Thorn of the Rose

8/7/2019 Thorn of the Rose

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Thorn of the RoseCopyright © 2010, By Fegger

Publ ished By: Fegger

Cover A rt By: Kathy M. Krueger( http://www.kmkrueger.net)

http://www.kmkrueger.net/






Forward: We, cross-cul turall y, have come to recognize the Rose as the symbol of love. We

are drawn to the stately presentation of the blossom as it exists and th r ives among i ts

protective shield of thorny briers. We are enticed by the flower’s fragrance and are captivated

by the many delicate folds that compr ise the bloom; and, as these petals respond to warmth

and time, they expose the golden, ferti le core of its being. I t is a fragil e species that requi res

the tender care and commun icati on of the most benevolent and self less of keepers in order to

achieve ful f i llment and ult imate potenti al. Yet, as fate woul d prescri be, thi s beauty possessesthorns along its stem and guardian branches. I t would appear that these barbs are a means

for the f lower to deter any intimate handl ing whatsoever ; but thi s is surely not the truth .

Should one take thi s growth for granted, without due sensitivity, blood is drawn and the flowerwinces along wi th the pangs felt by the sui tor. I t therefore becomes a mutual commitment, or

accord, wh ich thereby renders the relationship between the fl ower and the cur ious to become

one; and is created with kindness, admir ation and, above all , respect.



Thorn of the Rose

Table of Contents

Every Night

On the Wire

Paper GardenSex

Att ic Safe

Br ing M e F lowers

One Page at a TimeI n Praise of Women

One Hundred Daisies

The Prostitute’s Tale

L if e of RoseSelf-Admission

The I ll usionist

Two Faces of Anger

Point of ConfluenceEntir e of Me

Tickertape CharadeGranite Man**

Peacock Lost H is Plumage

Candle**

Ancient Tree* *On the Lonely

Perfect Picture

Perfect Picture I ITh is Door That Stands

Black WidowWith Trust

Quest or ConquestThere is He Who Cannot Rest

Once M ine

Epitaph of the Charmer* *

BartholomewLove and Anger

I May Love Again

My Choice RemainsTo Be Ali ve

Figurine**UnrequitedI nside of Me

Cocoon**

A L ove of Souls

(* * Denotes titles published in another collection)



Every Night

I am the moonlight

That slips through

Unguarded windows;Resting weightless hands

Across your sleeping skin.

Lines of perfect form

And curvature exploredUnaware, unannounced,

By tender filaments

Of illuminated air.I dare not reach your eyes

In fear that I must retreat

Upon discovery

Of my curious event.I use the dark,

And its silence

To foster my

Desired anonymity.By morning‟s light,

You will not notice,The etchings of love

I have drawn upon you;

Yet, I believe that

In the warmthYou will come to know

That I‟m here

With youEvery

Night.



On the Wir e

Devoid of eyes, devoid of nose

Then cannot trace--disguise.

Ears have fallen to the deaf; No lips to form my lies.

No face to prop in trembling hands,

Shielding from the shame.Content with anonymity,

While using foreign name.

Without my skin, the nerves exposed,

The air strikes stimulation;

Should loneliness be then chastised,

If it seeks love‟s congregation?

As inhales fill a nothingness,

And exhales echoes roar;

Vibrating on the chest exposed;To love then, nevermore?

Resigned to let my heart then perish,

Smear drops upon a page.

In mem‟r y — misconception, yet,

I cannot find the rage.

That former words were spoken true,

When love stoked kindred fire;Flashed it burned too quickly then

Left ashes on the wire.



Paper Garden

In the stillness of her room

She sat with crepe of every hue;

And pictured each an unknown bloomFor which she‟d bring to light.

Tearing, cutting, twist and fold

Fragile paper — color bold--andEach would have a center — gold

Defying mask of night.

Recalling forms within her mind,

She forms the petals — every kind

In patient detail, every line —

Imposters she creates.

Stems, leaves and even thorns

At her hands, so real were born, and

Even Earth was soon to mourn — theCharlatans of fate.

Hours passed, this lonesome day

While paper gardens on display

Breathing life of ease, defrayed--

Of artist‟s willful spite.

Complete deception now her feat

Sprays a fragrance natural sweet,That bees and birds will try to eat

In longing, hunger flight

Then by and by at midnight‟s hour, She brings outside each handmade flower,

And celebrates her godly power--

In glorious disdain.

Yet sadness lives as well in dreams;

As truth is always what it seems;

And lonely always finds its means,To melt them in the rain.



Sex

Oh Sex — you sweet obsession

Oft lacking in discretion

Retell of my confession;And prosper from the tale.

In subtle, lurid poses

The scent of lilacs, roses

With lashes softly dozes — Eloping, without fail.

The mem‟ry of the linen, Twisted, twirled and spinning

A touch is just beginning —

Release you from my Dream.

The curves I so recallOf shadows on you that fall

How I yearned to have you all

Such kisses I would preen!

Ah Sex — elusive, fragile mate

„Nother day, „nother fate „Nother sense of body quake;

Awaiting for the rapture.

Dowse the flame, another night

Has fallen to an empty plightPerhaps tomorrow I just might

Have someone for a partner!!



Attic Safe

Amidst the cobwebbed, angled ceiling;

And dusty, stagnant, arid air;

Resides a safe of timeless healing… In attic space I keep it there.

A box, sequestered — quiet corner,

Removed, alone from pilfered need;Alive it is with dreams of former,

Such banquet there I often feed!Torn and swollen with degrees of stains,Ageless as Dorian‟s portrait;

For within, such youthful love remains,

Of a time I cannot forfeit.

While wife and children sleep sound below,

Obscure to my nocturnal pass;

Scurrying silent among the rows,

Reunite with a secret past.I grasp the years with desperate hold,

And pretend that I‟m unknowing, Of the words preserved as flaps unfold,In letters, securely stowing.

My breath recedes with view of the first,

Which was last, I‟d ever received; Stone in my throat, heart near to burst,

I touch, in an effort to free.

Mucilage dry, tarnished envelope,A single page then rests, inside;

Documenting her final elope,

In dripping words, as I had cried.To read, once more, her intense farewell,

Resurrects lonesome, painful fears,

To witness again that, “…time will tell”,

Dissolving ink with novel tears.From this, I will go backwards in time,

Relive each pledge of devotion;

Imprinting „forever loving‟ line,

Devoid of alternate notion.

Resigning, as the last is resealed,

That fullness is the hole I bear;Of lot that is lost to be repealed,

And separate of the life I share.

Time has told in this life‟s testament, Of the lasting pangs of her clutch;

Transcending time, love, with others spent;

While I live and yearn for her touch.

Guilt consumes--those innocent sleeping — Fresh chapters of a life to be writ.

Yet I sense that she, too, is weeping,

Hovering box--her own safe attic



Br ing Me Flowers

Bring me flowers when I am alive.If you wait, I will not be able to thank you

Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes.

Bring me song when I am alone.Such silence should be severed by the

Union of Sound and Spirit rejoicing in Peace.

Bring me dance when I am weak.

These movements collect all important life and

Release them for the loving to behold.

Bring me poetry when I am lost.

Allow me to feel the flutter of pure hearts‟

Sincerity in trial and acquiescence.

Bring me Faith when I have fear.

The blanket of truth lies herein andWill comfort me in times of chill.

Bring me Art when I am blind.

Should life claim the sight of my soulYou shall have brought me hope.

Bring me stories of your life.Without them I will not have the

Sense of sharing another.

Bring me flowers when I am alive.

If you wait, I will not be able to thank you

Or see their perfect reflection in your eyes.



One Page at a Time

I met a man whose wife had died;

And for his loss he sorely cried;Fatalities of words he‟d lied,

Was surely how she‟d perished.

Reckless he‟d cast stones in lakes,

Viewing ripples, body quakes;And never fancied these mistakes,Or compromised what‟s cherished.

These were moments drawn in sand,

Eloping to the willing landsWhere passion‟s ears could understand

The voids within his chest.

The echoes drive the madness hollow,Obsessions that a man must follow;

And tho‟ so shadowed in the shallow,These thwarted loneliness.

He diverted foreign skin,

But knew deceit lives tight withinBecoming then, his only sin:

To secure all that was missing.

Somewhere in his heart remained,A transient love he once had gained,

Whose mem‟ry „lone compounded pain,

This phantom face he‟s kissing.

To call upon her now would be,

Fruitless, now that paths are free,

Disclaiming possibilityThat chance may be reborn.

For this love was sewn on pages,

That countered all the words of sagesLeft to tender, confining cages;

And this is why he mourns.

His wife, deceased, now sees the truth,

Of how true love transcended youth

While whispers of devotion — mute;The fullest life, unclaimed.

Would she then, in her mist above,

Reject him for his search for love;As if her own were not enough;

And he should bear this shame?



Judgments torment softer souls,

Who need the warmth of feeling whole;Fearing tempests, seeing old,

Retrieving sunsets, burned.

There he cries, not for the grave,

But for his life, and love, unsaved;

And for the two he had betrayed:

Knowledge left unlearned.

Now troubled in his discontent,

Congers moments he had spent,For inactions he repents,

While scripting lonesome lines.

Tho‟ filling of this dream admired, Of sentiments, sincere desire,

He casts his life into the fire,

One page at a time.



I n Praise of Woman

The fairer gender strikes such chords

„Pon depths to those unknown; Feathered, satin fingers grasp

Such rigid heart that‟s lone.

With words that seem to liquefyThe edges sharp and coarse;

While smoothing flow of warmth, the „neath, Where selfishness is hoard.

Curved am I, and supple,

As once in disrepair;

Fragments, shards strewn through my love,Yet, remaining unaware.

Adeptly, silent creeping sense,

Abating prejudice;

Where anger dwelled with ignorance,She cultures avarice.

Strength evolves to weakness,As weakness begets truth;

And selvedge sloughed precisely,

Retrieving glimpse of youth.Unencumbered, naked then,

As if papyrus, blanched,

Awaiting pigments swirled, a-mixed,

Enabling second chance.

Should flaws and imperfections,

In shadows lurk, reside;Bear no fault to womankind,

T‟was my ego‟s choice to hide.

In silent moments, unbeknownst,

Of all that lives within,Women have so nurtured me;

And thrive beneath my skin.



One Hundred Daisies

I picked one hundred daisies,

On this dark and lonesome day;

Now thousands of white petalsAre floating in decay.

“She loves me nots” are winning At ninety-nine to one!

I shall harvest then „til „morrow,

Or, at least, until I‟ve „won‟.



The Prostitute’s Tale

„Tis low eve:

Day‟s beacon sheds Broad, orange strands

Long, and resting on

The thin green line.It‟ll be soon I go.

Earn me bread--Beneath the starsThat cannot condemn me

As they be privy to truths.

Aye, moon — Show yer face in discord.

Remember me? —

Bastard daughter o‟ Marny?

Then took „er own blood Mixed wid her breastfeed

Across my new mouth?Remember? You filt my eyes then!Surely not too many to recall

A speckled face like mine!

„Tis nigh:

Talc an‟ lavender petal,

Hide all suspicions.

Aye, they pay for freshOr they don‟t pay well.

Turn the linen an‟

Perk the down--forFat butchers an‟

Be-speckled penny-men

Need soft for their laurels.

Aye, lanterns of the marketplace:

A‟glowin‟ like the entrance to Hell.

Brides haste to their hearths,

Prepare, and wait.Dare not tread when I creep

And lure their mate

With masquerade andShallow approval, of flattery.

Men, so weak and distrustful,

Wander night with sticky arms!

„Tis the hour.

Loosen garters to dangle

Just below a man‟s chin. Compress spearmint leaves

„Tween grinding ivory

An‟ lying tongue.

I be fit. I be hungry.



I will eat tomorrow an‟

A new hat an‟ parasolWill defend me from honest day.

Aye, me belly — Let no child spring from ye‟ now.

Should sweet love not find

Me worthy of husband, hearth —

Let not temptation of mother‟s weakness

Paint silver to draw redAnd poison the nourish of daughter —

Who will come to fearThe face of the Moon

Or commune of stars.

I go now.



L ife of Rose

Living through this life I chose,Is not so different from the Rose:

With thorns to thwart illicit harm;

And leaves to soak-in foreign charm;A stalk to let my blood run free;

Roots that feed the quiet of me;Head held proud, for some admire,Unfolding of my youth‟s desire;

Tho‟ living in my gardens new,

May oft restrict my point of view;

And all that lies in distant lands,Remains such dream in porous hands.



Self Admission

He wears a pack upon his back,

Then fills with rocks and stones;Symbols of mistakes he‟s made,

Trophies all his own.

He scrubs his hands with molten sands,

Such shards of glass embed;Reminds him of the hearts he‟d lost, And love weeps, sorely bled.

He scatters thorns in shoes well-worn,

Then ties them for all time;For detours he had wrongly made,

While crossing chosen lines.

He rinses eyes with brine, then cries,Eternal, lonesome tears;

Displaying then, for all to see,Such torment of his years.

Upon his tongue, his words once young,

He‟ll singe with glowing embers; To thwart the rising of such verse,

That no one will remember.

About his ears, such shrill of fears,Encase his heightened plea;

Releasing guilt and prejudice,

To alter their decree.

Once satisfied he hasn‟t died,

He sets on novel journey;

Chooses paths of internal wrathWhich mark his sanctimony.

The first step finds such grounds, unkind,

So soft they seek to swallow;Consume such traces of his print,

Determined, echo hollow.

The foul stench, then so entrenched,

Encumbered, drawn abyss;

Toward depths anew and rancid,Reveal apocalypse.

Affixed, implanted, disenchanted,

Approach delirium.As numbness overcomes the pangs,

Self-cited requiem.



Immobile now, reflects „pon how,

Such measures were traversed;When bindings, anguish gather hold,

And lessons were reversed.

Embracing pain and self-disdain,

Grants flow to great despair;

Simultaneously uncoiling,

Latent spirit and its prayer.

“Guide me forth, charter course,

Where light may come to shine;And words ascend like Phoenix wings,

To hasten toward divine.

In this hour, we are power, No bounds to recognize;

Combined we are invincible,

Together, land to sky!”

IIBreath then comes to cease, arrest —

As flooding warmth refills his chest — As increments of ills possessed

Relinquish former hold.

Hope cascades in liquid streams,

Fails eclipsed by freshened dreams

Senses heat of forgiving beams,

As Purpose then unfolds.

Mixing with such burdens held,Feeding fires never quelled,Imbibing passions never felled

From days upon the earth.

Such wealth ignored in ego‟s midst,

When adding absence to such lists,

What freedoms known by single kiss,

It‟s her e he finds his worth.

III

Reborn is he, with new eyes sees,A virgin parchment — waits;

To scribe the blend of all of life

With truth to consecrate.



The I llusionist

He sits with top-hat, tails and bun,

Rolling-up his sleeves.

Setting tricks of masteryThat no one will believe.

The cards he places order to,In sync with tactful skill.

To open wide the eyes of thoseWho hasten for a thrill.

The doves will fold so easily,

In pockets they will nest;

Until such time they‟re plucked about,A time that he knows best.

The scarves and flowers he presents,

Will surely bloom in awe;Of naïve crowds he‟ll work his craft,

The truths they never saw.

Then he looks up and sighs so deep,

A mirror‟s his intrusion.

For there he sees that love‟s unreal, Another soul‟s illusion.



Two Faces of Anger

As eve displays such sullen brow,

Quieting youthful grasses upon the lonesome hill;Allaying spirited ambitions of day‟s song,

Embellished by noble woodwinds.

Laughter, no more.

Turbulence tramples the swollen breastOf free and listless growth;

Compressed and hardened —

Unable to accept future, willful seed —

Left wanting, yearning such promise —

Is swept away by failing vestigesOf disobedient winds.

Unremarkable to any lurid senses;

Vague to ties of spiteful consort,Barren soil expands indiscriminately;

As harsh, vindictive words subtly eradicateSuch tender strands of emerald greens.For passage must remain unhindered,

And faceless.

Dispelling self-regard or purpose —

Quiver, desperate from the contortions of weight,

Amidst feared and unwanted runners,

Finding deceptive passage beneath.Expanding, flourishing, in the depth —

To arise as with any untimely event,

With wicked tendrils widening,Choking salient dreams.

Displacing natural cause and justice

Through consumption of all that is good;Such vines weave and thread without mercy,

Assimilating life in accord,

While feasting on the innocent,

Breathing mockery and contempt.

They will not dance, or sing —

But chant in selfish riot;Instilling transparent ideals and fear.

The contours of the expectant, rise.

Apathetic saplings await peaceful diversions;Or pray that finer-lit hours, in harmony

With swollen clouds, unencumbered

By their own sorrow or history,

Fill such tomorrows with temperanceAnd benevolence once again.



Until such events strike hollow hours,

Resounding in decades of toil and self-righteousness,Labored by ill word‟s apologies—

Until then, dried petals of former palettes,

Wither in dusty confines, trembling — Awaiting emancipating winds to churn and upturn

The solid and immovable —

And fragile seeds receive rightful needs,

Where fertile lands once thrived.



Point of Confluence

The coffee shop is congested,

But our booth is Ours‟. Your cup is full and tepid,

While mine is nearly empty.

Again, you share your life:

Soccer games and broken toys;Clothes which are now too small;How inattentive he remains;

Fresh batteries in his TV remote;

Daughter‟s eyes identical to yours;

A room, half-painted for months;Training wheels soon to depart;

Your car is old, his is new;

Grease on the kitchen faucet;

The „Tooth Fairy‟ arrived twice last week; He used to love you, you‟re sure;

The washing machine shreds your bras;You dust his High School trophies;Your son wants a BB gun for his birthday;

The cold winter consumed your savings;

“Sandra”, your on-line friend has cancer;His parents rent their seasonal home in Florida;

Your wedding gown still fits.

While I listen, in numbing clouds;And tongue, pasty from the coffee;

I can barely recall the details of the rented room,

But vividly remember your orgasm.



Enti re of Me

Might it just be,

The reflection I seeIs vision, and not of possession?

This silhouette lone

Of features, not ownRefracting my warmest obsession.

In stillness of night,And truth of the light

Embedded within my own soul;

There you may dwell

Defenses have felledGathering pieces to whole.

Skin, smooth and fair

Deep chestnut hairAppear mingled within my own face.

With ghost-like reveal,Shared senses congeal,Cohabitant in sacred space.

Your lips move in time,Inconcert, with mine,

Combining our thoughts to exchange;

Of mutual fission,

Culminates „wishings‟, Confirming that nothing‟s estranged.

Such loneliness fasting,In love, everlasting,

Embracing such occupancy;

Such fullness I feel,

In closeness so real,You melding, Entire of Me.



Tickertape Charade

Rented suit, white flowing gown:

So let the games begin.

Agreement in this ritual,Shall vanquish former sins!

Now fresh of canvas taunt,Sep‟rate colors still intact;

Join young hands to hold the brushCreate your lifelong pact.

Mingling colors is preferred,

And won‟t contaminate;

But many works are left undoneShould one then castigate.

Patience lies in beauty‟s eyes,

While agendas breed obscene;Mix then, yellow with the blues,

And celebrate such greens!

Leave illusions at the altar,

For that‟s where they belong;

Where misty tales of fairies then,Tend dreams they must prolong.

Understand the ebbs and flows,

As life is prone to tides;That will erase the strongest piers,

Should trust be left untied.

Believe, in time, such differences

Will threaten with its harm;

But quarrels cannot ever grow,

In embrace of lover‟s arms.

It‟s a choice of journeys forward then,

Of one you willing made.

Lest be perched upon lead float,In the tickertape charade.



Granite Man

Standing, edge of cliff so sheer

Peering toward the vast

Churning blue, and foam recedeLessons, of the past.

Project my soul, this vertical wall

That shields the tender landFrom erosion of the Tempest Wind

Yet carves the Granite man.Beneath, as passions trembleAnd curl about the form

Slowly abrade patina-soft

In forecast of the storm.

Adjacent to these weathered friendsLie memories of the gale,

When weakness overcame me —

Another love, I failed.

Resting bitter, jagged, waitingTo rest my skin upon —

Accepting vengeance‟ laceration,Exposed--within each dawn.

I, spun in ego — unyielding —

Deny the right to view,The fissures gape internally

Kept away from you.

Igneous veneered viscera —

With pulse upon command — And words that knew such timelessness

As footprints in the sand.

Yet vertical and tall I‟ll reach Defy natural decay —

Deeming that my wit prevails

With death I may persuade.

In Time, such shroud consumes meI will have died before —

Legacies of ignorance —

I‟ve offered nothing more.

Granite man is born of fire;And this, his only sin:

Striking flint and flesh as one,

Igniting from within.



Peacock Lost H is Plumage

A Peacock lost his plumage

Contracting such disease

That dried his skin, from out, withinScaling such as scabies.

Ignored was he by women-folkOf peacock orientation;

Who will not breed with likes of he;So left in consternation.

He wandered „bout the woodland floor,

Resembling holiday roast:

Without one feather to fan the weather, No color, then, to boast.

Discouraged and depressed was he,

That he‟d wandered way too far;Yet just past dusk, had change of luck,

And discovered a dark, parked car.

Long and sleek and shiny black,

Slightly foggy on the glass.

Grunts and moans and human groans,Then flashed a human ass!

The magic window down did creep,

As clothing tossed asunder:Gowns, tuxedoes, then the Speedos —

The peacock then, did plunder.

He rummaged through that starchy pile,

Of useless people stuff

Until he found, laid on the ground,

A sequined, velvet glove!

“What a perfect treasure here!”

He thought with fortune‟s find;

Stuck five-pronged mitten, which he was smitten,Atop his bare behind.

He scurried back to familiar homes,Where females there were waiting —

Who‟d prance in awe of what they saw:

A fan, so rich, cascading!

But peacocks are a snobby sort,

Especially of female gender;

And found him a bore, and chose to ignore,A display of obvious splendor.



Cast aside and ostracized,

He wandered once again.„Til break of dawn, he came upon,

Such an unlikely friend.

She was flat in beak, color brown;

And had such obnoxious voice;

Flat feet she had, her breath was bad;

But he had little choice.

She didn‟t seem to mind that he,

Was featherless and plucked;Devoid of fashion, t‟was nature‟s passion

So torridly they---had tea together.

They lived then, long thereafter,Bald Peacock, Duck, in love;

He remained forever — not one single feather;

But proud of his tall, velvet glove.



Candle

Wick--

The center of your being,

Drawing flame, heatInside,

While willingly sacrificing

The soft, smooth externalFor the experience of passion‟s

Glow.Consumed once,

You may be reformed,

To illuminate „forevers‟;

Or remain, in memory.

Loved for light.Offered in selflessness;

And swallowed in increments

By known betrayals

Of the night.



Ancient Tree

His hair is white, brittle-dry;

Cataracts, soon to claim one eye,Facing terms he can‟t deny,

As autumn faces lull.

Winds that swirl the dead leaves up,

Myriads of moons fan abrupt,Un-parched he holds his empty cup,Yet drinks from fountains full.

The crooked staff he holds in hand,

Will read this path of familiar land,Traversing this he understands,

Journeys kept before.

When lungs elastic fed the pace,Springing tendons, then he raced,

With quicker turns he left no trace,With forests first explore.

He arrives then at the ancient tree,

That grew so tall in woodlands free,Where suns would rest on canopy,

In patience, light his way.

Looks then, so high above,Where he had carved her name in love,

Smiles when he‟s reflecting of,

Him kneeling on that day.

He pauses, then returns to fend,

The voyage toward the river bend,

Where life begins and life must endIf truth remains sublime.

His pack is his, with nothing lent;

No ills or hatreds to repent;Contented men fear discontent

As he walks, in hand, with time.



On the Lonely

Such silence I won‟t overcome;

Fresh verse that harkens me to numb;

While I remain, both deaf and dumb;And trust your indignation.

To know such sense of obscene hollow,Leaves no course for me to follow;

The poignant scent or bitter swallowDispels all consternation.

Disperse me, then, in fields I pray;

Where thorns enwrapped in laurels lay;

And I will sleep, accept decay;With fertile words to comfort.

Mingle hither, fresh decline,

Of tangled thoughts that weep sublime;Raise the clear of blood-red wine;

And toast of those triumphant!

May you be spared repented dreams,

Of what you‟d held in high esteems;

Yet, carry forth, the worth you‟d gleaned, In lover‟s kind remorse.

Reflect upon such forces, fears;

That cannot be so tamed in years,Will never wash in anger‟s tears;

But disappear in course.

Contentment, then, should I be granted;

Was true to love, not disenchanted;

And full I am of all you planted.

What fullness, in my retire!

Resume, now, in my shadowed space;

Where once eloped to touch your face;

And now retreat to lucid place;But I have touched the fire!

Palpitations I expelled,Of longing, I‟d no hope to quell;

Nor testimony I‟d retell,

As this would serve me, only.

Bathe in respite anonymity;

Or the pangs of passion‟s futility:

No us, or you, or trace of me…… Imbibing on the lonely.



Perfect Picture

You have such small,

Gentle hands.

The softest of touch;As you trace invisible lines

Across my temples

And relaxed brow.

You stare into me,I‟d left windows open

Secretly hoping

That you‟d brave

My weak defenses

And seek me out.

Inside, you comfort me

More than the fire

I had waiting for you.You incise my soul

Drawing no blood,Caressing open nerve.

Your skill of navigation

Within me:I sense that you have been

Here — before.

Perhaps in a Time

When Dreams lived, flourished.

So petite in size —

Yet my own passionEnwraps you and

I feel and breathe

Your every selfless,

Deliberate move.

My eyes, weary

And guilty of your entrance.

They complied whenWords failed to shield

From an intruder

Of Need and Desire.

I shall keep you

Safe, here.Should you peer out my chest

You will see

The palm of my hand,

Guarding you in.So fitting you are.

I am intoxicated and

Delirious with the liquids

We are now sharing.



I feel our flesh grafting,

As it always belonged.

I close my eyes,

While you settle inYour forever home.

I will sleep now, dream

That you someday may be,

More than a photograph.



Perfect Picture 2

She enters,

Softly inflowing

Through veils ofPure white mist.

Her eyes,Dark and deep —

Desires, AttentionsAs endless as time.

They close,

As if accepting this

--as Dream or Needing it to be so.

Which one is real?

I, who has summoned,Or you who

Has arrived?

I watch, wait —

Expecting indiscriminate

Wind to cast youAway — again.

You approach,

And I see reflectionsOf my own soul

In your pools.

One hand touches

Cool on my face,

While the other-

Warm on my chest.

I look down,

See that your wrist

Is only visible.I am breathless.

I feel your handSqueeze with each pulse;

As it is you who

Sustains my life now.

Helpless yet

Profoundly comforted.

I trust my lifeTo you.



I feel the pressure

Of your lips, partedPressing loyal

Against my own.

Hand clenched,

Heart stopped.

Filling my lungs with

The warmest air.

The spasm strikes,

You retreat atMy first inhale,

Unabated beat.

“Why did you come--To me?”

“My love, you asked

For life.”

She melted,Into a flowing wall,

Of raven hair againstWhite purity.



This Door that Stands

This door that stands in front of me:

A symbol of complacency;

Or passage to tranquility,Should I make such choice.

Barricading worlds unknown,Where once a sun had brightly shone,

Temporary terms I own,From diluted voice.

Shoulders braced against the firm,

This foe, whose task is not discerned,

Dividing dreams from what I‟ve learned; And trusted, not to chide.

Fatigued, sheltered become my lot,

Fear ing that, in time, I‟ll rot. Sequestered lone, lest I forgot,

It opens from the inside.



Black Widow

She paces „bout the circled net,

No corners there she tends;

Fibers spun of wicked spat,Skill‟fl‟y ties the ends;

For tidy is her discipline,

And one she‟ll not resign; Rejoicing in her acumen,

Of partner yet defined.Prance and preen in slippers‟ creep, With trophies on display;

Wrapped in linens in the keep,

For other hungers‟ day.

With such she may invite to dine,

A suitor, unaware;

Who‟ll posture with this maiden fine,

Obscure to temptress‟ lair. A heavy step sets quivering,

The field of play set here;Excitement sends her shivering,As she scents that he is near.

He saunters as if chosen,

And this is destiny;With confidence he goes in,

With unsuspecting glee.

She flatters him in increments,

So he‟ll not scare away; Offers food with condiments —

Satisfied, he‟ll stay.

With the echoes of unborn,Resounding in the air,

Strikes the terminal accord,

Conceding to the share.

In terror I awaken,

To look to prism-ed eyes,

A stare so stark, unshaken,

Awaiting my demise.Breathless by deception,

Encompassed whole in fear,

Content of yield, conception,I receive the poisoned spear.

Withdraws then, spiteful vixen,

Rescinds her sultry voice;Rubs her waiting abdomen,

This widow‟s lowly choice.



With Trust, True Love Remembers

To fill one‟s cup with vapors,

In vain to quench such thirst;

That‟s weak to stave the parching, Of hearts so swelled, to burst.

While lips extend toward falling tears,

In hopes to moisten fears;And blur the visions testified

As lonely image mirrors.

Delusions, dreams of fuller wells,

Of purity, exist.

Should sun and moon expose the swells

Tho‟ never have been kissed. Release with expectations clear,

The fervent lover‟s need;

In shallow wishes‟ turbulence,

Succumb to lonely‟s greed.

Fragile then, the reed that draws,From tendril‟s frantic seeking; Yet understands the terms set forth,

Survival conveys weak‟ning.

To bask in second‟s warming glow,If never spurn a fire;

Does satisfy the chill‟s dispel,

Shrouds mirrors with desire.

To hold, then only respite heal,

Dispelling thoughts of worth;

Such values lie in desperate time,Yet resurrect in verse.

For here, in enigmatic course,

Confessions may be chambered;

And paths may show obscurity,With trust „true love‟ remembers.



Quest or Conquest

The donkey brayed, the donkey squealed,

The donkey bucked and moaned;

And woke the tired farmer whoWas sleeping in his home!

The lights went on while shotgun loaded,Then stood startled in the night:

A man possessed by loyalty,Fist-clenched awaiting fight.

The donkey brayed, the donkey screamed,

In painful agony;

As the man did scan horizons,So little he could see.

He sauntered toward the restless beast,

While hogs and cows reclined;Awaiting for the verdict now

Of why the burro chimed!

He calmed the burdened animal

With a touch upon its head;

Then noticed a small wound aboundAnd where the donkey bled.

T‟was a wound no bigger than

The center of his palm,Where skin had been removed, and gone;

Exposing flesh so raw.

The farmer screamed on its behalf,

The donkey now sedate.

Then pledged to faithful creature,

That hide he would locate.

Upon retrieval he would fix,

The place where hides belong;

He packed his sack and lantern for,A journey to be long.

For seven years that man did search.For seven years he tended,

To securing that which once was stole,

Justice he defended.

Through hill and dale, mountain peaks,

And wind or rain or hail;

That man did seek to reclaim lostAs duty must prevail.



Returning to his home at last,

To creatures all neglected.Some had stayed in hopefulness,

While others had defected.

The donkey grazed upon the hill,

Unmoved by his return;

Still bore the mark of nighttime stalk,

Yet harder to discern.

The man just stood there, leaned on fence,

And waged his last exhale.As journeys left him too fatigued

Obsessed, that he had failed.

One must wonder what it takes toDedicate such time to pass;

Such energies and focus spent,

In the search for a piece of ass.





Once M ine

I often wish I could swallow a mirror,

The reflection I‟d see would be much clearer;

And traits, cast aside, would then be nearer; New paths, then created.

I then would have visions of memories lost,Careless enchantments recklessly tossed,

Enable the value of worth and of cost;Old paths, once debated.

It‟s there that you live, my lover of old,

Invite you toward fires, release from the cold,

Where petals of hearts so softly unfold;Complete, to myself, once again.

Yet, what is the song that you long to hear?

The lyric of ours, penned twice, do you fear?Will silence entrap me, again, should you tear?

Is lonely the feeling you tend?

The tilt of the glass, ingesting such light,

Would surely show scars inflicted that night,

When motives of love, fell victim to spite;And set one alone, then to drift.

Full of self, and devoid, then, of you;

Embracing such lies, believing them true;The ashes of old with the fragrance of new,

I prayed that time would sift.

Perhaps in this moment you‟d plea my confession

Bring forth sordid traits that would then yield my lesson

That transfuses souls, excises obsessions;

Rendering fertile, such home.

Once harrowed and turned the inside now seen,

Denial then falls in the chasm between,

The lucid encounters of the real and the dream — A place where I‟d kept you alone.

Challenge my love to have egos be banned,To the loneliest places unknown to the land,

Where timeless is still…just the trickle of sand;

Where trust is the consort of merging.

Invade all the hollows where secrets are kept,

Self-preserved caverns where you never crept;

Demons that rose and thrashed while you slept,Prepares for this moment of purging.



Fettered and frightened with thoughts of unveil,

That led me toward passion‟s unchartered trail, In hopes that the strength of the dream shall prevail;

And you will return to my view.

Refraction of lights, such beacons within,

Dispel lurid markings of my former sin,

Drawing fresh marks of where to begin,

Arise, the fulfillment of two.

If mirror‟s inside, I would certainly bleed,

Expelling the pain and the loss that I need,Absence is fonder, on which I will feed;

And carry me balance of time.

There and then, a witness you‟ll be, To testify weaknesses there inside me;

And somehow this signals your means to be free,

From the title of being, once mine.



Epitaph of the Charmer

Steely eyes:

No lids to maskYour contempt nor

Fledgling hatred.

Split tongue,Tasting the ghastly air.

„Tis only I, Your emancipator;

Who freed you from

Dark and unknown.

Coiled and writhing

In loneliness, self-pity--In chaffing wicker.

You arose to my song,

Once.

Out, aired, you tookTo fertile, fragrant grasses,

And prospered;As your will begat strength

And wealth among your kind.

I merely watched, rejoiced

Enabled your slither.

You stare,

Seeking to intimidate.

You believe I fear death;But this will not become

Your last satisfaction.

I will not lower my head,Accepting the strike;

But sleep, dream of

All things good;

This is whenMy neck will bleed;

No tears shall be shed

As venom channels quickly

To stop my heart.Hastily you will seek

To consume me,

Eradicating all memory;While the vile of my soul

Poisons you internally.

I, live in my dreams andI am immortal.

The wicker remains yours

To cry for my successor.



Bartholomew

The lantern sways, as shadows flash,

Mists draped in night so still;

Illuminating fleshless arms,Creep-out along this hill.

Such guardians of soul-less mounds,

Wooden markers of the poor,Bow in hallowed reverence

As sentries evermore.

Weeping, yet un-frightened,

She trips between each aisle;

Casting light against each stone,

Acknowledge each beguiled.Then memory finds her grasping,

And clenching cold, damp stone

Denoting „neath a vacant plot,

For he never did come home.

„Pon scattered grass and gravelly dirt; Drops to reverent knee,While fanning simple pleats about,

Her dress, in modesty.

She twists the knob and raises wick;And it curls with cloak of flame.

She whets her lips, inhaling deep,

Then summons „pon his name:

“Bartholomew, Bartholomew,

Can you see that I „ave come?

Are you near, me sweetest husband?„Tis I, your Mary Dunn!

I had me thoughts to come t‟night,

To „ave a word with you,

That‟s pressin‟ on me heart so fierce, Ya‟ „round Bartholomew?

Aye, that‟d be just like ye some,

To wait fer me confess;

A‟twisten‟ in me awkward words, No salve fer me distress!

Yet I —I need t‟hear yer voice

An‟ calmin‟ words to heal, The anxious quiver, here, inside,

A‟longin‟ to reveal.”

The widow paused, collecting will,

And questioned own intent;

To cast a net to spirit‟s world,

Dispensing her repent.She wrings her fingers nervously,

While waiting „pon the dead;

When suddenly a breeze did rise,

Then a hand upon her head.



“Mary Dunn, me Mary Dunn, „Ave not better things to do;

Than wander „bout such crypts at night,

A‟hovered by the moon? What keeps y‟here in dank an cold,

So callin‟ out fer me?

Ye know fer fact I‟m dead by now,

An rottin‟ in the sea!”

“It‟s good to see ya‟ too, my love;

Better then, to hear;That death din‟t take away that tongue,

Or how ye prone t‟snear.

I „spected that I‟d smell ya‟ first,

That rancid scent o‟ whale; Yer eyes were once quite darker,

Yer skin not quite so pale”.

The spirit corpse then spun about,

Examined high and low,The fiery bride he‟d left behind,

With heart so still aglow.Warmed by her excited eyes,

And cheeks so pink with life;

He felt a distance aching,Longing for this wife.

“Ye got a bit of lonely, Mary,

That why ye come tonight;„Spectin‟ glimpse „ov me, like this

„Wud turn ya‟ heart to right? Sensible is how ye was,Yet be scurryin‟ to find,

Such wisdom in yer harkin‟,

To terms ye felt unkind.”

“Stop with ya‟! Stop with ya‟!

Ya‟ stubborn, briney goat!

T‟wasn‟t me who boarded ship An‟ failed to keep afloat!

Aye, the heaven hasn‟t tempered,

The iron in yer will.Judge me not Bartholomew,

One, amongst the krill!”

The bearded ghost then chuckled,„Til tears came to his eyes.

Proud he was to have such time,

To spend with feisty bride.

He then retreats in silence,As he gleans from her distress,That she torments with a secret,

To him, she must confess.



“"Bartholomew, me love,"she embarks to make her plea,

"Ye left me young an' fruitful still,

yet no child „pon me knee. I'm not as sturdy as y'think,

An' tremble at the thought;

deprived I am of husbandry,

my womb be saved fer naught."

Without ye then, I‟ll „ave no spring, No child to remind,

Of splendid days, brighter sun,Me husband now divine.

I‟m askin‟ yer forgiveness,

And yer permit to pursue,

The kindly callers come to me,In absence then, of you.”

“Yor speakin‟ of the cooper, Tim, Or Drew, the smithies‟ hand?

Aye, better off with men who keep,Their feet upon the land!

But Tim, I‟m sadly knowin‟ that, His time is comin‟ due;

An‟ if a child be yer design,

There „ain‟t no seeds in Drew.

I‟ll not be one to keep ya‟,

To an empty marriage bed.

Lord knows ye d‟serve a finer life,Than keepin‟ with the dead.

But ev‟rythin‟ that‟s in me, Needs ye hurt no more.Death „as grant me favored eyes,

I „adn‟t known before.

I‟ll come „ere, e‟vry night, An‟ visit, yer desire.

Honest, I will always be,

Tendin‟ yer require.

Love „ been mine for days of flesh,Then, for eternity.

Go then now, me Mary Dunn,

An‟ make a life for thee.”

With courage she did leave that night,

With freedom soon realized,

To pair with then, another mate,Forsaking former ties.

Yet, on the night that followed,

And for thousands after, too,

She chose the comp‟ny of the ghost, Her lost Bartholomew.



Each night she braved nature‟s serve,

Through rain, or cold, or sleet;Imbibing „pon such moment‟s time,

To feed on love so sweet.

Each minute spent, Bartholomew,Rejoiced in hardships, laughter;

And only God and Time will know,

Such treasures in hereafter.

One night, amidst November freeze,Mary staggered there,

Among the stones akin to home,With her husband shared;

Lungs revolting, gurgling swell,

Mouth of staining red;

Contrasting earthly suffering,Found solace „mongst the dead.

Fevered to delirium,Wet, silver-tainted hair,

She settles „side familiar post And finds him waiting there.

Struggles so to form a breath,In hopes that she may speak,

Surrendering the day‟s accounts;

But fears she is too weak.

“Aye, „tis time, me Mary Dunn,

A‟time that ye come home.

Beyond this night, forevermore,Y‟ll nev‟r be alone.

I wish that I could reach ya‟ now, An pull ya‟ „cross the veil That‟s kept us „part these many years,

In spite of what‟s prevailed.”

“So „lighten me, me whaler man,”

She coughed a pale reply.

“Why‟d ya‟ choose to lie to me,

To keep me as yo‟r bride? The cooper, he outlived us both,

Eight children sprung from Drew;

Ye lied to me for all these years,What say, Bartholomew?”

“I feared me own accord, me lass,

From terms set forth above;Ye cannot cross to waitin‟ home,

Unless ye go with love.

An‟ I, but one love known to life,

This chance then rest with youTo be me escort to the Lord,This, I say is true.

Should ye have taken „nother man,



I feared that ye‟d be his;

An‟ ye‟d be taken up with him, While I‟d be left like this;

A-hoverin‟ in between such space,

An‟ time, by lonesome self; While pinin‟ for me heart of life,

Me Mary‟n, no one else.”

“Aye, such flat‟ry from des‟prate ghost;

It was my life ye know;I seen ya‟ for deceiver,

So many years ago.But I choose‟d to keep me vows to you,

„Til heaven takes me in;

An‟ if I granted sim‟lar choice,

I‟d choose the same a‟gin‟. I‟m dying love, I feel it now,

Me spirit needs to leave;

This body sez it‟s had enough, Me time is done, indeed.”

“Lay down, me lass, breath peace,

Lay down „n be there, still; Our fate, as love, „pears destiny,

As both our lungs were filled.”

Mary Dunn surrendered then,

To callings of her spirit;

With forever longing arms of his,

She had no cause to fear it.United once again, at last,

Of faith and love of few,She crossed into Eternity,With her love, Bartholomew!



Love and Anger

In love, there is no pinnacle,

No spire to attain;Upward steps of promise, hope,

To lead in soft refrain.

While anger trenches virgin earth,

And mines with disregard;

Creating graves to bury souls,

Committing self, so marred.



I May Love Again

Such pangs of loss with distant kiss,Awaiting some reply,

Dispelling fears to be remiss--

Confirming one more lie.

Retired firm in my solitude,

Where humble I may be;

Yet, you arrive in platitudes,And cannot comfort me.

The gifts of flesh that I've bestowed,Have starved this willing soul;

That seeks confluence in its flow,

Uniting in the whole.

Dare I ask for what's un-given,

In terms of fair exchange;Somehow grant me 'life' in living,

Should you remain estranged?

Elope, then heart of tardy need,

And seek thee starv-ed fill,

Reside with longing spirit's creed,Which quakes among the still.

Airborne there in unseen plains,Fly souls of equal yearn;

Who bravely freed their heart untamed,

Awaiting some return.

My prayer distills in solemn brace,

That there will be a 'when';A time, a place, a welcomed face,

And I may love again.



My Choice Remains

Unquenchable lust;

Diving heart-first

Suspended beneathMolten wax.

Temporal burn

Succumbs to warmth,Eternal.

Stealing tracesUnattended,Undesired,

Yet deserving.

Displacing accord

In perfection of fantasy;Entranced by reception,

And of honest hope.

To feel, as she does:

A replica of unfoldingVulnerability and chance;

Quaking in the mireOf promises un-kept,Or restless visions.

Oh, to bask within:

Where secrets dissolveAnd peel petals

Toward sweet pollen;

Such tastes awaken

The deceased one.Poised as if

I could touch clouds,

Or mists on skinSo supple and fragrant;

Devised in looms

Of rapturous event;

And rested, prone,In endless tomorrows —

Yet, my choice remains

To Love.



To Be Al ive (for Neva Flores, Poet)

Eerie, lifeless pools absorb,

No refraction of such light;

That heralds tardy love within,Keeps it far from sight.

Once mem‟ries sweet, metabolized,

To feed the hungry pangs,Of loneliness and willful loss,

Opposed to rise again.

In slips of time, of photographs,

When hearts were joined and new;

When words were chosen kindly,

Adjustments far and few;When radiance was so abound,

It burned within our eyes;

Now felled inside this lonesome pool,

In darkness, there it lies.

Yet prayers suspended in the thick,Of nights that cannot quell,Such longing of a spirit‟s merge,

To comfort every cell.

My choice has come to face me now,A dispatch fair and true.

Should I free my heart to waiting winds,

Or seek the depths with you?

I dream of eyes, such mirrors set,

That emit reflections — own;

A place where you and I may dwell,In peace, in love, a home.

Such dreams I must confess are scant,

For these, in nights, I‟ve cried;

So I‟ll sadly walk from morbid pools, And choose to be alive.



Figurine

I bought a crystal figurine,

Of finest lead that I had seen,Stood in awe of how it gleamed,

As it bent the strands of light.

Displayed upon the safest place,So near my heart, so near my face,

Indifferent to a love‟s embrace, Awake through all the night.

How I‟d pined for luck to own,

Such magic and so freely shown,

Accepting of my life alone,Rejoiced in my admire.

Crafted in such fine detail,

Preserved inside a spirit, frail,

Eloping passions without trail,This symbol of desire.

Possession has its price so dear,When flaws project in forms of fears,

Souls don‟t reflect themselves in mirrors,

In lives of bone and skin.This speaks of weakness, not respect,

Of worlds of wisdom I neglect,

I cannot thrive in retrospect,

But prosper from within.

In time I‟d sadly visualized,

Beneath the facets, oxidized,I watched, so deeply terrified,

As spots became so stark.

Panic consumed my every gain,

Perhaps then tears obscure in rain,Begging heavens for refrain,

As glass now bends the dark.



Unrequited

Weary is the sense again,

Pervading thoughts this night;

Caressing tapered, loyal friend,He feels that he must write.

This night, as those in years before,

When lonely came to stay,His need to hold her then, once more,

In lands so far away.

The parchment crisp in freshness fold,

Yielding to such healings;

As curves and lines of purpose told,

His love, for her, unveiling.His eyes compressing sadness wells,

Then dry upon his cheek;

As words are born, some anguish quells,

And he doesn‟t feel as weak.

Such confidence, his fervor guides,To confess his honest will;Unfolding wealth of love inside,

A place he keeps her, still.

There, he claims, such pure intent,Will know no other light;

Remorse in tarried moments spent,

In years of youthful plight.

His testament of pining heart,

Mirrors those he‟d penned ahead;

Communicating misery‟s start, And emptiness of bed.

With novel image paints a scene,

Which will burst her burning breast;

Then comfort her in kiss, serene,And knows no passion‟s rest.

Content that he has then transcribed

Amendments toward desire;Of words his drunken heart imbibes,

No means to dowse such fire!

Seals it then, as if were him,To transport „cross the miles,

Where she‟d rejoice to faith and whim;

Embracing current trials.Arriving then, in morning snow,

She grasped the scented dispatch;

Held it „gainst her chest aglow,

Such warming mem‟ries catch. Then hobbled to the sacred box,

She kept beneath her bed,

Arthritic hand then fixes locks,

Stores another, left unread.



I nside of Me

The magic of a pencil‟s that,

It has opposing ends of two:

One to erase my past mistakes,The other, write of you.

Yet writing verse of graphite form,Smears when I should touch,

Cursive exploration, tears,Of how I loved you much.

New feelings then, new inspiration,

In how best to then describe;

And how best to make it permanent,Such passions deep inside.

I turned to ink, believing that,

Should I immortalize in pen,That you would shine your heart on me,

And there‟d be „us‟ again.

Sadly, parchment bled as well,

When so exposed to rain;

That fell so cold within my room,With but myself to blame.

I learned then, at that moment,

I couldn‟t draft a love to be; And editing deletes all files,

Of love inside of me.



A Love of Souls (for Deb M., writer)

Oh, my raven gypsy;

Curled and poised.

The scent of your anticipation

Bewitches me;Haunts me in hours of light,

Possessing this moment

Of unions unfulfilled.

Cavernous in heat,

Coals stoked to blue fireAs red talons circle to find hold

Of my tender skin;

As tongues taste

Such wicked passion within.

Air escapes so freely,

Shared warm breath,

Staggered by hearts‟ will

And focus.Indifferent to all

Unneeded in consort.

Release your body‟s call

To tremors quake,

With my own;As spirits elope

Above us, through us,

And perpetually embrace--Hover, as one.

Eyes fixed, devoid ofTreachery or deceit;

While echoes of former chants

Rise to welcome

The consummation ofA love of souls.

Documents

Thorn of the Rose