
and kicking the shit out of each other,
but I have got them in some kind of harness.
I'll wait.
in whirling whirlpools
pulling me in and spinning
me around to a spot
different from where I stand now.
waiting is harder when my lips long
to stay on yours longer
than the brush you measure out to me
in rations; I can get some wonder bread,
but I sure can't get what I want.
waiting is even harder knowing that so much time
will pass that not much will
be unknown to discover,
and without contact, I fear,
less desirable traits may become intolerable.
waiting is what I have to do you say to me,
so my horses are held-
they are chomping at the bit
and kicking the shit out of each other,
but I have got them in some kind of harness.
I'll wait.
solace
yes mother
these are
my feet
dangling
off the pier
the water
is soothing
my thoughts
don't hurt
tomorrow
I'll finish
my work
I promise
(1983)
these are
my feet
dangling
off the pier
the water
is soothing
my thoughts
don't hurt
tomorrow
I'll finish
my work
I promise
(1983)
give Ireland back to the Irish
a brightly colored wrapper
explodes
on a deserted street
as the victim's profile
is fused
to the standing wall
of the church.
a man lies motionless
in a guarded after-life
as his clan,
black masked soldiers,
mourn-
setting-off
more of the
papery colored wrappers.
copying his brothers,
a freckled child
follows
the splinters of color
whirling in the smoky air.
a lonely man,
smiles lustfully
as he stands on a cement block,
a thousand miles away,
holding a limp piece of cardboard,
'give Ireland back to the Irish.'
NOTE: I wrote this poem, originally, in 1981. I was a college student, and I ran into this guy who stood in front of the student center holding the sign that I note. I wasn't even really sure what he was doing, or what it was all about, but it is an image that I've never forgotten. I remember this poem as I have just seen Seamus Heaney read his poem, 'Casualty,' which centers on the aftermath of Bloody Sunday. A man, someone he knew, loved the drink more than he loved the fight, and when he chose the bottle over the curfew that had been imposed on the evening of the funerals for those shot dead by British soldiers, he was killed. Here's a bit of the poem, which, naturally, is far superior to my own.
But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.
explodes
on a deserted street
as the victim's profile
is fused
to the standing wall
of the church.
a man lies motionless
in a guarded after-life
as his clan,
black masked soldiers,
mourn-
setting-off
more of the
papery colored wrappers.
copying his brothers,
a freckled child
follows
the splinters of color
whirling in the smoky air.
a lonely man,
smiles lustfully
as he stands on a cement block,
a thousand miles away,
holding a limp piece of cardboard,
'give Ireland back to the Irish.'
NOTE: I wrote this poem, originally, in 1981. I was a college student, and I ran into this guy who stood in front of the student center holding the sign that I note. I wasn't even really sure what he was doing, or what it was all about, but it is an image that I've never forgotten. I remember this poem as I have just seen Seamus Heaney read his poem, 'Casualty,' which centers on the aftermath of Bloody Sunday. A man, someone he knew, loved the drink more than he loved the fight, and when he chose the bottle over the curfew that had been imposed on the evening of the funerals for those shot dead by British soldiers, he was killed. Here's a bit of the poem, which, naturally, is far superior to my own.
But my tentative art
His turned back watches too:
He was blown to bits
Out drinking in a curfew
Others obeyed, three nights
After they shot dead
The thirteen men in Derry.
PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,
BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday
Everyone held
His breath and trembled.
betrayal
two stable particles in a beer’d state,
the warlock whispered excitedly,
lean against me, protect me.
he made a ceremony-
wind swept, moon shined,
autumnal pagan resonance’d.
and she glowed
in the light and the confidence
in her that he bestowed.
but the state was transient,
the collision sustained but
for a moment in time.
now, looking for the lean,
she finds the warlock gone
left only with atomic waste.
ode to a sliver of soap
On the soap dish still for forgetfulness,
Once whole, now lathered down to a sliver,
Too slender to evoke the erotic,
You slip through fingers and toes unpurposed.
Warming sudsless water rushes across
Smooth skin freckled with golden sun kisses
Crossing tendrils that navigate a path
That spirals in and through my neverland.
Oh! little sliver that you were my tongue,
I would pause at each hollow and valley,
Connecting each mark one to another,
Savoring the taste of your skins’ long day.
morning
the spray of freckles
from wrist to turned cuff
enchant.
dawn's dew-
they are not as bold as mine
but are there nonetheless.
tide-like
they pull as I draw lazy circles
on the little that I can touch.
it's enough.
from wrist to turned cuff
enchant.
dawn's dew-
they are not as bold as mine
but are there nonetheless.
tide-like
they pull as I draw lazy circles
on the little that I can touch.
it's enough.
unforgetting
stumbling out of hibernation,
tripping over forgotten trenches,
pawing earth and grazing sustenance-
feeling slowly beats through
the heart's anesthetized state.
sleepy squints brush at the rise in light
filtering through winter's peel-
the periphery a golden crown,
its warmth shocking
each fossilized corpuscle.
the heart is begrudgingly resuscitated,
its memory impossible to erase,
the source, which resurrected the impulses,
unaware of what is harder to revive
than surviving what was
the cause of its initial incarceration.
fire
feet in the air
head in the clouds,
you burn through me
as fire.
sparks pop and fly,
melting cool skin
left longingly
dormant.
volcanic eyes
sense hot embers
smoldering at
the core.
you move deeper
feeding the flame,
desirous strikes
ignite
furious feeling
that lights motion,
intensity,
fever.
long hours after,
heat riding waves
press tenderly,
ready.
head in the clouds,
you burn through me
as fire.
sparks pop and fly,
melting cool skin
left longingly
dormant.
volcanic eyes
sense hot embers
smoldering at
the core.
you move deeper
feeding the flame,
desirous strikes
ignite
furious feeling
that lights motion,
intensity,
fever.
long hours after,
heat riding waves
press tenderly,
ready.
three pints
Never one to shy
away from the drink,
I welcome the
quench that the pint provides-
smooth, creamy
elixir for generations of
broken hearted men
tired of hoe and spade.
I do not sit on a stool
set in a pastoral past,
nor do I wear worn dungarees,
but my toil in stocking and heel
is still earth rich-
my nose to the ground
from moving too quickly
across a modern manscape.
Three pints fill
my belly just right-
it does not stretch out
against a leather constraint.
Built with layers
of feminine fortitude
I can deflect their fear that
I may last longer
with my belly up to the bar.
(2011)
away from the drink,
I welcome the
quench that the pint provides-
smooth, creamy
elixir for generations of
broken hearted men
tired of hoe and spade.
I do not sit on a stool
set in a pastoral past,
nor do I wear worn dungarees,
but my toil in stocking and heel
is still earth rich-
my nose to the ground
from moving too quickly
across a modern manscape.
Three pints fill
my belly just right-
it does not stretch out
against a leather constraint.
Built with layers
of feminine fortitude
I can deflect their fear that
I may last longer
with my belly up to the bar.
(2011)
leaving
before towers fell
we held tight
to the gate.
don't forget
your magazines,
here's twenty in case.
don't go. don't go.
he slipped into goodbye.
stay-- one more.
wheels rolled past.
I hesitated
with nuthin' to carry on.
I so needed him
packed tight against me
for one more sleep.
tomorrow, the jet way
would still be there
for me to walk the plank.
(2012)
we held tight
to the gate.
don't forget
your magazines,
here's twenty in case.
don't go. don't go.
he slipped into goodbye.
stay-- one more.
wheels rolled past.
I hesitated
with nuthin' to carry on.
I so needed him
packed tight against me
for one more sleep.
tomorrow, the jet way
would still be there
for me to walk the plank.
(2012)
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