In uncomfortable
Darkness behind
Eyes that won’t shut
The image dances
Taunting with its clarity
Each feature perfect
Each touch, each breath.
Her body shivers.
She hears the words
And sighs
And lets longing
Hang in the air, languid
Its heat carried
In the humid night,
Sustained, weighing against
Her bare skin
And forming droplets of
Sweat, as if his body,
In beads, was against hers
Again.Copyright © 2007
I define myself by summer
When one asks me
About myself.
I am the warmth, the sun,
The never-ending days
Juxtaposed with an inevitable darkness
That brings, in an odd way,
Relief.
I am bare feet and fresh face
I am sun-kissed.
I am laughter.
I am bikinis
And towels
And the business suit
Long-forgotten in the closet.
I am languid, I am fluid.
I am the not-in-a-hurry
Attitude that pervades these
Warm months.
I am stretched out bodies
Glistening with sweat.
I am cannonballs into pools,
Grilled steaks and chilled beer.
I am youthful sexuality free from school.
I am ice-pops an ice-cream and
Delicious icy margaritas. I am summer.
I am temporal.
I am fleeting.Copyright © 2007
The mind’s exhaustion matched
Only by physical pain
Wanting only to collapse
And sleep and sleep
Forcing each footfall
Forward and each
Tear, back.
Even in this most
Defeating moment
When mind and body fail
There is triumph
In the pain
There is pride
When he cries.Copyright © 2007
Live music
Is perhaps the most
Powerful current
Of emotion
Hearing it,
I am arrested.
Flooded with memories,
My soul is not thrashing
In their water
But rejoices in the
Drink.
My eyes slide shut
And my heart beats
In time with the guitar
Or the piano or the sax
I cannot stop the tears
But pray I shed them
Without drawing attention
Away from the miracle
Happening on stage.Copyright © 2007
Sapped of strength
She collapses in her mind
That outward
Permanent smile
Wavering,
Only slightly.Copyright © 2007
How long can I
Tell myself
This lie
Before I believe it?
Yes…this is my life.
As usual
It fails to ring true.Copyright © 2007
Women think the details of sex are art
The fine nuance of touch
And smell
And taste
All as brushstrokes against the flesh,
Their canvas.
Each portrait
Indelible
Each shade of color
Singed into memory
Until they can paint in the dark
With eyes closed
And no effort at all
But these later works
Lack the power
Of their earlier yearsCopyright © 2007
