Flora In Memoriam

The wind at our face was against us
and the arms we would brace were aside.
The breeze swept, wept and sighed,
for our room was emptied of roses.

This last stroll we took was saintless;
a death march of her wits and my pride.
I descanted my doom, you and I.
Love weathered by art had erased us.

I was Petrarch with laurels and loss.
Moss wreathes raked by the tide,
fettered and fringed, they swept by
and our time had been passed by what raced us.

I was Job with a fortune of daughters
some Jah had divinely unproved.
I, upright and blameless, refused
to be punished for devotion and falter

In my love for the heavens that brought her.
I held too tight with hands we entwined,
she had palms for the wind to defile.
So I wandered on, I had at last lost her.

I was parched and my decanter of water
sweat dew drops, they ran down the side.
Cannot dote; not the place, nor cry.
My wet words were, to her, bath water.

So where may I wash up, you sage,
Or wash out my language of love?
If your hardness of heart must be moved,
I’ll filter it fine through a filthy page.

Ladybug Ballad

Hear me marvel in my mirth;
I sat amidst the scent of books
And seeing some magic of research
I had my sense of wonder shook.

Two volumes from vast shelves I took
Both blue, large Lepidopteron tombs.
Oh clever me, to have a look:
a sad hope that my verse improves.

I saw, sat in this lilac room,
Crawl amongst the livre’s leaves
A ladybug content with plume
Of pale pastels and jacket sleeves.

Or injured with disabled dreams
Of flying from the factoid fold,
Just crawling through the scrawl. I gleaned
How words will ask one to behold

Gleaming life in braille so bold
To prick a finger, stung or bit.
Such simple joy books are to hold,
that even larvae love what's writ.

Untitled Sonnet

Enchanting glimpse, her nakedness, once more,
Euphoria. To explore her new form at leisure
Inflames my bliss; a blistered bleary ardor.
The pastel pink edged lips that spoke first plaisir,
The gold suffused curves, touched with tremor,
I know by blind touching a remembrance weir
Of desultory dreams, feverous yet demure
In desire abated by a sad sedative year
Of dreary idle organ atrophy fear.
Unkindly relinquished and rekindled to fire and smoke
I drag my face to dry my final tears,
To lie upon the crag of her chest’s slope.
Hands knead breasts, hearts need rest for mountaineers.
My white knuckles blush as I caress
The summit of worn love in finer dress.