Tag Archives: romance

Gehenna or Eden

It is spring. Still cool in the mornings. Warm days.

She sits in a swing, in a never completed park.

No grass. No paved tracks. No transplanted trees.

Just the little playground.

 

She thinks she is 17 now. Her birthday is in mid-March.

It might be April by now, though she doesn’t know for certain.

The war came. The fires came. The silence came.

She sits in a swing, and waits for him.

 

The wind was sewn, and the whirlwinds came a’reaping.

She has been alone for a year. She is always tired. Often hungry.

Her dreams are filled with terrors and wonders.

She wonders if she is a prophet for the remnant.

 

She knows he is following close behind. Is a wary? Is he waiting?

The silence that came after the fires has been the worst. No human voices.

All the batteries are dead. No way to hear music even.

She longs to speak, and to hear, and to touch.

 

She sits in the swing, waiting. She remembers her childhood.

She was swaddled and innocent, while the world was burning.

She knew not what was coming, but it came, and it took her too.

She remembered trying to swing as he as she could, laughing.

 

The boy, has been following her, and she hears him, out of sight.

She has much to fear from an unknown male, but she is lonely.

He is no older than she. Most likely just as tired, and hungry, and lonely.

Adam and Eve in Gehenna instead of Eden.

 

She looks up. There he is. They lock eyes. She smiles.

He walks to her, unsure, as if he’s afraid of spooking her.

She stays in the swing, and watches him, heart racing.

Will he kiss her cheek, or slit her throat? Is he a friend?

 

He goes to the swing beside her, and sits down.

It is spring. The morning is cool. Warm days.

The silence is perhaps broken now, voices speaking.

Maybe it’s a crack in all this death, life coming back.

 

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Mountains Rise From The Plains

He anoints her womb, the belly skin,

with holy water unblessed.

He anoints her, blesses her,

not with authority, only his love.

He anoints her, maybe a mother

to be, maybe staying in South Knoxville.

The river, dirty and dark, under the bridge.

The clean water comes from the rain.

She takes his hand, his hand still wet from

the anointing, choosing her as queen.

Touching is a prayer of trust, and angels

fear it the most when they whisper prophecies.

Henley Street becomes Chapman Highway,

or it can go into the interstate, mountains or plains.

Plains where she came from, outside Lincoln,

the wind blowing the seed into her womb.

The mountains where he called down angels,

angels for prophecies, or what the light stole.

The clear pools of water, her anointing, her pride,

and his heretical grace; maybe she’s a mother to be.

The mountains rise above the plains, but we cannot

raise above soft mad skin, grace a whisper on a sunbeam.

She tells him on the plains the Angel of Death left his hand,

and asked for the hand of a simple prairie queen.

He tells her, the witches are clean in the hills, and prophecy

is to guide the light into your heart, not what is yet to come.

The clear water in the pools from the rain, anointing her womb,

and what may come yet, a vision of hope and a gamble.

He kisses her softly, and she runs her fingers through his hair.

Evening colors, she anointed as queen, maybe a mother to be.

Cherry Blossoms

The morning sky is as soft, tender and pink

as the cherry blossoms beginning to bloom,

the first of spring.

Riding on her new bike. A simple, pretty dress.

Will he see her? Will she smile for him, passing?

Will it be love?

She stops on the boardwalk, looks to the waves.

The beach is so quiet, so sacred, in the first light.

The war is over. The war is over.

She is free.

Harsh With Peppermints

Her breath was hot and wet,
Harsh with peppermint.

Her hair fell loose, veiled our faces,
As the stars sighed and were spent.

July 6th, but still fireworks explode,
Low rent razzle dazzle in the night.

She is thin, small chested, taut wire,
And a new Athena now in my sight.

This is life wanting to plant seeds of death,
To make and nurture an inevitable loss.

I am a pilgrim of pleasure, devoted to her,
Ignoring the light reflected in her gold cross.

Her hand is sweaty, moist, in my own.
She hums a love song as we walk up stairs.

On her thin, hard bed we quietly make love.
Passions, like angels, are made to be pairs.

The Cold Is Paradise

She is laughing, wild abandon and carefree dreaming.

               The bumper cars whirl and whirl and the night is a blur.

               The very edge of autumn. Last hurrah before winter.

 

               The cold is paradise. The bitterness of the air a solace.

               She is in her favorite jacket, bright red scarf I made her.

               I have that hat she loves so much, with the fleur de lis.

 

               Tinny, chirpy music plays as we go round and round.

               The flicker of sparks crackles and sputters as we spin.

               Simple games, a night spent forgetting so much……

 

               The game stops. The current dies. Tinny music silent.

               Laughing, it’s all a lark, just a night together, just us.

               And we’ve got time to do so much more before morning.

Dani

Winter has come not a moment too soon.

Left us with a whole world to call our own.

The rusted swings and derelict slides.

The frozen puddles that were dug by little feet.

The summers that have passed from memory.

 

Chasing and tagging and laughing in the cold.

The world is passing, but that’s alright for now.

Our ragged breath breaks into laughter.

Bright eyes glow with warmth.

 

Grey clouds burn purple, bleed black.

Then all light blinks out of the sky.

As we walk side by side, I know, I know,

if you take my hand, I’ll never be left.

Outside The World

Emma and me, outside the party, outside the world.
The night is warm in the first of September, clear, open.
We talk as if we could still walk among the stars, like children.
We talk as if the world never fell, and paradise was still here.
 She lays her head upon my shoulder, and I kiss her head.
Her hand holds mine, and we are warm, clean, like Eden.
She turns up her face, and I softly kiss her lips, taste the apple.
Her hand on my face, such sweetness became the fall, forever.
 The sky is filled with stars, and the moon moves wild tides.
She hung her name somewhere in Andromeda, for me to find.
Find her name, find the spell dream and desire and lust have cast,
as loud laughter and thumping music betray a perfect night.

Our Little World, Our Little Paradise

A simple, down at heel farmhouse, up in the Appalachian hills.
Our little world, our little paradise, just you and I, and our dreams.
We work the garden together in the bright of day, making our way.
And at night we sit and talk on the porch steps, hold each other tight.
Preserved foods and salted meat, our stores for the winter on it’s way.
The words we write, the words we read, the things we conjure in our hearts.
Sunday at the river, we swim nude together, free and innocent, without shame.
As we drift to sleep together at night, you place my hand on your belly,
whisper about the one more thing we could ask for, the most precious gamble.
Our little garden, our little paradise, sweetness after the fall, but another will come.
The world will find us, and this innocent place will be lost, and our sweetest selves.

Seeds of Paradise

Sunday clothes, white blouse, woolen skirt, Mary Jane shoes,
honeyed hair hanging down, around your neck a silken bow.
You wait to walk with me to church, as morning chill blows,
the seeds of paradise in the afternoon we carefully sow.
Parents are following later, we walk alone the ruttend lane,
carefully to keep our shoes out of the water and the mud.
Warm and sweet I feel, yet taught for this The Savior was slain,
and that our sweetness still calls for the tide of his blood.
You take my hand in yours, warm yet calloused, harsh like silk.
Our secret thing, our shared sin, to touch while out of sight.
God watches, but will he let it go, for this is our soul’s milk
and I feel so holy and sure, when she holds my hand so tight.
The little wooden church, white against the grey and blue sky.
The stonewall separates us from God, the sacred from the profane.
You let go my hand. You smile at me secretly. We are so sly!
I see only beauty and love in you, but God said there is always a stain.
We sit down on a pew together, as the sun pushes away the clouds.
The dim sanctuary becomes as honeyed as your long, silky hair.
The glow and light of the sacred words the holy books enshroud.
As church begins, we sing the hymns, our loving hearts a pure prayer.

Autumn Departure

The summer is turning gold and red.
There is a chill in the air.
The waters we walk by are silver, and still.
His hand is so warm in mine.
The day is moving towards night.
A nice little place by the sea.
Everyone’s gone home for the year.
A dinner by the eternally crashing sea.
We stay the night together, despite what’s taught.
I wish I could stay forever in his arms.
Morning, treacherous as always, has come.
In his uniform, with his bag, I don’t want to let go.
He’s been called and he must go.
One last kiss, and then he’s on the train for the front.
I weep quietly, for the boy I knew won’t come back.