Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Poetry Corner June 2009

Sexy, Sassy, Saucy

By Dennis

You keep making passes, sweeter than molasses,
Winking, blinking back at me.
Every little motion working like a potion
Blocking out reality.
Playing with my mind, leaving reason far behind,
Lift me ten feet off the ground.
Because you’re sexy, sassy, saucy
And you make my world go ‘round.

You keep turning heads in that sexy little dress
From the minute you walk through the door.
But I don’t dare to touch, I’m afraid you’re way too much,
You just make me want to cry for more.
I’m trying not to grin when I take it on the chin
And you ask me if I’m man enough.
You’re so sexy, sassy, saucy
And I just want to feel your touch.

You weaken my resistance
Until I don’t know where it went.
I’m so gone on you I swear
I would vote for you for president.

There is no mistake how you make my whole world shake
With that body that you carry around.
Just one look was all it took
And I swallowed the whole hook
Like a fish flopping out on the ground.
It don’t matter what I do, I’m not getting over you.
You’re the best thing to come into my world.
You’re so sexy, sassy, saucy
And I want you to be my girl.

To Touch Your Heart

By Dennis S Martin

There is no easy way
To get it done,
To say convincingly
You’re my only one.
No one to whisper in my ear,
Tell me where to start
To find those simple words
To touch your heart.

I’ve tried a million times
To let you know
Just how my love for you
Continues to grow.
But I can’t find the words
That will truly impart,
Words that spring from my soul
To touch your heart.

Maybe it’s not just the words that I speak
That send the real message your way.
Actions speak louder they say in the end,
And I try to show you every day.

I’ll keep on looking,
Searching my soul,
Maybe buy a dictionary,
Make it my goal
To find the right phrases
Both tender and smart,
The right words
To touch your heart.

Still Life: Empty, Needing Fish

For NG in Boca Raton; i.m. Robert Browning

Upstairs in the shower stall, Ryan rinsed a conch.
I half expected him, Jack or Ralph-like, to blow on it.
We had no colander on the kitchen hooks. It’s not first lover stuff.
Shower stalls are. So too are large aquaria, worth the dough for show.

We stood there, glass tank at our feet, mutely debating,
smeary glass door wide with coral & conch in hair-washing spray.

The shower head fizzed into sand-weighted water.
From a foot away, I watched, wondering. A foot from the fizz.
Could now we say we had showered together; would that be no lie?
Almost accurate was it, nearly truthful that we’d reached what?

That turning point in our relationship we had anticipated,
the turning point where showering together is routine, even
if both of us stay fully clothed. “Sure we did it,” we can say
to ourselves and each other, at least. And nobody saw.

In Sex & the City our eyes would have met. Close-up. Chemistry.
Same thought crackling electrically, coursing me to Ryan, he to me.
Tank gone. Removed. Totally out of mind. Merely a McGuffin to get us to where
clothes fell away beneath urgent hands, effortlessly, no fumbling this time.

A magic wand translates us into McQueen and Dunaway after chess.
Shower stall extends enough to contain us comfortably. Miracle in mind.

Water as hot as we like? An unlimited supply. No stumbling, slipping,
fumbling, or odd grunts. Call of the conch should be so smooth.

Shower stall to be our consummate ease spot for a moment. I think,
but with the conch properly rinsed, the last of the sand from it has gone.
Now it’s more than a week ago. More than a week has passed since that night.
There is the tank, babbling like a brook. It is empty, needing fish.

Writer: Duke Barrett (nom de plume).

A Conscious Painting

I Paint In Fragments
That Change
In Contrast

I Move From Canvas
To Canvas Expressing
The Desire
To Be A Conscious Painting
Of Inner Consciousness

The Ink Well
Of Acceptance Dries
In The Air
Of Separation

My Brush Dips
Itself in Blood
As Mental Enzymes
Turn Into Human Thoughts

Copied From Memory
Unique Mysteries Drizzle
My Outer Edges
With Magical Desires

Fresh Beliefs Become
A Colorful Vibration
Of Expression
And My Nucleus

A Family Of
That Shade Themselves
In Dreams

An Art Form
Of Timeless Motion
Captures My Multiplicity
In Free Style
And I Rest
On A Easel
Of Eternity



Problem Solving

Problems don’t just go away
or change on a specific date.
Unless we deal with them
they will only escalate.

Exercising the muscles strengthens us to make us strong.
Problems help us to grow, but our entire focus
should not be on what went wrong.
When we don’t learn from our problems
and correct our mistakes.
It’s like a racecar driver,
racing over and over not expecting to win a race.
Some problems are beyond our control and we
don’t know exactly know what to do.
Let us seek answers from the one who created you.
Let us focus on the solution or the next thing we must do.
You will get the answer and the peace will arise on the
inside of you.

Tanya Tucker Blowe is the author of the Inspirational Writings from the Living Water. This inspirational poetry book captures the hearts of people and lifts the hearts and spirits of those who require spiritual fulfillment. Tanya’s heartfelt writings give words of wisdom, instruction, and answers that are valuable tools for life.

Touching the World with Light

By Gail Livesay

Ocean waves laugh as they roll
slowly to shore,
in their depths they begin to boil,
crash forth in an angry tide.

Sometimes a star ignites
and streaks across the sky
in a fiery blaze as it falls.

A wind blowing softly
lends giant trees gracefulness
as they sway to and fro,

suddenly turns furious,
in its wrath
causing them to bend and twist
limbs breaking in pain.

Darkness covers the night sky.
Heaven’s door opens,
a thousand stars burst forth
to touch the world with light.

There Was Ecstasy

Breaking news on Channel 2; SWAT in a stand-off on 10th Avenue.
Guy inside is an ex-cop; too risky to enter, send the robot.

Karen called me. “Have you heard?” she said.
“Poor ole Bobby is probably dead.”

We had known he was walking on the dark side of the street.
We tried to pull him back; he was too far down to reach.

We had known he was sinking in the quick-sand of meth.
We tried to pull him back from that awful path to death.

There was crack. There was crank. There was ecstasy.

On the screen, we saw his house, SWAT van in the street.
In the driveway was a body, covered with a sheet.

The neighbors saw him shoot her; they called 9 -1-1.
He was holed up in the house; and he had a gun.

What could have made him do it? He was one of us.
Good cop, gone bad cop; but not as bad as this.

There were woods behind the house; had he slipped away?
SWAT sent the robot in; it saw him where he lay

There was crack. There was crank. There was ecstasy.

We had known he was sinking in the quick-sand of meth.
We tried to pull him back from that awful path to death.

We had known he was walking on the dark side of the street.
We tried to pull him back; he was too far down to reach.

At the end of the day, I said,
“I just keep remembering how smart he was, and how funny, and how fun.”
And Karen said,
“Yeah, and don’t forget he was a good cop, too. At least he didn’t make SWAT do it.

Jan Bossing © 2009, Joelton, Tennessee

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