Wednesday, September 23, 2015

A Poem by Couplets


O wand'ring eyes, on what lips do you dwell,
Whose pouting smile bring thoughts no man can tell?
When I from her have neither sound nor word,
Then all the hues and shapes of life are blurred.
Beneath the grove I sit in contemplation
Of one who is my joy and desolation.
I'd hold her near, when my thoughts are unwinding,
Then tie them up, and make her touch a binding,
For distance is to love no harm nor cure,
Except to swell the bruises we endure.
I'd take her hand, if love is an illusion,
To prove or pacify my soul's confusion.
And underneath her arm, against her breast,
I long to stay, where safely I may rest.
Into ecstatic dreams she'd nurture me
Where I refresh myself with reverie;
We'd only rise when morn is far advanced,
Being so much in one embrace entranced.
Then come to me, O thought most prone to stray,
And be for me the evening and the day.



O wand'ring eyes, on what lips do you dwell,
Whose pouting smile bring thoughts no man can tell?
When I from him have neither sound nor word,
Then all the hues and shapes of life are blurred.
Beneath the grove I sit in contemplation
Of one who is my joy and desolation.
I'd hold him near, when my thoughts are unwinding,
Then tie them up, and make his touch a binding,
For distance is to love no harm nor cure,
Except to swell the bruises we endure.
I'd take his hand, if love is an illusion,
To prove or pacify my soul's confusion.
And underneath his arm, against his breast,
I long to stay, where I may safely rest.
Into ecstatic dreams he'd nurture me
Where I refresh myself with reverie,
We'd only rise when morn is far advanced,
Being so much in one embrace entranced.
Then come to me, O thought most prone to stray,
And be for me the evening and the day.

Monday, September 14, 2015

Ode to My Blanket

The cold wind creeps beneath the sill
And through the curtain breaks,
The morning light now mocks the chill
That o'er my moustache rakes.

Then you pick up from some odd dream
Of pleasant company,
And twirling round my limbs would seem
To be that fantasy.

The warmth of ninety-eight degrees
Of passion on my breast,
Could I be ever more at ease
With such a one to rest?

So finally, I hoarsely call
My waking vision's name,
But you, the living's warmer pall,
Won't answer for the same.

Friday, September 11, 2015

The Waltz (A Sonnet)

Your hair gives a perfume somewhere between
Nectar and autumn spice, and floats in locks
That curl between my hands; and when you lean
On me, the music's steady rhythm mocks
My heart. We step smoothly on cue, but it
Is racing past the orchestra, and I
Wonder how two people can so well fit
Together-hand in hand and thigh to thigh--
But keep it to a waltz. Though this is passion:
To see fulfillment coming, and hold back,
Moving so much as music gives the ration
Of pleasure, till abundance fills the lack.

Yet I can hold you only for so long
As I am held in rapture by the song.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

New Pygmalion

I turn you on a mental wheel,
Where memory and fantasy
Are blended into moving form,
And with my sculpting hands, there feel
Your beauty hidden quietly
Beneath the living flesh, too warm
To call my own. And my desire
For you, some other you, despairs
That I both loathe and love it when
You writhe and squirm with restless fire:
For, Galatea, all my cares
Are vain to make you stone again.