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Monthly Archives: July 2016

In The Wake Of Ardent Flow

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O’, that I should be so kind,
as the touch of summer breeze
alighting on its tender prey,
and ‘ere calls eagerly to mind
that which at once did please,
and makes us wanton of the day.

O’, that I should know such joy,
as one who finds ancient treasure,
unaware that it is out of reach,
yet youthful, with soul of a boy,
unbound by any trifle measure,
with questions so vast as to teach.

O’, that I should bask in the sun,
as an eagle who turns silent wing,
to catch the wind in its still caress,
and with its flight so tender won,
bears talons for its casual sting,
calling sky to open with its breath.

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Posted by on July 31, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Would She, With Fondest Breath…

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Would she, with fondest breath,
‘scape my name from her recall,
while she, with loos’ning dress,
cast off tears, and let them fall?

Would she, with forlorn demise,
then sear her lips with my name,
while she, with unyielding sighs,
grips fiercely my final acclaim?

Would she, with her heart in hand,
fall soft to the bed, in waiting be,
while she, with hair in loose strand,
cry out, not in sorrow, but for me?

 
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Posted by on July 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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Was Merely The Earth Enough To Sustain Us

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How cold and squalor these hands be,
neglected, but for their vain remorse;
beauty hath not been given due caress,
and sorrow hath not tasted of comfort;
by right, these hands must hold her soft,
ply her in supple shades of velvet touch,
or break away when she is yet untamed,
as only her consent may shape my grasp.

In reaching too far, was she then moved,
as these hands allowed for her wilding;
with gentlest hold, did I bear her heart,
yet with tremble, she fell away too soon;
had I but gripped her with more resolve,
she would be, still, in my hands’ caress;
but, alas, her fragile form stood uneasy,
’til these hands held only echoed sighs.

 
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Posted by on July 27, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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No More Than Man

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My hands no longer hold pride,
but rather, withered and drawn,
they grasp the air between us,
warring ‘gainst wages of years,
unable to hold on as once was.

My mouth may oft speak low,
no longer needing to cry out,
or proclaim beauty once held,
but rather, silent, lingers here,
and awaits the kiss you offer.

My eyes see not what you are,
but rather, what you had been,
tho’ unaltered beauty remains,
my gaze has blurred of its gold,
dim, but for your flame of solace.

My breath dare not fall again,
but rather, thrust forth to you,
that with heated want and staid,
may I but breathe less than sigh,
to be the fire you once enraged.

My heart may not be so strong,
but rather, weak of heady wear,
none that had borne me disdain,
but rather, had felt such tremble,
that, left without, I turn to stone.

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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The Wind Does Not Bleed

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The wind, it does not e’er bleed,
nor dare it be pallor in shadow;
it cannot be cut with any blade,
nor piercing eyes, scalding gaze;
no wound has met with the wind,
nor tears e’er been shed upon it,
and not of this air may it breathe;
yet, with life, it fans at the flame,
and with heart, it caresses flesh.

The wind, in its infamy, is broad,
as vast as sky, or slight as breeze;
no ill-favored stain does it leave,
yet with permanence, it trembles;
its bite is oft too swift to torment,
its breath may sting or scald at will,
yet, for its demise, is e’er a cauldron;
its grapple with flesh dies too easily,
and ‘ere fades with wanton remorse.

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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With Bosom Bared, Denied

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And she, with unbroken silence,
unwavering, unmoved, yet bold,
had borne this bitter testament,
well played for all its gold;
while she, bosom bared, denied,
breathed thin reply, untold,
and I, tho’ in constant awe,
went away, and grew too old.

And she, at merriment aside,
spoke wide of her acclaim,
and I, a mere distraction then,
spoke fondly of her name;
and she, with steadfast guile,
coddled roses of her fame,
while I, with wanton regret,
wished her well, e’er the same.

And so, she died, yet unclaimed,
knowing not a word of this,
had I but spoken once in vain,
would I have been remiss;
or would she have a rose for me,
by chance, her final kiss,
if e’er I speak her name again,
‘twould be my saving bliss.

 
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Posted by on July 19, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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What Luxury Have I With You

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How dull and unfettered by beauty
would life be then made to breathe,
were it not for your sedentary sigh,
and the lilting refrain of your voice,
as you smile and call to mind love,
and with your vast gaze, see thru’ me,
’til my eyes strain to your perception,
and your hand plies soft to my cheek,
and my breath then a fragrance of you.

How soon the sun would lose its heat,
and the stars would fade in their luster,
were it not for your warm hand in mine,
or the swagger and sway of your thighs,
as you walk with me in the quiet of day,
our hearts barely beating, but in unison,
and your childlike gander of every flower,
that with my slightest word, then distracts,
and we have endless hours to simply walk.

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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