Love Poetry

September 14, 2010

1.
She lifted the words of my poem off the paper,
dry-flower pressed them between the pages
          of her heart,
carried the meaning in her bosom
between her breasts
where a line of sweat traced her cleavage,
cleaving the sense of the words to and from our souls
like the drop of sweat rolling between my eyes
down the bridge of my nose to drop
upon the page, blurring any trace of meaning
between the careful symmetry
          of the lines.

2.
Remember how we used to leave each other messages:
the first one out of the shower
would write with their finger
on the steamed mirror
I “heart” U or
U R SEXY;
words that remained after
the condensation evaporated.

Wholly You (A Confession)

August 31, 2010
This poem is deeply personal. It is a metaphor of amazing grace in my life. I dedicate this to my God and Saviour, Jesus Christ; and to my wife Lynn, whose love and forgiveness saved me.

It was completely you
responsible for reconciliation.

The fault is mine for crouching out the door,
walking away from the dwelling
we both built with our bare hands,
down the street and around the corner
for a tawdry, no wait,
          sleazy is a better word,
affair with a strange woman;
make believe quote/unquote love, no wait,
          sex with three x's is a better word,
in the dark fabric of the quilted streets of the city:
certainly castration is a certainty.

Nevertheless you nursed me back
to your milk-laden breasts
with words
of passionate urging, loving guidance, tender comfort.
I stained your back with tears of sludge.
Turning me over
you crossed my heart.
I hoped to die.
I must have been speaking in tongues
when I cried out “Merci! Merci!”
because my lips don't know how to formulate foreign language by themselves.

And now when we make love, no wait,
          the better word is love,
your nails painted blood-rust dig my flesh;
Oh, God! I feel the pain you provide—pain not like yours,
in comparison a tingling, an internal cutis anserina.
The foreign tongue you mastered.

The reason we are becoming one
is wholly you.

Advice to J. Alfred Prufrock…

July 24, 2009
This was written while I was taking English Composition II. We had read T.S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and the discussion centered mostly on the sexuality of the poem. I was intrigued by the second half of line 121:
"Do I dare to eat a peach?"

from God:
     Taste and see
     that the fruit is good.
     Just don't eat the fruit
     from that tree.

from the serpent:
     Has God said
     thou shalt not
     eat a peach?

from a Puritan:
     Thou shalt not eat of the peachtree,
     nor the fruit thereof;
     lest thou become as one
     of the fruiteaters
     who bare not fruit.

from a nutritionist:
     0g fat
     cholesterol, 0mg
     0mg sodium
     dietary fiber, 3g
     go ahead

from Hamlet:
     To eat or not to eat: that is the question:
     Whether 'tis favorable for the tongue to satisfy
     With the savory juices of this sweetest of fruit,
     Or to ingest the fibrous flesh and
     To suffer in the end? To eat: to squat;
     More and more; and by squat to say no end.

from Freud:
     You are titillated and fixated
     upon your mother's breasts.

from a poetry critic:
     To Prufrock,
     the peach
     is merely a metaphor
     symbolizing a sweet life
     that is unattainable,
     since you rouse to reality when
     “human voices wake us” (line 131).
     Therefore,
     whether you dare
     or no, you will not.

Addiction: Living Death

November 24, 2004

Not sure how this one slipped through the cracks. Couldn't find it in the folders it should have been in. Fortunately, I have a hard copy.

I am not now, nor ever have been, addicted to any narcotic or drug (except cigarettes, but I quit them). The poem is about a variety of addictions. Let's face it; our favorite sin is our addiction. The Bible tells us that sin is death. So while we are committed to sin, we are walking around dead. Check out Romans 8. I'm still trying to wrap my head around everything in that chapter.


Addiction: Living Death

Flies swarmed about his head
     screaming curses in his ears.
Sickly sweet stench invaded his nostrils
     like the impotent rage of a rapist.
Grainy blurred images
     imprinted on fading brainwaves.
Caked eyelids clenched shut,
     anal retentive against the light of day.
Collapsed and drying lungs
     heaved and hacked breathless sighs.
Lukewarm mucous clogged the vocal cords
     that may have spoken if they had something to say.
Internal organs oozed precious fluids
     flooding the chest cavity.
Flesh clung to brittle bones
     like an insecure lover.
Standing in the loosened waste of his bowels
     his feet could not, would not move.

Of Priests and Prostitutes

April 2, 2009

My wife Lynn gave out several exclamations as she read this for the first time. I suppose it does border on the "R" rating. But how often do we sanitize the scriptures to fit our Sunday school view. God became flesh and dwelt among us. US. It's not always very pretty "among us". Stuff happens in the "flesh". But Jesus endured. He resisted temptation. And he was victorious. Jesus can sympathize with us. "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15, ESV)

I have combined two separate incidents from the life of Jesus; two different women with similar issues. If you have a problem reading this type of material, please do not read the Song of Solomon. I read this book of the Bible for the first time as a single man in the U.S. Navy. It made me blush.


Of Priests and Prostitutes

Thrown down into the dust,
her tunic torn exposing silky thighs
that beg to be touched,
revealing full breasts glistening with sweat,
a glimpse of a nipple.
                         (Come on. You know you want to look.)
Reviewed by the local Sanhedrin,
                         (Are those names being written in the sand?)
they require judgement.
The scent of her lovers still clings to her loins
and rocks are poised
             to pounce,
             to pummel,
             to purge her
sin, their guilt.
Looking past the passion,
the verdict is pronounced.
All are guilty,
one is forgiven.

As evening wraps its arms around the city;
as the sun caresses and deeply kisses the horizon,
she comes to you.
She has nothing to offer you, save herself.
So she kneels before you.
Hot tears spill from her eyes,
moisten your feet.
She lets down her hair,
stroking
your feet
with her thick tresses,
washing away the dust of the day.
Sobbing.
Bending.
Cleavage bared.
Heaving before you.
Were it anyone else…
And we know you were a man.
You were circumcised—
all the parts were evident
or someone would have said something.

They need not indignantly ask.
You both know
who you are touching.