Okay…so I suck…and not in the good way. I started something I wasn’t ready to finish (the story I have hence removed). And then I commenced with the vacation laziness. And now, my motivation is just about as high as my libido. Damn.
So, here are a collection of 4 short poems to fill the void –
a careful editor,
punctuating perfectly my untrained thoughts:
curling themselves around
the curves of my words
(a parenthetical embrace),
always encouraging a revolving door
in our conversation
with a well-placed question mark;
you omit semi-colons
which elaborate the unspoken
relying, instead, on apostrophes
to possess, with simplicity,
ellipses at the end,
leaving the window open
The Garden of Eden
On first sight,
You took my heart in your hands,
Like an apple
Filling perfectly the palm,
Where every nuance, dent, and ridge
Fit each of mine.
You took the fruit to your lips,
Unearthing hidden knowledge:
Softness beneath bruised and bitter flesh.
It was tender and sweet,
And you knew me then.
It was never forbidden,
Kept from you just long enough
To ripen and ready.
I will satiate your need.
I will nourish your soul.
I will share with you my secrets.
I will devote my heart to yours.
And when my core is left exposed,
My flesh absorbed into your own,
The seeds remaining may birth an orchard,
To provide a lifetime’s worth of everything we need.
This one was written after I saw “Unfaithful” – go figure…
Wrapped faith in imported Japanese silk.
The woman said it was of best quality.
With timid manicured fingers,
Placed it in a Spanish music box—
plays “Tiny Dancer”
a twinkling sound like childish laughter,
with a twist,
like they know why
I place it so far inside,
as if to apologize—
Gingerly, tuck it in,
a helpless infant,
fingers of guilt, slightly shaking,
vigilant, like a doubtful love,
suspicious, fearing rejection,
hoping for touch,
When love becomes criminal,
a penny isn’t enough for a thought.
Nickled and dimed to death,
love left lying lifeless in the center of
a dying lily in the middle of
a refinished antique dining-room table.
And he had the nerve to ask why I’d been un—
and couldn’t finish the word,
all of his faith on the tip of his tongue.
I think he was just realizing why I’d packed
to be full again.
Just a dangling prefix allowed the suffering suffix to survive,
revive its desperate grasp on
actions rather than guilty thoughts of
Faith, between present and past,
Caught by two so different,
too mindful of what separates.
Burst the surface of her tenderness with adept fingertips.
Slip them inside her bittersweet core, and ravish her innocence that
is so knowing—a seasoned naivete—not quite that of a girl,
nor, yet, of a woman.
She will bend to your will because she chooses to,
and because it easier than arguing.
But the chase is what the child wants;
the force, what she doesn’t expect;
the fire, what the woman wants;
the desire, what makes her feel blessed.
The sudden capture makes the child giddy with mock fear;
the powerful rapture what makes the woman want you near.
It is the office of the lover to polish both sides of the stone
that it may shine more brightly in your presence than when alone.