"deliverers" poems
iPad Love
4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.
No need to tell you in sound, out loud,
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.
The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.
Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!
Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.
So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.
Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.
2011
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
I.
Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I’ll conceal,
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.
II.
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home—
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
III.
In fresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny’s blood.
IV.
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty’s wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!
2.3k
I will name
my first born child
Roman.
For the Romans
were the ********
the murderers,
the economic giants,
the success story,
the strong,
the bold,
the brave.
But they were also the
deliverers of grace,
the remorseful,
the shamed,
the quiet,
and the noble.
And I can only pray
that my child
will be all of these.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
I will name
my first born child
Roman.
For the Romans
were the ********
the murderers,
the economic giants,
the success story,
the strong,
the bold,
the brave.
But they were also the
deliverers of grace,
the remorseful,
the shamed,
the quiet,
and the noble.
And I can only pray
that my child
will be all of these.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
There is a quality to desolation
that I have never seen.
I have been in a desert, touched
the aridity of it’s soil, and its
air like hot feathers
on my breath;
I have seen the sea far out
with only a blue smudge on
the horizon
to mark our return.
But I have never felt that terror,
that awe and loneliness
that has been spoken of,
and said by the poets
and deliverers,
to bring ones face
to God.
Do not misunderstand me.
I have felt these things;
at the end of a trail
leading nowhere,
on a slope
with loose stones
for footholds.
I have been in places of terror
and beauty,
and been overthrown.
But not wholly.
Perhaps
I have not been still
enough, have not lingered
in those part-wild places
that have seen the summit
of my fear, my longing.
Perhaps even they, even
they, have what I seek.
Perhaps
I have not been still
enough.
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 11:57 AM UTC
Mood
needs trimming,
handling,
thought
beseeches management,
preventions of digression
Yes,
I know these abled tangents,
-peculiar obsessions-
how they float up, moon- mouthed,
dream-lacquered vagrants,
Superlative deliverers
of profligate insistence
Their cool what-ifs
pontificate,
the vacant-eyed
rhetoricals,
excited by this delicate
existence
Aug 4, 2023
Aug 4, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC
A conversation with you could last a life time.
Like oxygen, I take in every word you utter,
Every sound and every syllable.
I hunger for more every time silence prevails.
Words give an insight into the head
And to me your head is a place of indescribable intrigue.
Tell me more; let me in.
I lap up everything that leaves your lips
With the focus of an archer, I study these deliverers of such precious and unique information.
Speech from you is a gift to me.
The longer we talk, the more I know.
Every word you tell me slots into its place in my brain,
Too valuable to go to waste.
I will hold them forever,
My own treasure, my own snippets of you.
Your words.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 11:58 AM UTC