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}

Love Affair

I heard the beating of your heart,
and the rhythm enthralled me.

The pattern rolled upward on the crest of a wave,
as it reached towards the sky,

then the beat slowed, became hushed,
as the surf washed gently over the sand.

Such passion…
accompanied by such peace.

I launched by myself
to surf upon your waves,

rising with you on the highest crests
and resting in your arms as we swept up on the shore.

My fresh water keel licked at your salty brine
and I felt your laughter echo off my hull.

We frolicked under sunny skies that warmed
the surface, and denied the coldness of your depths.

The red sky of evening sought to warn us,
but we glanced away, pretending not to see.

Winds plunged your waves to the depths.
My weathered planks were beaten in the storm.

Together we crashed upon the jagged rocks,
splintered wood and frothing angry foam.

I lay broken with pieces strewn,
your salty tears dried upon my hull.

I heard you sing a mourning song
in harmony with the wind.

You swept me off the crags;
carried me in your arms.

You sang to me a lullaby,
as I rested in your deep.

Published in: on April 30, 2011 at 9:17 pm  Comments (3)  
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Stories in the Attic

Aging treasures covered in dust.
Keepsakes of lives now past.
Long lost memories of secrets untold.
Pages of lives, my hand does hold.

Faded letters, tied with a string,
A feather lost from a bluebird’s wing.
A velvet glove and a broken clock,
an assortment of pieces thrown in a box.

What meaning was there in days of old?
To whom did these of stories hold?
Dearest and sweetheart, the letters say,
But of family or kin I cannot assay.

Mysteries hidden from my eyes.
Questions without answers now arise.
Romantic visions of ancient love,
As I hold in my hand– that velvet glove.

Published in: on June 2, 2009 at 6:50 pm  Comments (1)  
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