Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
The Kiss

Blissfully lost in you
the wetness
inside your mouth
matches the
rhythmic rain
falling
for you
in a city doorwell
this kiss is
The Kiss
by which all kisses
must forevermore
be measured
we persist
oblivious
to the 9-5'er passers-by
never have I been
so beautifully kissed
time dissolves
stars align as
our kiss blossoms
evolves
lips locked
in bliss
hearts set free
in this moment
forever I'm yours
beautiful Antony...

©J.C.


(An older poem written many years ago)
a river flows
where no one goes

this is a place
where no one stays

one day I will lose everything

one day
or day by day by day

and time will be
the end of me

and I will be
a memory

and all who still
remember me

the river will
wash them away
Creative longing
   in wind
     blowing
   along ripples, through reed and rose,
         its dark face
     sensed in melting snows,
       water enamored of no place,
               its dark joy
   vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile,
     the ice figures melting all the while.
             Creative longing is
      when comparing loses hold,
      striving loses hold,
      clinging loses hold,
      intellect loses hold.
Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom,
         exuberance of perfume.
Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares,
divides, derides, and multiplies cares.
      Intelligence is intelligence:
        it has no plan or thought,
   the pattern emerging and never sought.
      Most simple, subtler than air,
        it does everything and is beyond compare.
       Intelligence is intelligence.
Oozing freshness like sap of spring,
                    glimmering
           as though a lake were glimmering
                                                    fo­r the first time,
       precise and piercing like a bird's cry
                     at twilight,
           calm and embracing like the night,
             passionate like green leaves,
                 intelligence perceives.
There's no compass in me, no needle's turning,
    but a wideness, a sky, a yearning
      that feathers neither for that nor this,          
                drawing dawn's first kiss.
   Treetops, lake, and dawn
             are beautiful,
             and the creative longing
                                               goes on...
With his hammer and hands
he'll bulldoze the plaster pen
corralling him from the world.
That place he squirms in,
the grazing land
between mirage and oases
that feeds the roaming heard.
His grasp on how things work
chokes the energy from his hooves.
Stomped his shoe kicking up dust,
it won’t brush off
quicker than the cobweb does.
Just let it settle...
see if it'll morph into a helper.
It's gonna take four hands
and a pry bar
to pop out rusty nails and lath.
the forests of sun
lift their branches to the sky -
a stone fountain's tears.
Full fathom five thy father lies
of his bones are coral made
those are pearls that are his eyes
nothing of him that doth fade
but doth suffer a sea-change
into something rich and strange

Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, Scene ii


I was a blue baby.
Umbilical noose drawn so close,
a rope of blood. The starving air
never loved me.

Now my father is air,
all of them are in the graves
of the air, the transparencies.
I can only claw at the silence.

Dolmens of rain collapse
in the kitchen. Black coral rises up
out of the fridge, out of the cabinetry,
out of the thickening lung-mass.

I am ever that blue baby,
leasing breath from a sterile hand,
my hair silvered over like a frost -
my tattoos gathered like a frightened flock.

Sea-changes are coming.
My last thoughts today, that coruscate
from the obelisk of my spine, are of the woman
who slurred my atoms so carelessly.
Next page