Oliver David: Favorites

Jun 2013 Oliver David

NAR

She's Poetry,
in more ways than she herself knows.
Just a glance in my direction with those radiant eyes,
or even the mere sound of her voice escaping those lips of silk,
is enough to awaken the butterflies that have been at rest in my soul for what feels like an eternity,
with the intensity of a cyclone.

She's Poetry,
Moving like the smoke releasing from the lit end of my cigarette,
drifting softly wherever the wind may take her.
Her luminous smile alone
is enough of a spark to set my mind ablaze,
giving me the inspiration to write for days and days and days.

She's Poetry.
With just the slightest touch, all my pain instantaneously evaporates,
and my heart begins to melt away.
Sweet as the summer rain, she swims through the rivers of my brain,
and I'm still wondering if she feels the same.

Shes Poetry,
in more ways than she herself knows.

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Rain

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Shel Silverstein

Rain

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Jun 2013 Oliver David

To Anonymous: Miles Away

Jun 2013 Oliver David

els

To Anonymous: Miles Away

I don't miss your eyes
or even your lips.
I don't miss your frame:
your shoulders, your chin, your hips.
I don't miss the lust,
or the heat of the moment.

I miss the feeling behind it all.

I miss eyes that undress my thoughts.
      Stripping them of every layer until all
      that's left is venerable, naked, trembling truth.
I miss lips stitched to a mouth that has power.
       The power to speak not only to my ears, but to
       every inch of me.
       Shooting hot, prickly shivers down my spine
OR
       sending massive cashing-to-the-shore shakes
       on the Sea of My Own Tears.
I miss a frame that screams "I want you".
        Shoulders that lead,
        a chin that rests,
        hip bones that press.

I miss you more than I thought I would… think I should.

You were the first to say it, so let me be the second: I miss you more than I thought I would.

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Hurricane, Novocaine, Sugar Cane

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Alex Apples

Hurricane, Novocaine, Sugar Cane

Your love is not a hurricane
It is not an earthquake
It is a sweet, sweet salve
to an old heartbreak

Your love is not lightning
It is not a tidal wave
It is a deep, deep breath
at the end of a long, hard day

Your love is not a fever
It's not an addiction
It is not my nicotine
nitrous
Novocaine or
nitroglycerin

Your love is not suspenseful
seismic
shellshocking
stomach-churning
sugar cane saccharine or
surprising

Every love before you has been
a frantic, careful dance of
close
but not too close
honest
but not too honest

Yet you
strange you
can look at me from across a room or
across a tabletop and
there is wonderment,
but no wondering
passion,
but no pondering

Defined by choice
not whim

We always crave the love
that is our
hurricane
Novocaine
sugar cane
to sap away
our pain

But what about the love
that simply is?

Is that what makes it real?
Is that what makes love
Love?

What if we embrace what we need
instead of what we want?

To forge our way towards happiness
and disregard any distractions
that stand in our path?

What if we chose to every day
trade the roller-coaster romances
for the life-long loves?

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Snowbanks North of the House

Jun 2013 Oliver David

Robert Bly

Snowbanks North of the House

Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six
feet from the house ...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more
books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no
more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a
party, and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls
leaving the church.
It will not come closer
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch
nothing, and are safe.

The father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands.
He turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.

And the sea lifts and falls all night, the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.

The toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust ...
And the man in the black coat turns, and goes back
down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away,
and did not climb the hill.