Buzzing Poems

After You, Love

After

you, love—

there’s only dust.

 

Out To Sea

It was, perhaps, the heat of the season,
a haze so casually obscuring
the oily vapors of a mirage rising
from that razor’s edge of the horizon,
eager to lure you into believing
well, almost anything.
As though faith is an apparition
best induced by miracles that happen at noon.
Grit of sand filling every pore
details how the surreptitious sea
erodes away reservations,
tracks how salt, licked clean
from skin goldened by wanton blush
tastes of the ocean of senses, the rush
of sea to shore, the ease of drowning
into pull of tide, the primal roar.
That night, washed up on your stretch
of beach I gave up a smile,
remembered how futile
the act of treading water was
in the powerful wake of waves.
Dashed against the rusting shipwreck
I was no less a ruin, thankfully wounded,
Bleeding brightest red.
.

Bringing You Home

.
Marveling at my bravery, I bring you home
peripatetic stranger whose very bones
move me to an exquisite inadequacy.

Helpless to stem the rush of sense
I venture, daring to smell your hand,
sniffing, cataloguing, storing—indiscriminate.

Preparing ammunition with which to shoot down
bleak days, to stuff gaping holes running to ragged edges
that invade me when you leave.

Too soon, I imagine you happy,
rehearse logic that will confound and
push you into the nearest corner space.

Recklessly, I move to touch your face
hoping to leave behind the searing imprint of cells
that will brand you lover, ruined, and mine.
.

Pretty Pardon

.
Late to realize, as always
it dawns on me only today
that you chose me.

Yes, scarred, bedraggled, and loose
in places, someone you barely knew—
you come to me.

This is, I think a reprieve.
My pretty pardon for wanton
self-destruction, a vicious sin.

Your eyes, clear glass
reflect tiny pieces of me,
wringing hands, lank hair.

It takes all me strength to even
begin hoping. Beautiful boy,
shiny and new—

I murmur prayers to keep you.

.

Touché

.
Being with you would be pure bliss.
Wholeheartedly my love, I pledge you this:
Through all the skies halfway we shall meet—
But first you have got to untie my feet.

.

On Your Kindness

.
Mock me, snob me,
Betray, ignore, assail me—
I shall get used to that
And God-knows-what.

But don’t touch me, kiss me,
Caress, amuse, adore me—
I cannot bear you being kind
And not know what’s on your mind.

.

Traveling By Fragile Memories

.
When we chose to travel jointly
I should have set down rules:
“No stop-gap verses or farewells at night,
Counter-clockwise strides are permitted,
All our suitcases stay light.”

But instead we went as gypsies;
I thought there was no harm in us
Traipsing through with everything in load
‘Till we were torn seaward
And you took the carousel road.

I am left traveling by fragile memories,
Regretting your child-like charm
And my hasty wit;
Still I must go on stumbling bleakly,
Following footprints my feet cannot fit.
.

On Your Arrival

.
Accustomed to the stillness
of waiting, I stand cautiously,
tentatively happy.

And holding
all I hope again to find
within the most secret attics of my mind.

Unfolding,
I carefully prepare my arms
for the sorely missed, near-dawn warmth.

No further words except, “welcome.”
Hurry and become
once more my own, mine alone.

No answer
necessary except, “I’m here.”
The gods might be near.

And prudence
the only hindrance
staying my eager feet

Almost, I cannot quite believe
That my days cling so close,
Hinge so fast, on your arrival.
.

Cigarette Smoke

.
I am wrapped again
in your cigarette smoke.

Billowing, drifting;
smoke rings
the O-shape of your lips
floating, racing leisurely
to some unsure spot
of the stained-glass ceiling.

Some of them
wander down towards me
in ever-widening circles
that form haloes,
settling lightly
in cautious carelessness.

I am wrapped again
in your cigarette smoke.

.

Patterns

.
Patterns, patterns,
Lately they seem to fascinate
You who are used to the irregularity
Of our comings and goings.

We whose lives’ warp and woof
Would tangle, unloop, tangle, unloop,
In uneven plateaus
Are being set straight.

Patterns, patterns,
Lately they seem to
Have fallen into place, a shroud
Covering and containing our errant ways.

We whose limbs nimbly knot
Into satisfying disarray, satisfying disarray,
Are being framed within corners
Perfectly spaced.

Patterns, patterns,
Lately it seems
We’ve ceased to amaze,
Correct, continuous, caged.
.