Cacciatorepoetry.net

Blest

For my wife. Written around the time we were really blossoming as a pair.

In a mash of questions
With answers none,
Stirred by feelings rent with love, —
One thought alone breathes verily:
“Who ‘neath God’s blue tent above,
Can claim to be as blest as thee,
When thine heart doth bleeds, for
Kristen Marie?”

Box of Chocolates

A quick little ditty.

In this chest of small delight,
Rests a symbol of a larger truth,
For these sweet candies are but a pittance,
Compared to the treasure I found in you.

Conductors of the Heart

conductors-of-the-heart1
A newspaper, a bagel, and a little romance on the morning train. That’s not a bad way to start a day.

Waiting for the train, ‘top
Aged hick’ry floor,
Something filled the air,
Swirling as-if to storm.

No early morning rain,
Unborn before the land,
Or thinnest veil of fog,
Hath ever felt so grand.

‘Twere naked to the eye, like
Some spastic cupid spritz —
A caged magic dust,
Loosed by an angel’s twist.

Then ‘round ‘bout eight, the
Pixie ebb ‘n’ flow,
Coaxed me o’erhead,
Into its ghostly undertow.

Wiping the elfin spray,
From the corners of my eye,
A vision cloaked in shadow,
And cashmere did I spy.
Hereupon I strode, with
Particles in pact:
Conductors of the heart,
On the right side of the tracks.

Arched o’er the rails,
Hands plunged in pocket,
“What time,” queried I,
“Arrive the engine’s sprockets?”

“Ten past the hour,”
Came her rapt reply,
And with those words,
The spritely dust did fly.

Then a thousand million specks,
Electric’ly discharged,
Expressly did collect,
Back in the fairy jar.

With cap firmly fastened, we
Boarded the train anon;
My journey new I embraced,
My platform past … “Begone!”

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Dreamer’s Ball

dreamers-ball1

When I was in school, I never had the guts to ask the pretty girls to dance. Stole the title from a song by the band Queen.

Only last week, I walked these hushed halls,
To gather my lines and settle my heart,
For sitting alone, beyond love’s brick wall,
Was an unwritten play, in which I was cast a part.
As slender as a stroke from Keats’ quill,
As fair as morning’s faint scarlet,
In her beauty I felt a spineless chill,
That sent me scrambling from my Valentine starlet.
A poet in distress, I scuffed the dusty floor,
Searching for the right role to choose:
To hang my head and retreat to’ard the door,
Or go forth and pray the Lord sees me through.
With Brahms about, the scale teetered to ‘n’ fro
(My heart ‘gainst a tongue which would not speak),
See ‘twas not her arrow I feared, but Cupid’s bow,
Since I just might acquire what I seek!
Alas then, in Blake and Byron my decision was had:
A foolish soul, Rome’s ancient Christian martyr,
For a romantic is never so happy as when he is sad,
So I slipped away, heroically ever after.

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Fly-By-Night Love

A first kiss in the moonlight. Over-the-top, syrupy romanticism … but so much fun to write! (Opium refers to a brand of perfume.)

[In perfect union,
Breathed the heavenly bodies above;
One cascading dreamy incandescence,
Upon the other’s fly-by-night love.]

Like a pale blue pasture,
Sheeting through the long-leaf pines,
The moon’s light shone upon her body;
Her face fluoresced before mine.

Like sparkling waning crescents
(Evening’s crowning celestial beams),
Her eyes were a study in focus and passion,
Hesitant jewels that twinkled green.

Bathed in gentle, loving rays,
She explored with soft, tender caress,
While the shifting warmth in her heart,
Remained a crime of passion unconfessed.

Alas, a stolen romance in her hands
(A trace of Opium upon her wrists),
She leaned into the faraway moonscape,
And sealed my fate with a kiss.

A Renoir when rekindled,
But one query looms in my picture:
Was that ‘deed a sparkle in her eye,
Or merely a firefly’s flicker?

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Fruits of Love

fruits-of-love2

For my wife. The last four lines still send me: “’Tis the red, red apples aglow in her cheeks …”

The kiss on me you planted,
Planted deep the seed,
That bore the fruits of love,
Resplendent in all I see.
Your skin a velvety peach,
Your lips a kiwi treat, a
Slender stem your neck to me.
Your eyes, a shade of
Dusty boysenberry.
Your soul casaba sweet,
Your cherry philosophy,
Your plum personality, —
All ovaries under the sun,
Maturing in every degree.
But of all the pomes I thee list,
To befall this novice botanist,
‘Tis the red, red apples,
Aglow in your cheeks,
That ripen most my heart,
And plenish most my tree.

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Horn Pond

Everyone knows a Horn Pond — a place where all your cares disappear.

In gray chilled air or slivered sunshine,
Tethered are we by her fingers in mine;
Now soon all our cares we shall abscond,
Into the trees and water beyond,
For all is well when circling Horn Pond.

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In the Clear

One of my favorite strings of lines are the four that start with “Bereft …” Saying them aloud sounds like singing to me. About a girl who takes my breath away — literally.

Every time I look at you,
Another breath of mine is stolen,
One by one you wisp them away,
From this innocent you have chosen.

Without guilt, you doth inhale,
This clear swallow meant for me,
Leaving you with strengthened mind,
And I with weakened knee.

How you live when we’re apart,
I’m left clueless to explain,
Since on my breath you depend —
Your chest and lungs I inflate!

Bereft of breath, I pain to grasp,
The facts that logic’lly must follow:
There are others who are victims to,
This crime of love so hollow.

But like a thief without a trail,
Blamed you’re not for these capers;
Like the proof, you’re in the clear,
A victor by the thinnest of vapors.

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Morning Gaze

All that happens when a girl lies on her back in the middle of a field.

[Beneath her hat of sunflower and straw
(Hidden by a shadow from whence it draws),
A spotting of freckles plays to and fro,
Gently cupped by waves of gold.]

Softly, Spring flows ‘round her body so rare,
And the green thin blades cradle her there;
Arms outstretched under the morning sun,
Her fingers comb the sod wetted by dawn.

As idle Time runs gadding along,
And the redpoll finch pipes his song,
A wayward trav’ler happens into view —
A cott’ny puff ‘gainst a field of royal blue.

Through the skies her eyes give chase,
And slowly a smile envelops her face;
For to follow the figure is to find mellow,
The harsh reality ‘neath her sundress yellow.

To her lips a ring of petals she lifts,
The flaccid stem of a dandelion eclipsed;
And like an April’s breeze lightly unrolls,
She nods her eyes and softly blows.

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My Baby Blues

Had a serious crush on a girl with baby blue eyes. I hoped she felt the same way, but deep down I knew she didn’t.

Half open? Nay, half at sleep.
Dreamy, either way
Are those peaceful opals,
Set upon her sapphire face.

Ready for light? Ready for night?
Surely, I cannot tell,
‘Tis a curious quandary that plagues me,
And a feverish thirst I must quell.

For every time I arch or crane,
For a fraction of the blue,
I am faced with this riddle:
Do you see me as I see you?

Excited, frenzied are mine eyes,
I see you whole and bright.
Half hidden, heavy-lidded are yours,
Yet entirely magnetic, in spite.

Oh, how I long to lift those blinds,
That, drawn, hide the panes
(The windows to her soul)
Which give reason to my days.

Am I cast in a favorable light?
Have you a passion hue for this gent?
Or am I merely like the others,
Splashed with an aqua-turquoise tint.

I confess, I confess,
‘Tis the riddle itself I love:
From my skittish feet of clay,
To her willowy lamps above.

‘Deed, I fear I know the answer,
The truth doth her words belie.
Behold! To her I am no puzzle,
She sees me with half an eye.

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Ode to a Woman

ode-to-a-woman

Sometimes a woman is so beautiful, it makes you feel lightheaded. (Then again, maybe that’s just me.)

Falling ‘bout her shoulders round,
Like her skin as soft as down,
Play wanton curls of chestnut brown.
And in a blast of thin, thin air
(That seems to chase her everywhere),
Some helices of tress doth find,
The parting of her lips divine,
Subjecting me to dizzied crown.

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Question in a Bottle (Part I)

These are sister poems. One wonders what it would be like to kiss the girl next door; the other provides the resounding answer. I do my best to weave the same metaphor throughout both.

Under my very thumbs,
This philter hath rested
(A top-shelf tonic),
Without a single interest vested.

How was I so blinded,
To what was bottled inside,
That ne’er didst I dream,
Of the chemistry I might find.

‘Las am I at fault,
For wanting no sin, be it
Passion or poison,
Have I sour’d the spirit within?

Or have I wake din time,
To this magic elixir;
So my heart might be whole,
This cap I have twisted!

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Liquid Solution (Part II)

Its mouth kissing my lips,
Our necks arched to crow,
Clouded the truth to be swallowed,
Precise the angle from which it flows.

Atilt, the serum swells,
Equal parts fear and doubt,
O’er my palate it washes,
A summer’s stream lapping about.

Eyes pinched, I stop to see,
What for years coolly waited —
How my body will receive,
This forbidden fruit I have tasted.

Gently cupped, my hands grow clutched,
Around its curves so slender;
For like a child I thirst again,
A bitter pill of life’s sweet nectar!

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The Road to Poggibonsi

My wife and I recently spent a couple of magical weeks in Tuscany. Our favorite activity was exploring the country roads in our rental car.

You come to Poggibonsi with me,
and in the car we’ll forge our plan:
Roll down the windows and let in
the sudden blasts of happenchance.

Together we’ll climb the towers
of San Gimignano in the dark,
or fill up on fresh zucchini
before a slumbrous lay in the park.

Perhaps we’ll take a path unmarked
and spit out gravel on the way,
or on a whim stop and stare, at
a meadow rich with bales of hay.

Or you might take the wheel from me,
and around the bends smartly whip
on past the columns of Cypress trees
that guard the hillsides with their tips.

You come to Poggibonsi with me,
and along the way I’ll clench your hand,
for there amid the sunburned slopes,
my flame for you the road shall fan.

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