My Travels
You are my Ireland.
Your eyes are moors.
Your hands are angels.
Your hair is Autumn.
Your lips are frosting.
I am a fog,
an early rain.
My heart is yours.
My eyes are drawn.
My hands are velvet.
Pete's Poetry
She wore red...
but I dreamed of her
in blues
Sabine
I will always say
that for me Sabine began
with her hair
and ended
with her lips.
Her soft curls
speckled with sand
hung always in her face
like fireworks falling.
Those golden locks
half hid her face
to heighten the desire
to draw me deeper
to see beyond.
She wore red...
but I dreamed of her in blues
as her hair cascaded over her carved features
I was felled
as a failed attempt of a tree to touch
the cool falls just out of arms length
unable to caress
those soft spirals, the shower of swirls
that had sped a spray of feathered shafts headlong to heart,
arrow with anchors to plunge in mind.
Her body spoke...
a tone hinting of the strength
embedded in her character,
yet my eyes lingered like insolent youth
on curves that could speak to any man
and leave him awake at night
in a restless scourge, a hanted haze,
as her hips
spoke in rounded tones
of the children to come.
But only she
could I approach
to soothe the sorrow she had spawned,
to trust her
with this sting of guilt, this stab of sadness
this instinctual urge.
I approached the source and she
responded such as only a mother could,
yet as this wry and wretched road led only to loneliness
scattered with slight but piercing shards of shame
and together in the stillness grew
like a changeling child
from fleeting affection to darkest love.
It was her lips in the end
those soft French lips
that made me turn away
from the fresh insult
of the softened touch of unreturned affection
and when those lips no longer
enhanced my eyes view
I could only say, in that ever-French way
"I cannot support this."
Only in my dreams
does she say to me now
with her eyes of three colors
and her lips - Oh lips
"Please"
You are my every line
my conscious grammar
my pen
my hammer.
Blaze
You are my inner fire
my silver sharp
love's harp
burning desire.
You are my runner girl
of fated sneaker.
My heart weak, knees weaker
my frozen air
breath curls
in a dance it whirls,
and I chase you like a dream
in poet steam.
You are my every line
my conscious grammar
my pen
my hammer.
For my inner fire, my driving force, my love of course!
The Grammar Lesson
You are my grammar
as I am your object
to accept your subject's intensifiers.
Set me off in any sentence position.
I go as well before or after your verb.
I predicate your clause and need no passive voice
as your active verb
is always there to curb my adverb.
If my love could be in an adverbial phrase
I'd be lost in a proverbial maze
of more, more, more, more!
In a daze, I feel your sentence curve
around my dreams imperative.
We need no articles
to cover our passion gerund
and our love lacks pronouns.
I will be your future progressive
as you are my present perfect.
Your adjectives are many and race in mind
and modify my sentence structure
as modals of would, could, can and will fill my heart.
I see no conjunction between us.
We share the same page
as you are my aspect and time frame
in book's art never to part.
I am your conditional possessive…
Will you be my Valentine?
Blaze
(A work in progress)
You are my inner fire
my silver sharp
love's harp
burning desire.
You are my runner girl
of fated sneaker.
My heart weak, knees weaker
my frozen air
breath curls
in a dance it whirls,
and I chase you like a dream
in poet steam.
You are my every line
my conscious grammar
my pen
my hammer.
Where is the lost and found for a love lost?
“Try the train station,” an ally alleged.
“Where will it take me,” I wondered back,
“heart in hand,
past the epicenter of Insanity Station
to the outer edge of Lonely Heart’s land?
Will it derail and send me, worry free,
into some unkempt forest, free of feeling?
Or will I just drop off my baggage and ride
till I forget, her memory fleeting?”
The Dream
The eyes make a woman
somehow surreal
dark and devilish
somehow drastic
in their opposition
to the cool curves
of the slick mountain
roads I followed
up and down
like a man with a
new sports car
down and up again
to the sharper peaks
of chin
of cheek
Returning, as if
to the memory of youth
to the wonderful
menace of her
womanness
her purity, her passion
her eyes
Valediction
is it so easy to leave love
to rush off without a word
to run away spurred by anger
for what occurred
is it not absurd
to let go of
something so sought after
as affection
to leave me lost
my eyes glossed over
exhausted from lack of rest
once blessed with affection
enchantment and emotion
the delight of devotion
of passion and piety
discarded for anxiety
rejection~
i protest!
without even a call…
was it love at all