Rhia's Incredibly Boring Poetry ... you have been warned ...
Sept 1, 2013 10:42:11 GMT -8
Gerrard Winstanley, Hairy Thor, and 1 more like this
Post by Rhiannon McKenna on Sept 1, 2013 10:42:11 GMT -8
Her Mouth
We sit in the cantina,
Sugary drinks making my mouth pucker.
Scent of your perfume teasing my nose.
A phone keeps ringing, interrupting
My perusal of your lips.
My finger reaches out to touch them,
petal-soft,
with the lipstick I love so well.
"Fire-extinguisher red, right?" I ask you,
pointing to the one hanging on the kitchen wall,
although I'm sure the lipstick is really named
"Red-Hot Mama" or "Little Red Dress"
or some other advertising nonsense.
You giggle and slide your hand up my leg.
I gulp my drink, suddenly thirsty,
and ask for the check, pronto.
Lazy Morning
The phone rouses us from slumber.
I look at my lover, sleeping.
The cotton sheet barely covers his body.
I smell eggs and the burnt sugar of molasses
as I get up, hazy-eyed, to stop the ringing.
11 am, and the day begins.
The Artist's Frustration
He sat next to me,
an older man with a sketchbook,
as he always does every Friday.
And as always, he sighs,
frustrated, he says,
with his latest creation.
"I cannot capture her!"
he exclaims in broken tones.
"I cannot even get close!"
We have talked about his art,
erotic art, he claims proudly;
he loves the fact that labeling his art thus
makes other artists squirm.
There is one subject, though,
that he cannot get on paper.
He says he watches, horrified,
as his hands shake,
his pencil goes awry,
the lines refuse to form properly.
"I loved her," he whispers in sadness so deep,
I wonder how he can even walk without
his heart gushing blood from his chest.
"Her body was a temple to me;
I loved to worship there regularly," he confesses,
with a twinkle in his eye.
Then grief creases his face again.
"If only I could draw her," he sighs.
If only I could see that perfection again."
He shows me his latest attempt,
one without her face;
he mourns, "I had hoped this would help.
But it does not."
I do not know what to tell him.
I have never known a love that deep.
He pats my hand, chuckling.
"You are young yet; you will."
He gets up slowly and I am surprised an hour
has passed.
"Do not fret; I do still have my memories -
and perhaps that is all I should have.
What if by portraying her, I lose all -
memories, feelings?"
he asks, and says his farewells.
I sit for a while after he leaves,
tears unaccountably pricking my lids.
To be loved like that...
a gift far more precious than any drawing.
We sit in the cantina,
Sugary drinks making my mouth pucker.
Scent of your perfume teasing my nose.
A phone keeps ringing, interrupting
My perusal of your lips.
My finger reaches out to touch them,
petal-soft,
with the lipstick I love so well.
"Fire-extinguisher red, right?" I ask you,
pointing to the one hanging on the kitchen wall,
although I'm sure the lipstick is really named
"Red-Hot Mama" or "Little Red Dress"
or some other advertising nonsense.
You giggle and slide your hand up my leg.
I gulp my drink, suddenly thirsty,
and ask for the check, pronto.
Lazy Morning
The phone rouses us from slumber.
I look at my lover, sleeping.
The cotton sheet barely covers his body.
I smell eggs and the burnt sugar of molasses
as I get up, hazy-eyed, to stop the ringing.
11 am, and the day begins.
The Artist's Frustration
He sat next to me,
an older man with a sketchbook,
as he always does every Friday.
And as always, he sighs,
frustrated, he says,
with his latest creation.
"I cannot capture her!"
he exclaims in broken tones.
"I cannot even get close!"
We have talked about his art,
erotic art, he claims proudly;
he loves the fact that labeling his art thus
makes other artists squirm.
There is one subject, though,
that he cannot get on paper.
He says he watches, horrified,
as his hands shake,
his pencil goes awry,
the lines refuse to form properly.
"I loved her," he whispers in sadness so deep,
I wonder how he can even walk without
his heart gushing blood from his chest.
"Her body was a temple to me;
I loved to worship there regularly," he confesses,
with a twinkle in his eye.
Then grief creases his face again.
"If only I could draw her," he sighs.
If only I could see that perfection again."
He shows me his latest attempt,
one without her face;
he mourns, "I had hoped this would help.
But it does not."
I do not know what to tell him.
I have never known a love that deep.
He pats my hand, chuckling.
"You are young yet; you will."
He gets up slowly and I am surprised an hour
has passed.
"Do not fret; I do still have my memories -
and perhaps that is all I should have.
What if by portraying her, I lose all -
memories, feelings?"
he asks, and says his farewells.
I sit for a while after he leaves,
tears unaccountably pricking my lids.
To be loved like that...
a gift far more precious than any drawing.