Golden sun on tree flow of water birds, my birds your sweet undefiled innocence going about your tiny business come, come to me your twitter and peep knows nothing-- a nothing I could so easily crawl into forever.
peep... peep
Forget this unending human weight its drag of living, of dying what must be done, what must be said to think and then to fly not knowing that is what you do--
Not a swollen tingle of hand, but a smooth chrome arc of being-- as simple as the way of her seamless glide across the play yard-- I could have curled to fit the whole of my life, and all I desired to know into the span of that stride, her stride-- My precious girl, so unconcerned with her beauty never knowing the boon of her presence in this world.
My thumb has no feeling I write like a ghost, but my nails are lovely & pink... Lead bow leaf bough and sway yellow will drop soon marking time. Then the lean tangle of branches, the openned upon expanse a browning perspective.
Filament of light web-thread glinting, It comes back to this: Red is food and blood red is me bounding breathing blue depths golden savannahs chrome flash in swirl of blood the lion's paw the filling print the amber agate of his eye chomp of jaw through sinew.
Gold is my father-- a sweat the scent of orange blossoms (he knew as a matter of course). My father's small man's bravado stands akimbo. In his eyes: the innocent cruelty of preying beasts And power beamed in bantam lines.
"small man's bravado stands akimbo." Love this image!
Hands on hips, elbows outward, snotty disposition, totally self-absorbed. (-:
I see also in the poem a kind of suffering for the poet. Trying to understand certainly has its limitations, but thank God for the colors that spew hopelessly from the heart to enrich others in their own struggles to understand.
A collection of love poetry both relatable and unique.. Poems both joyful, playfu , yearning and romantic. The Poet has exposed his heart and soul in words of love and admiration. Take a journey through the thoughts of a Contempary poet of love. Poet
I met Jerome on a busy city street in Baltimore, Maryland, when he was forty-five years old. On that particular day, I was out and about, enjoying a much-needed day off from work.
I wanted to purchase a sukiyaki sub. I parked my car in an area of
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"small man's bravado stands akimbo." Love this image!
Hands on hips, elbows outward, snotty disposition, totally self-absorbed. (-:
I see also in the poem a kind of suffering for the poet. Trying to understand certainly has its limitations, but thank God for the colors that spew hopelessly from the heart to enrich others in their own struggles to understand.
Keep Writing!
Respectfully
Richard
Has a sweet , metaphysical feel about this lovely poem
Peter