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Had
the lip lock marathon
well in place,
the lasting impressions
left on our faces,
yet still the hearts needed
to beat as one,
a commitment to show
this wasn't just for fun.
So I bought her chocolate
dripped it
on her tongue,
had some myself and we both
took a plunge,
found a common beat
where hearts melted together
and we swan in the brownness
of a chocolatie weather.
The caramel ones stuck
our lips fast tight,
and
the panting of chocolate
went long into the night,
the peppermint flavour
made it all so sweet,
so we danced
our love joyfully
into the street.
The night I gave her chocolate
we become one for sure,
and now we have
it often
to make love endure,
but sadly to say,
the results of our folly,
we're so fucking fat, no matter,
we're also so jolly.
A 5 year old boy and his Nanny
Could be any hospital anywhere,
blue rooms, white sheets,
nurses in and out, busy,
the sounds of the ill
and the well,
marching or hobbling
down pristine corridors.
In one room, a small boy
short on years and height,
but
long on love and innocence,
holding a frail cancer-scarred hand
of his nanny, his Alma Mater.
Nanny, are you
awake?
Can you speak to me, tell me a riddle,
his silent blue eyes searching for life,
the hand moves in affirmation
a
croak from an ancient throat,
yes dear, I am here, and no riddles,
it's too late for those.
A tear washes across
a blinking cheek,
Nanny, are you dying?
What's dying and does it hurt?
She closes her eyes and smiles
wrinkles
like ring barks creasing in age.
Dying is not living anymore, son.
A tear escapes hidden from her eye.
The boy
is silent, senses the need to be,
presses her hand tighter,
runs a thumb over the back of it,
a nurse walks in and
smiles,
checks the old lady's pulse, her vitals,
the boy oblivious of her ministrations,
sees his Nanny's eyes close
in grimace.
Does it hurt to die Nanny,
it looks like it, I know I will never die,
because I know it hurts
and
I don't like hurting. He sobs a little,
holds his chest out in a feint manly posture,
sucks in a deep breath,
But
Nanny, for you I will hurt too.
Her cracked dry lips smile
a loving knowing reflection of his youth,
she remembers
her own nanny then,
when she was his age, and her's was dying,
and she understood, felt a bond.
Son, love cures
all hurts,
and your love is curing my pain,
easing my aches, thank you.
The boy smiles, then puts on his grim
face,
places both hands over her hand,
and closes his eyes, wishing her well,
hears the sudden gasp, the exhalation
of
her final long breath,
is startled, her hand not responding,
he hears the flatline
of the heart monitor,
but doesn't
need it's affirmation,
just knows his Nanny is gone,
but not in pain.
An Octagenarian
Muses
You dined on my innocence,
took my gullibity with your wiles,
creating the roads making
the lines
of my ancient face creep closer,
you saw the smile that corrupts me,
and took your trophy, conqueror.
The
plaque at your grave says Death,
yet my memory lives only for you,
for your victories over my defeats.
I see
the babes of our babes,
the generations of your efforts,
the walking stick glides then,
my walking gait measued by
the kisses
you planted, the scent that mingled.
I drink diet coke and each sip
swims champagne bubbles
in
acknowledgement to existence,
to cohabitation in eternity,
my heart beats slower now,
ticking away until we rejoin,
epitaph to
epitaph.
Natural
empires
Two mountains in a rural setting,
a small copse in a valley spreading,
a castle
on a face manicured to perfection
a small moat guarded by pearly white gates,
two pools of blue/white water glisten
beneath
a cascade of flowing blonde waterfalls,
Ten sentinels guard the borders,
one set to the south of valley of birth,
ten
more, five east and west of the mountains,
a prince with a rapier rides in,
attempts to enter her empire with her
blessing,
she is in charge, moves mountains and ridges
all sentinels wriggle in anticipation,
pool covers spread
over and hide her jewels,
he fights his way into the woodlands
and is met with the sight of evening dew.
Land
is reborn, a volcano builds south of mountains,
north of the woodlands and the valley,
soon, the cojoining of man
and mystery give issue
to a perplexing enigma of reformation.
The audible cry of nature at work,
from an empire
of perfection.
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