Of all the many that had fallen
From and to the love-bed of love,
     He was the one to take her heaven,
The white-winged monster
Under sheets, her blankets,
     Devouring dreams
          Between her legs.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Life is short, and to think of you,
Long and mad, is to long the longing
     Of long bond papers, stretched,
Untouched and unmolested,
An ice rink awaiting
     Its solitary soul.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

You are this certain factor
     In withdrawn I love you-s,
A constant, nonpareil kick in my blood,
My veins, knowing full well
These distentions, the holy perfusion,
A cardiomegaly which ever so sweeten
     Like a plump fruit.

You accentuate all the divinities
I long longed for, slowly,
     Infused within me.

Now this is love,
And love is nothing else...
     ...but you, but God.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Let us send mosquitoes into exile,
To the obliterating cold of Antarctica,
     In hope that the stars will take refuge
In this corrupted Archipelago, till then
We shall tire this full moon, lay our lovers down,
And burn the shadows
     As a campfire of our love.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I got caught up in poetry,
     Her eyes, her hazel, are poetry,
Hair, swaying smoothly, this artistry,
Cinematography, languidly left me
With purpose, the tussle
     Of a clumsy serenade.

Since she left, the strings of the guitar
Echo her questioning. They move
As though to flicker back to her eyelids,
     To sway a feeling back to hope,
To dreams, returning,
     Coming back to me.

Cruel is a day so calm without her,
You would wish for clouds
To be the serpents, envenoming your heart,
     Your infallible heart.

Her soul, surreal, is poetry,
     Hyperbole, that she got me singing,
Covering that Bic Runga hit,
Over and over, lulling the sun
     To its blue blanket, to sleep
          One afternoon.

And yes, I miss her,
     Clear as a sentence well put,
A ballad, aching with me, the longing
Of a five-minute song, yet
There is no fear in love,
     I convince myself,

          Love is patient
               Before it is kind.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I do not complain the slow singe
Of sun above our heads, nor
     The blue berserker which is before us,
          A thing of beauty and treachery,

I do not mind the moisture, the salinity,
Beads of sweat, eloping with the spray,
Diaphanous and are one, escaping us,
     Departing into thin air.

I would trade all energy, the distance
Of this journey, the labors of our feet,
Just to witness you, the black bird
     Of brows I love, surveying the horizon,
Those teeth of linear pearl, or the red
Gates of kiss immortal, all risen
     From the summery sshh of heat.

There's nothing that would equal
The squinting of your eyes, those
Thinning of the stars, the doubled
     Supernova, which now are phoenixes
That are not born, burned, nor are revived,
     But carry death, my death, my only,

          My life.*

© 2015 J.S.P.