Gossamer Dream
Placed in morning light
Draped in gossamer wishes
I kneel to your pyre
Originally posted March 24/13
Gossamer Dream (Haiku)
Poetry
Coming Home
As night falls, each day
I see you in a different light
Tired from your broken-assed job
And your stop-gap commute
You rub the back of your neck
And smile at me,
It’s okay
You sip your red wine
at dinner and like a gentleman ask
if I enjoyed my afternoon
And you tip your glass
and nod as your eyes drop
to the buttons nesting just there
And smile at me,
Shall we?
Falling all around you
Your smile, the night,
You prop me up
and we touch and turn
And I see no vulnerability then
Not the rubbing of your neck
Nor the tired look that
weighs upon you
Your power; the silk-covered
marble-like hardness of your
arms that lift and manipulate
my will until,
I know not where I end
and you begin.
Chastise me with you wordless growl
Graze me with your fingertips
Breathe your wine-enduced
last-thrust vitality, with which
you end your day
upon me.
Let me be your chalice.
Come home, to me.
Listen
Every day it’s the same thing.
“Listen,” you say, “to the birds singing.”
And every day I say back to you,
“What do I want to listen to the birds for?
“I could be doing something else,
“like the things I used to do
“when my life was full!”
“What,” you ask, “did you do before,
“but sit and complain that you had nothing to do?”
“Well,” I reply, “it was better
“than listening to the bloody birds!”
Every day it’s the same thing.
You think you’re right but you’re not.
I remember: stop telling me I don’t.
You’re unreasonable. And cruel.
I want to go back to where I was happy
not listening to the birds.
And don’t forget to visit.
I’ll be happy when
I can go back to being alone.
But don’t forget to visit.
Mathmatical Evolution of Love
A relative emotion
Subtract/divide
by two
Start with joy
add a pinch of misery after so many years
find the balance
Contentment
Do you feel it?
Laying here curled up
in your arms
on a Saturday morning
The newspaper is here
The kids are gone
Their lives are full
of themselves
Just us
subtract
divide
Contentment
Depression
Fold in
disconnect
no sun
warmth severs ties
nourishment
irrelevant
peace
a vacuum
Dregs
If you stare hard enough
at the dregs that roll
around the bottom of your bottle
those bastard last drops
of golden fire, swirling
in the curve of the base
of your clear glass bottle
perhaps she will return
maybe
she’s like those dregs
and no matter how hard you want
or beg
or plead
or cry
she refuses you
like the dregs.
But what if your stare
your hard swaying drunken stare
was enough to break the bottle
to cause sharpness…
no
you’re too soft
too in love
with the bottle
with the fire
with her.
So you’ll wait
maybe
you’ll find another bottle
a full bottle
a bottle of golden fire
and maybe
she’ll return
when she sees your smile
and maybe
when the bottle is half empty
like last time
she won’t go
she won’t cry
she won’t plead
she won’t beg, or want you
to waste
down to the dregs
and maybe
if you stare hard enough
you’ll forget
Cloud Child
Found you
in a cloud
I could
have missed you
For you were
but mist
But my eyes
focused at
the last second
And there you were
and I smiled
and held
your hand
for but
a moment
and then again
you were gone
from the cloud
From this world
I miss you
as though
you were really here
The Game
It’s a game we play
Where you wear the suit
and tie
and I wear the dress
and heels
At our favourite restaurant
Candles and romance
And I pluck from your fingertips
luscious slippery oysters
and place on your tongue
fruit so sweet
And we laugh
and kiss
and drive through the dark
of night
to the warmth
of our home
Where I pluck at your tie
and you slip off my heels
And we drink deep red wine
from crystal cups
And we roll
and spin
And the winner
comes last
Tattoo
She walks along at a decent clip
The snow whips her hair
And stings her face
Like the tattoo of a wasp
being drawn, wings spread
across her cheekbones.
But she would rather imagine
it is the five o’clock shadow
of her lover
sandpaper-scratching
her face as they kiss.
As she walks he approaches
His face, with his time-expectant growth
Lightens the wind’s swirl
And caught up in his embrace
The tattoo of waspy stinging snow
Succumbs to naught.
delicious
i should have known
you would burn
your 350º heat
sizzled
beneath my
fingers
but i couldn’t
resist you
you wanted me
me!
who was i to
say no
here i lay
baking
singed at the
edges
and all there is
left
of you are
crumbs
and a photograph
and
my sugary delicious
memories
of your hot hot
love
Linda G. Hill 