The Clichés of Chick Flicks

oil and water
polarized
irritants
under the skin

back to back
stiff shouldered
defiance

anger’s passion
bursts into flame
consuming walls
of separation

melting away
divisions
igniting
love’s fire

sealed with a kiss

always meant
to be

same old story
same old lie

The Contender

Surly scent of testosterone

muscles it way to the fore,

Daring all challengers to

break his hold and throw

him to the floor.

 

Sweet perfume and downcast

eyes, a strand of gentle curl,

the slightest tilting of the head

and iron fists unfurl.

 

Parting lips which breathe

a sigh; his head begins

to swim. An upward glance,

a gentle touch; knees

buckle under him.

 

Strength of gentle femininity,

uncalculated power,

caves the strength of any man,

causes massive bulk to cower.

 

Fragility it may appear to be,

but in the slight of frame

does belie the truth of life –

was from Woman that you came.

 

{Inspired by     somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond  by E. E. Cummings}

In Faith

Image

In Faith

empty chalice of flesh

set on heaven’s table

expectant of the pour

Only Skin Deep

dermis cells of clay

marinated in

the drippings of birth

the sweetness of love

the poison of hate

the bitter taste of death

fully soaked in the varied flavors of life

Dermis Cells of Clay

Girod_St_NOLA_Natnl_Fruit_Brick

Sad eyes of faces from the past set in weathered skin of aging brick

heat of summer bakes urban soot into the dermis cells of clay

harsh cold of winter winds causes huddled forms to shudder

set aside from usefulness, removed from active life

Immobile

Weighty anchor of Fear

             halts life’s progress

                    hangs on rigid chain

                                         called Dread

Serendipitous Seeking

sojourning soul singing solo song

seeks solitary shadow sounding

sympathetic serenades

 

singular sight sees serendipitously

searching…

so steady

so sure

Conversations in the Parlor

Worn red velvet sleeps under
nodding curls of faded floral paper,
while weary hinges sag on cupboard doors.

Faded script of holy heritage
chronicles chapters of former days,
tangled roots of a sprawling family tree.

Tin types hold their secrets in silence,
refusing to refute the lies or tell the tales
of lives lived beyond the photo’s frame.

The quiet never quite slumbers,
in a room where history whispers
and yesterday sings her songs.

The Lamb is Slain

Unimaginable Love pours its richest perfume on dusty feet

Innocence drinks of death’s dark poison

Holiness breaks forth in bloom

Religion

He casts His shadow and we follow after it.

We grasp for it, in a vain attempt to reach Him.

We worship the shadow – never seeing the Man.

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