"sandaled" poems
I fell in love at a McDonald’s. I expected it to happen in an overpriced cafe or a fancy Italian restaurant, but it happened at a McDonald’s and it was love all the same.
We were on our way back from the beach. We went whale watching but the ocean could have been empty for all the fish we saw. We paid good money for a caricature of the two of us. The graphite image of a happy couple with our faces sat in the back seat of your car. It would be framed and put up. We went into the sea as deeply as we dared and laughed and screamed as the waves came and came and came.
We were driving home with bits of mountains and boulders stuck between our sandaled toes and that’s when you pulled into a McDonald’s.
You ordered a sandwich, 100% real beef, never frozen, and asked me what I wanted. I said I would have the same. 100% real beef. Never frozen. I hate spending time and money on that which can only be consumed. We sat down with our food underneath the fluorescent lights next to a Happy Meal kiosk and I decided that I was in love with you and it was love all the same.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
3.8k
I am wild, I will sing to the trees,
I will sing to the stars in the sky,
I love, I am loved, he is mine,
Now at last I can die!
I am sandaled with wind and with flame,
I have heart-fire and singing to give,
I can tread on the grass or the stars,
Now at last I can live!
2.3k
She strolled along the narrow pathway through
the park. Her soft skirt flitting in the breeze,
her long legs smooth and pampered, sandaled feet
took mellow steps under the Springtime sun.
She caught the eye of Fred, who from his book
rose up bespectacled and drank the scene
of one young beauty carried by the breeze,
and thanked the Lord for all His wondrous things.
She noticed that he noticed and she sneered,
disdainfully and crushed him with the lids
of scornful eyes that closed upon his face,
and cursed the womb that birthed this pervert live.
She caught the eye of Tom, whose magazine
dropped to the bench from fingers preening hair,
his lion's gaze devouring this gazelle,
and she took notice of his notice there.
She threw back hair and turned to meet his gaze
with sideways glance, a wink, and half pursed lips,
amazed a stroll from bench to bench could find
a pervert and a stud so side by side.
Both men came to the park to sit and read,
and read indeed, then both, like men, did do
what men so do, and neither differed there,
yet one was deemed a pervert, one a stud.
(C)2014, Christos Rigakos
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Sharon was picking at the scab over the mole on the back of her neck
where the hairdresser had shaved too close to the skin:
Water under the bridge, she thought, and licked at her salty fingertips.
By focusing on the sound of her new high heels over the metal steps,
she blocked out twisted traffic audio below;
the wind whistled a tune through the rust over her painted toenails.
She liked the way some of the pedestrians down there looked up at her.
Sharon felt so elegant when the wind lifted her skirt,
just like Marilyn Monroe in that picture, except that Sharon didn’t smile;
her skirt had been lifted up more times than she could (or wanted to) remember.
He always looked down at her. There. Below.
Sharon flicked her new purse into the wind, and ripped off the matching blouse.
The Samurai sword, tight between her ******* felt hot and cold at the same time,
like the red of her peach blossom skirt glistening white against midday sun;
memories of her only child freeze-burned the empty love caverns in her heart.
A river of emotions rippled through her body but she didn’t utter a sound;
that was reserved for the impact with the oncoming bus,
and the tip of the sword that ripped through the driver’s leather-sandaled heart.
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
Sandaled feet
fleeing into darkness
beneath the breached
and burning
walls of Troy.
That is what I fear
when you walk away
from me.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Along the lane
towards Diddling
you stopped
and looked
at the church
on the horizon
between
the hedgerows
beneath
the blue
and white
clouded sky
Jane
stood next to you
her hand
holding yours
the softness
of her skin
against yours
her dark hair
tied
by a green ribbon
one of my favourite sights
she said
the church
becoming
more visible
the closer you get
her voice disturbed
birdsong
from the hedgerows
a blue ***
took flight
the flutter
of small wings
we never had hedgerows
in London
you said
no blue *** birds
no wide fields
or Downs
just streets
and houses
and pavement
and grass
around our flats
where pigeons
or sparrows
settled
for thrown out
bread
from windows above
Jane gazed at you
her dark eyes
focusing
I’d hate that
she said
I love my countryside
and fields
and birds
and open sky
she sniffed
the air
and you walked on
along the lane
she pointed out
wildflowers
and hedgerow plants
and talked
of the farmhand
who died
when his tractor
turned over
in a field
and the first time
she remembered
visiting
the small church
and her father
holding her high
above his head
so she could see
the expanse
of the Downs
and you listened
to her words
the language
holding you
and drawing you in
her lips opening
and closing
her summer dress
moving
as she walked
her sandaled feet
treading the lane
you wanted
to captured it all
to recall it
years later
all over
again.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish *********
flipped in their folly –
********* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
In sandaled feet we stroll beside the hedgerow
And Satan’s nettle bites with wicked teeth;
But doctor leaf is growing in abundance:
Open all hours to provide relief.
For God created all things bright and wondrous
And took his rest upon the seventh day;
Then evil set to work with Mother Nature
And led the birds and beasts and bugs astray.
The owl and hawk prey upon helpless creatures:
Vole, shrew and rabbit are their daily bread;
While fox sneaks up and steals the farmer’s poultry
And banquets when the farmer’s in his bed.
Way up above our heads in lofty tree tops
A greater crime’s committed than the rest:
The infant cuckoo murders all his siblings,
By pushing eggs and fledglings from the nest.
Survival of the fittest is important
In order for a species to survive;
If only dodos had been more aggressive-
Then those peculiar birds might be alive.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
Painted a masterpiece
In my dreams:
A Chilean villa.
Cactus streams.
A flower composed,
Wilted with time
With muted colors,
Tequila with lime.
Fields of desert
With tuxtla soaring.
Winding paths of
Wood and brick flooring.
A cool wind blows
Through the heat
Over sweaty brows
And sandaled feet.
A moment trapped
That’s never been.
A life of others
Never seen.
Put away my brushes,
Stood back to admire
The deep ocean sky,
The burnt orange fire.
It lay on the table,
Alive on the canvas
When waking did cause
My hard work to vanish.
In memory only
And never shown
Forever discarded
Once beautifully known.
My studio of mind
So often produces
A wonderful concept
With no practical uses.
I’d like to live there
And run those streets,
Take shade under awnings
Sampling savory meats.
But I’ll never go there,
Never see that place.
Never plant in soil
That’s been erased.
That marvelous day
Conceived at night
Keeps the dreaming
Forever alight.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
Hers was a life of compliance.
Fulfilment of another’s wishes,
observance of another’s needs,
conformity to the rules set down
in stone. She was the rubber of
beads through fingers, touched
by thumbs; the beads of the rosary
would be sealed by prayers.
She was the self denier, who put
herself last, one who sacrificed
pleasures for a promised salvation,
whose menstruations were reminders
of babies that would never be,
children which would never be hers,
dugs that would never be sucked.
She carried the cross through cloisters,
sandaled feet trod the paved paths,
heard birdsong, saw butterflies in flight,
moths at night in the candle’s flame,
she hidden away, unknown, no fame
with a saint’s name. And each morning
rising with the bell, kissed by the early
dawn, touched by the chill of early frost,
she lived and moved, all for love of Christ.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
Your words held all the weight,
but not the wetness,
of a mid-day sunshower.
My sandaled feet not spared
the puddle, nor my greasy hair
the extra embarrassment.
And outside the pavement babbles with
impromptu brooks: Words rambled on,
unaware of that mossy sewer
At the heart of the city.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
Gethsemane
Butterflies, fawns, the quiet trickle of a nearby stream.
Apostles argue.
Again
Some want pizza
Others teriyaki
A few want pastrami from Moshe's Deli in Nazareth
"Brothers. Time is short," said Jesus quietly,
"Let us not argue. I have brought a potato. Let us share."
The Apostles look at each other in dismay.
A potato?
What is this another f*cking parable?
They were hungry and impatient.
"Look JC," said Simon
"You're the Messiah and all, but we were hoping for something a little
more substantial."
"I bid you peace, Brother," said Jesus, covering the potato with a plain cloth.
He began the customary blessing for this type of food.
The Apostles bowed their heads respectfully.
One by one they closed their eyes in prayer
Sanctifying the simple meal that was before them.
Minutes passed
Stomachs growled
Apostles began to fidget.
Without warning Jesus shouted,
"Chabada Kedavra,"
and lifted the cloth, revealing a whole roasted chicken beneath.
The Apostles clapped their hands in delight at Jesus' latest miracle.
"Faith feeds us in many ways," said Jesus.
"Amen," said the Apostles in unison....
Completely missing
The KFC bag
That Jesus was sliding
under the table
with his sandaled foot.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Standing on the Santa Monica Pier
Ocean swells like a fiery dragon
Beneath rotting wood and sandaled feet
Crab walks and beach *** sunrise
Caught the devil in the blink of an eye
Grown tangled in poison ivy lies
The sun sets in the horizon
And we talked pretty words of misery
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 12:41 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
i. there’s a girl. narrow-boned, wild hair like a lion’s mane, sprawled underneath the shade of a looming fig tree. her teeth are all that’s sharp about her. soft curves, soft lips, a soft paradox in the Garden. in this lost land, there she is, subtle and tinged with the same stardust you once believed could save us all.
angelic, you’d call her, if she looked more grotesque. more like the cherubim of ol’, dressed in flames, impaled on swords, screeching the name “hosanna, hosanna” without mouths. but there are no wings, no heavenly trumpets, just the afterimage of divinity– something laced with hope, but already rotting. she spits out seven seeds and you don’t know if this is a land of God or gods anymore.
ii. she smiles and it feels like death.
you are unable to solve the riddle sprung from the lion’s ribcage– but the roof of your mouth tastes like honey and blood and you don’t mind. there’s no linearity, no familiar whine of a donkey, nor the sound of sand against gravel or sandaled feet marred by sunburns and blisters.
there is simply you and her and an eternity of possibilities that whisper in a forked tongue, “adam, oh adam,” and your heart drops. is this the end? but it tastes so sweet and you are alright to die like this, cradled between what was once in your womb and a creature of scales.
you do not expect the guilt that drips down your chin with each rivulet of juice.
iii. they call it love.
you call it divine absolution.
she calls it the beginning of humanity.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
Hold me in place
from the ocean
nothing but
a face with legs,
small sandaled feet
I am heavy
with hopes and
water and bones
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
Blanket troupe called finally finalizing finances
beseeched of asian seas and deformities
begone of witch's seeds
creeds,
and further formalities.
Controlled and sold away,
disney ears and candied shmears of salmon serendipity and forlorn serenity
collapse, perhaps?
can't strap the wrap of boot soles and cannoned poles
of butts and handles throwing sandaled barbarians in their foolish faith
For Empire!
the dire need of those to take and feed and be the god-men to tickle and bleed friends and foe alike,
to nettle the fangs of the good hounds blindly following;
scent dividing love and steeds to carry armies and lone conquerers to their final destinations, permutations of how so many flowers whittle at the broken touch of thunderous life;
of hidden strifes that attack these patient sentinels
their yelps yet signals of defeat so unburly pardoned
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
Walking on stone pavement, rainy, swift
some parts smooth, some parts eroded
pebbles at the feet of sandaled soles
umbrellas swipe the view, fogging you
Cars, bikes, children, zooming against
time, and the rush of voices, tones heard
and I lose myself in this wave of
foreign yet such familiar interference
And I find, curled like newborn babes
But wizened, people, like in prayer
head down, on red, white, blue bags
with hands dangling in peace, towards earth
Their hands, aged like leaves in a distant land
cracks down the back, underneath rough cotton
and skin touches skin as I pry yours open
only to find a single coin, crumpled with pressure
My feet falls behind yours, slackened
Your face is filled of golden sand, ready to
burst, and I know that your veins know
no mercy, as they course hopes through labor
At the ground, pitter patter, are the
sounds of your breath and gaze
And I know we are alike, only
difference, decision, the coordinates
Pitter Patter
Raindrops calling out your feelings, louder
than the commotion around us, drenching
the ground, drizzling the man-made
louder
and
Louder
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
It's coming.
we can all feel it,
that trembling somewhere in the backdrop,
in your toes
and the pit of your stomach.
you hardly notice unless you stop to realize
this is it
It hits us all differently, i think.
Some embrace it, run to it.
they cannot wait a second longer
Others shrug it off, going through the motions
it's part of life, right?
not to me, not to the rest.
it's the equivalent of realizing
that there are only so many more times that i can see your smile again
that there is a limit to the amount of moments i can laugh so hard it aches
with those that make me feel as if i can climb up the mountains
that i will only be surrounded by for so much longer
and there will be no more driving down the road at 7:32 am
and admiring the way that the sun paints the clouds
and the mountains on the other side pink
and sometimes i can't help but remember the time he and i
shared a love of sunsets
and i dont know if i'll see him again but i hope so (i think)
i know i'll miss it.
the scent of leaves and the music and the sandaled spring days
and best friends and accidental friends
the people i have not known as long as i want,
no; need to know them
you can tell me it's going to be better; that this is just the start of it all
(that there are new people and new laughs and new feelings)
but right now it feels like the ending
the whole world ending
because really that's all it's ever been.
between the stressful tears and the days you thought would never end,
are speckles of laughter
and holding on to each other tight
arms on shoulders belting out a song
about the mountain peaks meeting the starry skies.
maybe it's talking about us,
because sometimes the night sky can be terrifying.
i don't think i can go on
without you all by my side.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
Wrapped in your wool
with that will in your eye
She's firm but she's gentle
she loves you it hurts
breakfast eight sharp
then lunch at half-twelve
you come down for your tea
and the Angelus bells
We ran in bare feet over stones
and the thorns
that was cross-country running in
County Clare
I look at them now
sandaled and layered
your walking-frame
smiling in the glare
I can't understand your
need for the news
news is at eight, nine, ten
and eleven
lunchtime news
and more at seven
News at nine before you sleep
a paper a day and the radio beep
I know,
we grow
and you can't remember
if it's me or I'm her
or we're seventeen
You know that's it's raining and
there's war over there
so you hold on to that
but how much do you care?
It's not your fault.
your papery hands clasped
in your little lap
It's too fast
and it spins and it spins
and we are spinning away
I'm trying to hold on
to hold you
I help you up
I sit you down
I can't help with this
I'm sorry gran.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 5:25 AM UTC
The sun was out strong
and there were ducks
and swans on the water
in the park
and Julie
was there with you
clothed
in her hippy dress
and her hair let loose
and unbrushed
in sandaled feet
beside you
on the park bench
she had her legs
out straight
in front of her
as if she were making sure
they were still there
need a fix
she said
need it
like hell
you took in her eyes
lightless as if someone
had switched off
the bulbs in the rooms
of her head
can’t they give you stuff
back at the hospital?
you asked
they’ve no idea
they’re stuff shirts
and narrow heads
she said
that ward sister
doesn’t no ****
you sat
and looked away
some kid
was feeding ducks
at the fence
enjoying the excitement
of the feeding process
lost on the less innocent
it’s all if you do this
such and such will result
and if you take
such and such
this may go away
she said bitterly
how about an ice cream
up there on the rise
of the hill?
you said
she pushed her hands
between her legs
as if to push back
the fix hunger
as if that will solve
the fix ****
she said
didn’t say it would
but it sure tastes good
you said gently
seeing the kid
clap her hands
for more bread
Julie got up
and walked away
and you followed
watching her hips sway
unsteadily
like a ship buffeted
by rough seas
she spoke over
her shoulder
said words about
her parents
the rich
middle class
suckers
about the do-gooders
who came
to the ward
with their bright eyes
and second hand faith
you just listened
walking beside her
her hands going up
and down by her sides
as if out of control
how about that ice cream?
you said
watching her eyes
staring ahead
I know what you’re after
she bellowed
either my soul
to save
or a quickie in bed
an old woman
on a park bench
gazed at her passing by
with that
o dear me look
in her ancient eye
you asked about
maybe take
in the art gallery
look at the Moderns
you had neared
the ice cream van
and she stood there
looking with her eyes
on the menu
on the side
hands motionless
and still
what are you having?
you asked
a fix if I could
but that ice cream
with chocolate flakes
and sauce
will do for now
she said
and so you bought two
from the Italian looking guy
and gave her one
and kept one yourself
and walked on back
by the water
and bridge
she quiet
slow walking
you eating and *******
no thought of ***
or her fix
or side room
*******
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
VII
This is my end
surely this is
the end of it all
all I know is here
and though I am
young this is the end
of life as I know it
now and soon I will
see my home no more
for this is my end
here where I shelter
from all I cannot
think beyond this ending
surely the end of all
I know is here
and will be gone
(after a cine still from 1930 of a St Kllda woman)
XVIIIa
house above the hut
of shadows holds itself
against the relentless wind
on so open a shore
islands and inlets beyond
reasonable number stand
before its policies
its promontory land
Up on the third floor
light fills every corner
expelling its shadows
to the hut held
within its sight
XVIIIb
slowly the darkness
reveals less than
a shadow thrown
against a plastered wall
inside silenced from the wind
an image grows as the eyes
succumb to less than light
used to looking Suggestion
and the memory of outside
supply the rest
(two poems connected by Chris Drury’s Hut of Shadows on North Uist)
XIX
following footsteps
crisp in the sand
hour-fresh from tide-fall
now the shadows form
in the weight of press
the imprint mark
different with every
fall of limb and claw
the 3-pronged bird-foot
the sandaled human
step singular one
before another after
another until perspective
conceals and merges
into distant sand
**
silence suddenly
the ringed plovers
hold their breath
then chorus
a chirping as they wade
together in their own
reflections
the water like glass
at their feet
mirroring
movement that light
hop for a few steps onto
a slight but sturdy island
tweet then terweet
inflected upwards
a questioning call
terweet?
XX1
the taste of salt sea
in the mouth
the touch of water
thick sea-water
on the legs between toes
the sharp cold plunge
immersion envelopment
sunlight throws a cascade
of bright steps across the sea
gradually merging into a band of light
ablaze on the horizon
at the base of distant Monarchs
a silhouette of massed rock
rises from the sea crowned
by static clouds decorating the sky
gentle white ermine-soft
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
These lanes are very narrow
you said
walking with Jane
from the parsonage
where she lived
to where the farm road began
Are they?
she replied
I’ve never thought about it
just that the hedges are high
and the birds chock full
in them and their songs
Yes
you said
They are
and in London
there are no hedges
or narrow lanes
and the only birds
are sparrows
and pigeons
and you wanted
to take hold
of her hand
and squeeze gently
the flesh
and sense her pulse
but you didn’t
you put your hands
in your jean pockets
and gazed sideways on
at her and her dark hair
and her profile
and the scent of her
like lavender
as if she’d dived
into a wide field of it
and embraced
the flowers and stalks
What bird song is that?
she asked
No idea
you replied
moving closer to her
the scent getting stronger
the desire to be closer
taking hold but still at bay
It’s a blackbird
she said
You’ll learn them all
the birdsongs
and where and how
they nest and in what months
and you nodded
and saw how
the summery dress
moved and swayed
as she walked
the flowered pattern
like a field moved
by a soft breeze
and her sandaled feet
touching the gravelled lane
and you thinking
how it would be
for them to be held
and kissed by you
if she were beside you
lying in a field
or in one
of those tall woods
and you pursed your lips
and she looked up at the sky
her eyes gathering
the blueness
and whiteness of clouds
and she said
Monet would have captured that so well
and You
you muttered
He would capture you well
each aspect
of your face
and hair and eyes
and she smiled
and looked at you and said
I’d want to be captured by Renoir
have his arthritic fingers
clutching brush
and capture me
and maybe secretly
lust after me
and she blushed
and turned away
and you thought
Oh yes yes yes
but said nothing
just gazed
and breathed in
her being
her beauty
all there
for you to view
the eyes
the hair
the profile
the way her lips smiled
and sway of walk
and the tall hedges
seemed to explode
with the wild bird’s talk.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
as if one summer night would
stop to kiss the cheek of winter
winter
my sandaled feet chill,
awash in starlight
the waves, like a slivered memory
pure and silver,
carry the faint heartbeat
of many things come and gone
summered waters blow through
their courses of hair
in soft syllables to the ear
they touch stones of fire
alive in the eyes of the mind
how many hearts or ripples
of moonlight have walked here?
here, where new clouds breach
ancient skies and stones
of rivers of many things
come and gone
smooth and silver are the drops
of time, which wash
slivered memories
of summer
by the light of a cool moon
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 9:10 PM UTC