Frascati.

White Italian wine and wild, wild strawberries
the finest Frascati – the sweetest reddest
berries, erupted on her lips.
A mere winters fancy staving off the rain
sojourns for the evening, by her open fire side.
In a while she will take to her bed – whilst
eating dinner – despondent never,
as she shutters up to settle down.
Tattered flannelette pink dressing gown
heaven ascends her ease

She kissed a man today or was it yesterday
closely shaven – misbehaves she fancy’s.
His breathe was one of honey and cigars
he held her hand – gentlemanly, I suppose.
Could it really be all of seven summers?
Tastes as yesterday – but still he gets in
her bloody way…

Christmas cake – mistletoe they did
them both as singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’
Yet this time, when she looked to notice
his hand was missing from her side.

Happy New Year never was spoken again
to each other:
I guess that’s the way, love sometimes goes.

Poppy August 2014 ~xx~

Advertisements

Shadowless Interpretations.

Still in our grace
we stretch the space between us.
I am given to thinking
will your mouth still remember the taste of me
now that our bodies love has turned so cold?

I remember reading how white is the colour
of old loves forgotten.
I am so afraid to ask, did you know that
when you sent me those lilies.

Let me wrap my legs around you
rest my head upon your shoulder.
For what does it matter if our love has become safe
somewhat old in its point of view.

For what in our years of nakedness
should we have held back?
I gave
You gave
Both of us taking.

Now your body turns its back to me
and I shall stay awake all night:
For what is time
outside of these shadowless interpretations?

They Are Not Torn.

They are not torn
such was the innocence, of their joyful, youthful faces
now left wilted – grasping the land, beneath their fallen feet.

They are not torn
though left abandoned in senseless, countless numbers.
Disbelief; engraved with relief, soon to be consumed by guilt
on the face of each survivor:
Over so many wasted soldiers lives.

They are not torn
as the shriek of death erupts once more, ripping wide
the secular white of each fragile life.
Leaving the flies to their gathering,
sweat and blood, now decaying side by side.

No they are not torn
as the cloudless blue sky reaches right on down.

Pops August 7th 2014 ~xx~

Hidden.

You are of two shadows, each discreet of the other
sitting alone for midnights blackest skies,
to come and block you from my view.
Allow me to decorate your grey,
placing purist calico thoughts, of scattered home effects:

Expected pauses – I can go with that
swallowed ideals –
the tundra of your mind, soaring
to their high hills, and hiding places.

I softly finger trace the outline of your life
stumbling where
pleated folds, splatter raindrops
on your life’s, convictions.
Slip to slide, your footsteps,
sown between the indemnities of my needs
and your leaving.

Undressed, we let the tinderbox ignite
hermetic fragrance swaying drunk; the
sea holds tight her unbridled ire.
She places her hands around your empty stare
permitting me to love you – just this once
with all of my copious; naked care.

Pops ~xx~ August 2014.