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-My Hero Poet
truth is sometimes I wish I was Arthur Rimbaud
or at least looked like him
certainly he was young and pleasing to the eye
which leads me to wonder
how many people overlooked his heart
seeing only a face a painting if you will
I see your face Arthur
I see your words
I see your heart too
I often fool myself
into believing we share the same heart
or that I see the world as you did
but really I am lost
doused by this obliterate world
which surrounds and ignores me
so I turn to you my hero poet
I wish I could speak with you
hear your voice
fall over smitten-like as you read your poetry to me
was your French voice soft or coarse, shrill or sultry
oh yes I would like to love you
talk to me now please
I need you to ease my burden
you do know the poet's burden don't you
the nagging emptiness the sharp longing, yearning
that is our blessing or curse
depending on our mood
oh and look at me
talking as if I am a poet or an artist or whatever...
no I am no poet
no great lover just a dreamer
and tonight again I dream of you Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud
at least I have you with me if only through your words
Soulagez-moi avec vos mots jeunes, poèt délicieux du mien
-Summer Storm
abruptly
rain fell like a million hammers
ripping across the streets of Baltimore
we walked arm-in-arm
into the ferociousness of the storm
splashing our way toward pneumonia
with no trepidation
our bag of delight was open wide
as we chased sunbeams
like fire flies
speckled against the dark gray canopy
of the afternoon sky
-Sing to Him
this man
heavy footed
and oft moved to tears
loves you more than life
so his words are stones
like his marrow
but golden are his ways
and never ending
with rainbows
not rose colored glasses
he sees you
in your skin so ambrosial
your vivacious demeanor
bouncing off hearts
leaving permissive dimples
in its wake
his scars are quiescent
but easily forgotten
in the shadow
of your solicitous adulation
where poignant moments
and speech
are soft like nocturnes
together
your gallantry
and his obdurate will
can make music
love
crafted like topiary gardens
which flows like wine from a fountain
stroke your violin
open your eyes
sing to him
-Lost Myself
last night
with no poetry or person to soothe me
I let my palms
retrace the path
of your fingertips
your mouth
lost myself
for a few meteoric moments
drifted along our frenzy
felt you all around me
subsided without you
slept delicately
with you in my dreams
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