Summer Passion – II

While walking down the beach, we found a key
To maybe-treasures, long ago forgot;
The wind was forward, maybe slightly lee,
Beneath a sail so easy to keep taut,
That summer of our passion and regret
That we have not exactly left, just yet.

We locked the door, and fell together, two
Of maybe-lovers, long ago and soon —
The sea was roaring, we were pushing through
And past the morning, all the way to noon,
To where we lay and wondered at it all,
The pride before a rise, and then a fall,

The light that shone, and warmed, and lastly burned —
The key to understanding what we learned

in love and mist

a morning comes, in love and mist, alive —
the habitat of all its absentees —
she’ll rise to breathe again and fail to thrive
as long ago were any days of ease

but soft upon the door, the winter knocks,
and hard upon the floor, her husbands sleeps:
her best pajamas, and her favorite socks
make up the company she daily keeps

and coffee greets her as a warming friend,
the flickering screen of comments on her posts –
the hope perhaps today the joints will bend
and she won’t know, again, depression’s ghosts

as coffee to her lips is lightly kissed
the day begins again, in love and mist

Nothing to Wear

She can’t go out – she’s got nothing to wear:
At least, nothing to match the mood she’s in.
The presentation must be whole: the hair,
The clothes, the lips, the eyes, the nails, the skin

An artist does not show till art is done,
For reputation’s lost by shoddy stuff:
She must attend each detail, every one,
For “almost there” is simply not enough

You might not sympathize, but this is real.
Frustration of an almost keening kind
With naught to wear is all that she can feel
And dominates the focus of her mind.

She has a lot to choose from, that is true:
That matters not, when none of it will do

= = = = = = = = = =

Picture / Photo credit : © Sovatu | Dreamstime.com – Nothing To Wear Photo

You Wait

You wait for something you have never seen,
As though by looking you could make it so;
Your every sense on edge, and poised, and keen,
Your searching eyes still scanning to and fro

For in your mind he’s coming – coming soon –
For all of that’s worked out inside your head:
It’s any minute now, or night, or noon
The field of endless pleasure that’s your bed

You know he has to know the way you feel
For he has made you feel it when you sleep,
And when you wake, and all points in between,
The need you have is everywhere, and deep —

The hours drag, the outside world still hums,
And you wait for a man who never comes

An Empty House

Way back, when love was just an empty house,
The view was good and looked out on the sea,
And there, ostensibly, were you and me,
Each one supposed to be the other’s spouse.

Each morning came in course, the sun would rise,
And we would go about the things that made
Our days and hours go; the bills got paid,
And, sometimes, laughter rang beneath blue skies.

Our empty house did have its beauty, truth,
And felt quite open – breezy – in the main,
Until the first dark coming of the rain
That let us know we didn’t have a roof.

    It’s everywhere the same, in all its forms:
    Real love will give us shelter when it storms

Alive: and through the prism…

Alive: and through the prism we must go –
  The variegated shades that we conflate,
  The wanderings that form our fixed estate,
The feelings that will ebb, and then will flow –
The pageantry and beauty of the show
  That proves itself ebullient, sedate,
  Or otherwise; as we our tales relate
To those who do, or maybe, do not know.

Awake: and into all that shines and breaks
  We rush headlong, and into fate and chance
We pull up, or we put down, all our stakes:
  We stare intent, or maybe merely glance —
We see the shifting lines: the loves, the aches,
  Those colored patterns – all our circumstance

Abilene

Another bed, another lonely room,
And distant lights from people I don’t know;
A time to sit in this strange light, and gloom
Along the edge of fading afterglow

As silence sears into my sleeping soul,
Appropriate as only naught can be —
Askance is how the civil eye would view
Appellate wanderers who live like me

Attenuated to the moving thought,
At one with all that is or yet is not,
Amid the thoughts that never will converge,
Anterior to this, or any, spot

Applying all I have to try to rest,
Ascent and declination, I do best