Sunday, April 19, 2009


The smells of flowers on the wind tickle my nose,
Flowing in sweet harmony alongside the warm scent,
Of a spring rain; ah, it is that afternoon time to think:

The rain at my windows, a french kiss of air and earth

"I would advise Atlas to shrug..." to lift his burden.

The tantalizing milky white shoulders,
rising and falling with with each pensive and ecstatic breath,
playing host to the beautifully cascading waterfall of blonde,
lilac smelling hair, which drapes around modestly pale breasts;
My thoughts wander, as if through a lush and full garden,
smelling the flowers and tasting the heavy, humid life in the air,
towards the shape of these pure, naked shoulders:

with a collarbone as defined as the web of branches holding up a canopy
busy as it protects the ground from the sun's severity,
selflessly defending the fertility of this precious body,
These shoulders must be sore, tired from carrying such weight:

the slow and tireless drag of time, the constant tug of age on her brow,
the modest signs of struggle that will surely appear years later,
the heavy heart, strong from bearing so much fruit for so long,


these shoulders are gorgeous, unscathed from the labors of love,
the tell-tall marks of emotion show no face here,


here I lie, kissing slowly the small of your back,
I still have my gaze affixed upon your shoulders,
as we explore our bodies in unaware of anything else; I
melt as I catch a smile coming from behind the golden drapes
of your playful curly hair, and I am struck,
frozen and knowing with overwhelming confidence,
that your shoulders bear no weight:

atlas would weep; for carrying all that love,
but you, you hold on your shoulders with pleasure;

for the weight of beauty, not unlike that of entire worlds,
are as small and precious as what we see in each others eyes.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Any true poet would laugh at your banal ideas, your poor poetic execution, and this delusion you harbor about suffering from "ennui" and "significant" thought. It's a joke. It's a jest. It has to be. No one can be this dense.