A stag,
Through crashing leaves and snapping twigs,
Which scratch its sweaty skin in lines of deepest red,
Its deer's heart beating faster, faster in its new found fear,
Bounds,
In midair,
Its neck sweetly arched, head turned back, eye askance
(The magic droplets in delicate beads upon its forehead)
At the hounds,
Snarling, yelping:
Those dogs which once gave friendly paw
And loving lick in carefree sport
Before the fire in the hunters' lodge,
Now reaching the stag and mangling its flesh and spraying its blood on the
silent leaves and witless ground--
As the staggering animal falls,
As he catches the glimmer afar,
With a human awareness again,
Of whitened form, of secret beauty.
The deep,
Its wine-dark and broad back,
The frothing spume it casts far over the jagged rocks--
The snow-white droplets speckle the greens and blues and blacks
That checker it from the shore to the thin blue horizon's line--
Mirrors my mind,
Reflects my hope of far off lands,
Mocks the shallow depths of my soul;
As when, weary head on hand,
Staring across the bumpy waves, the billowy sea,
Watched for the merest hint of ship-sail,
Longed for the slightest whiff of hearth-smoke
(As seen in the distance in the cool evening's walk)
He, sad-eyed;
Then turned, as I
Lonily trudge to the urban cave,
To the cot where I sleep midst the city's snore.
-----------------------------------
Ganymede as Lucifer
At first he appeared in softest radiance,
Suffused with rosiness, infused with danc-
ing colors like trembling dawn upon the glass
Of the thinnest pellucid lake.
Then seemed a morass
Of inner fire, a fusion of forces that burned
With scorching heat and terrible hate. He churned
Up mocks and sneers and whining complaints, and slighted
The admiring boys and eager men--all fighting
For his love.
He promised a diffussion of humid
Floridity for all our lives in his taunts and his lurid
Temptations to promiscuity: the tropical heat of his touch,
The swampy moistness of his kiss, the pungent aroma, as such,
Of his secret SPELUNCA--whether actually humbled,
Or forever inviolate--all grew to surround us as a jungle.
He became for us a beacon, bold and bright,
Beaming across the plain; and flashing, he would strike
The wistful visions wavering on the horizon's lane--
Himself like a delicate jar of pinkest jade
Enfolding a glorious truth of far reaching beauty--
And heralding the sunny glare where primal nudity
Couldn't hide, where the world's weary end would steam
Away neath that naif adolescent stare--
What dream!--
Still always threatening to burn our skins with his sexy
Possibility--our fantasy--his coquetry--
Yet, how soon our bloated sun dripped west-pink light;
And he, once morning's star, dragged up the night!
-----------------------------------
She's a...He...
She's a coiled spring waiting for the plunge,
Her smooth hips moist with spice,
Her tuned lips hoar like ice,
Vibrant for his tenuous lunge.
He stretches thin above her, fully grown,
Breathing her pungent scent,
Drinking her breasts' ferment,
That in her hair he wipe his liquid moan.
--------------------------------------------
Our Last Night
Gentle
A breeze
Blows winding shafts sweet tufts of your hair
Black
Night with the stars
And in your eyes the blackest stars
Skin
White mounds soft O my head my lips
My hand o'erreaching
Our tears
Your sad yet beautiful denial
My forlorn loneliness
Our clothes
tangled O my hands a-clutching your hands
Hard and soft on me
Our bed
The grass the wet green-black
The night sky a-dawning above
Come
to me with me
Our bodies writhing pumping in our love fierce love
O rhythm O beat
My heart your heart
Our heavy breathings
Soft hush hot our breaths hot hush hush
My sweet my one
My own for now my one true love
Glorious Eos comes
Tripping now with light
Light on our dark love
Come O come
Light the day our way is done
It's over and lost
O love
O pain
Loss is my one true love
--------------------------------
Romeo
This is the morning of my love
The grave sqeaking of the dawn
Bleak monster of the distant past
The just barely breaking yearning
Shooting fast upon the fields
Reddening pink to whitening gold
The fallow gasp long gone
Of night's fertile moaning.
---------------------------------
Sphinx
Yes, the sand in the wind rubs the blandishments
Of anxious quests to burning blankness;
But does there not loom smoke's scents,
Writhing like snakes from the tomb,
A tawny voluptuousness.?
Get your own Free Home Page
News Group: REC.ARTS.POEMS
