The stream (all workshops)
I wonder if anyone had forecast
her passing away...
to my mind thoughts continued to come
should I or should I not
compose a poem
and
Mark Antony came to mind
in Julius Caesar he hath said...
as Brutus must have
Here I come not to praise Caesar
but to bury him...
we must all leave our
differences and idiosyncrasies behind
after one has gone...
we all become equal bones...
devoid of flesh
The Golden Dragon of the Sun
chases his brother from the night
Through the hallowed heavens they race
It is more like play than it is fight
The scales of each fall from the sky
Silver scratches on ebon’ sheet
Amazing to our humble eyes
This delicious, wondrous treat
Black Dragon of the velvet night
pushes the moon across the sky
Keeps the silver disk from falling
making sure it’s high and dry
Golden Dragon of the burnished day
blows fire and warms the field
Silently she sleeps.
Arms outstretched in random fashion.
Body innocent in naked frankness.
Hair, rich golden billows, cloak her pillow.
A smile. face calm. Eyes gently closed.
Breasts rise in time to easy breaths.
Sun, filtered through lazy leaves from
Old oak trees, envelopes her and plays
shadow games on her demerara skin.
I trace her wondrous lines.
She mews and purrs
And softly moves to bring my hands
to play where her body needs they be.
My finger’s tips are gentle, slow and soft
I remember your hands
and their journeys
firm and sure
they planed my hips
smoothing thighs
to abandonment
you touched my eyes
asleep
as if you could see
the visions of want
in my dream
rimming my lips of the taste
lingering from my last meal,
(sometimes you)
your hands haunt me
like ghosts of themselves
where once, you would need
to feel the pressure of us
now,
you pick me up like fine china
pressing my hands to your lips
WHEN JOHNNY COMES
MARCHING HOME
And the troops
came marching home
in files of six and seven
raking
the city streets
like a razor's edge.
And when they passed
four turned their head
the ones on the end
stared straight ahead
The war was over
and the living marched
side by side
with the dead
and Johnny came home
again.
there
out of the blue
soft cuts like runs the rain
crawling
like a naked branch
we flinch in the window
starlight flood
waking in the clearing of
the storm
water falling like thoughts
rapid like breath
the heavy steps of heat in
the walls inching through
the pipes to the heater
samosa coffee in the cup
like warm dreams
the untested kisses
resting in breaths
you now seem to be taking...
poetry classes
as titles you choose confuse
you said springs
I thought of a couch
how it would spring
then was amazed to see
the natural spring,
no not of fountains rivers and streams
but those with which nature does spring
you are one great one
sometimes you count dawns...
now springs
are you adept at seasonal abacus
my, why do I have to fuss
you really meant the spring
after autumn
skipping winter ....
Do not disturb me
while I think,
I think a lot of things
and even if I look askance
the brain cells are at work,
doing a dance of thoughts,
that like the game of chess,
change places and congress.
Words file past doors of memories,
or stop to take a break,
or merge with other centuries,
digress,
their colours like cameleons
go through such metomophoses,
they end up fixed and even on my page,
the second stage.
TOYLAND
I turned the light to dim
as day was slowly dying
into Horizon blue
crimson red.
shadows of a pale sun
danced across my bed.
the noise of living faded
into dream
where I found peace
again.
There is no warmth outside today
when ice and sleet cover the ground
beneath a freezing sky of gray
whose cold winds set the pines to sway.
No hints of autumn to be found.
For this is winter at its worst
no thoughts of spring come into mind
shoulders hunch, cold lips are pursed
I survey a landscape that seems cursed
a world described, at best, unkind.
Pages
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.