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*u n d u l a t o r y . . . c u r r e n t s*
ravage sweet
this cavern full of echos
watery wall
full of cascades of traffic
the night rush
sharpened through the blinds
angled through the limbs
sombre with the drizzle
old wounds that ache
where stitchs bound
betrayal
somewhere
there are matchbooks
with your perfume
touched moments
not hassled with regrets
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north ontario
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Comments
Geezer
Sat, 2012-10-27 21:33
Oh, those memories...
of the days when our relationships were new and untarnished with the patina of daily living and the end of an era. I look back on some of them and think about how good it was, without the harsh echos of the words that ended the whole thing. Nice work Stephan. ~ Gee
There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
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Esker
Sun, 2012-10-28 03:59
be they wither or strive
the magic moves but never dies
funny guy I am but I dont have the usual connection
as most..I tend to keep in touch
I admit its the control issues but they pointed these out to me
..relationship shifts...they come and they go like the days
like the seasons...One can be in love with rain but what to
do in summers company>>
or winters soft and bitter wraiths>>
there is something about each that is striking
and yes
there is much good in all
Thank You Geezer!!
author commentloved
Sun, 2012-10-28 04:12
wow,anytime spark ...at the very thought of it
there are matchbooks
with your perfume
touched moments
wow, anytime spark ...
at the very thought of it
I would have read as
there are matches (boxes)
with her perfumed fingers
she would have lighted,
a puff
a smoke
a momentary joy!
out in the fresh air and open
now buried as memories untold
between the blinds and folds,
twas those times such matches recall
when two young ones
not yet that old
would suddenly explode...
loved
Esker
Sun, 2012-10-28 21:20
Ingred Bergman always with her cigarette
or at least I think it was her Some siren from long ago
sure the stuff is poison but ..I smoked once..heavy
I remember one little gal..snow falling on the balcony
the television happy burbling..we sat in a darkened
kitchen the streetlight letting the gusts and cascade
of wind trickle down the glass like its light Soft on
her large eyes and smile..Her small white teeth
I let her use a saucer to put her smokes out..Bright
red cherise lipstick on each and each smoke bent
in identical manner...all eight of them....I still havent
forgotten that...The gold rim on the bone china tea
set gleaming with her matchs...(Who used matchs
even then..They had a clipper on the cover and a slide
out box) We got along but for those that we didnt
even after the fighting one hangs onto the smallest
endearments....the hurtfal of words stilled and the hunger
of that pang of longing still there like the last leaf in
December...
author commentRoss Hamilton Hill
Sun, 2012-10-28 15:37
seems to be a trend
ravage sweet this echoed cavern
cascading water wall of traffic
the night rush sliced by blinds
angled through the limbs
sombre with the drizzle
old wounds ache where stitches bind betrayal
somewhere
matchbooks with your perfume
touch the moments
not hassled with regrets
its a beautiful poem my rewrite is just food for thought,'matchbooks with your perfume' is a fine line.
always a pleasure
ross
Ross Hamilton Hill
Sun, 2012-10-28 15:38
ignore the title of my last comment, was not meant to be
there
Esker
Sun, 2012-10-28 21:14
Not at all Ross..
Indeed when we are all in touch with each other
the english the common. the popular catch phrases
we bounce and toss and hammer and fine tune
words....
My woman all smoked save a few
and those that didnt wore perfumes that were
expensive or at least touched to touch the heart
of memory as what is the desire of the man
to have that remembrance
(Such is the power of scent to emote memory)
and matchs...I can remember them striking them
on their bootheel the safety matchs and
the brass zip or belt buckle or brickwork
that was even when Bics were around
and smoking was still allowed in bars
(Im getting up there)
thank you
author comment