My Lover


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I’ve spent my nights in silent yearning
For a beautiful love that will not perish
And she who will soon come to me
In the time of soft plum-blossoms
When the air is full of songbirds singing
And the sky is a delicate caress;
She will come
With a mist of stars about her
And great beckoning plumes of smoke
Upon her leaping horses.
And she will bend suddenly and clasp me;
She will clutch me with fierce arms
And stab me with a kiss like a wound
That bleeds slowly.
But though she will hurt me at first
In her strong gladness
She will soon soothe me gently
And cast upon me an unbreakable sleep
Softly forever.

Morning Love


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How long will love be kept waiting,
our trembling hearts anticipating,
yearning reflected in half-closed eyes,
eschewing sleep where passion lies,
with spoken words clearly stating –
how long will love be kept waiting?

For love is purely mesmerizing
tightly embrace as the sun is rising,
come fill this Pagan’s heart with joy,
for daylight brings my heart’s envoy
in nature’s work there’s no disguising,
something purely mesmerizing.

Morning love makes shadows bright,
caught on the breeze at dawn’s first light,
and dancing circles turn around,
feeling the Earth’s beat underground
on this blessed day of shortest night,
the sweetest love makes shadows bright.

 

The Skirt


 

You laid your plaited skirt
on the foot of my bed,
neatly folded as though
in doing so you could somehow
retain your virtue.  In the midst
of our fleshy thrashings, I kicked
it to the floor, and you began
to cry, deep sobs that rattled
the mattress springs.  I moved,
too reluctantly, to retrieve it
but you said, “Why bother?”
Making love doesn’t always
mean making sense, and so
I threw my feet to the floor,
pulled on my jeans, and looked
back, although I would never be
able to see.
“So that’s it?” you sobbed.
In affirmation, I buttoned my
shirt and turned toward the door,
…as an afterthought, picked up
your once plaited skirt, tossed it
carelessly over my shoulder,
and left.