Poetry Corner of Rhyme 

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
William Butler Yeats - (1865- 1939)



 The cake s a warning, it s a curse
 That even something baked can turn,
 And who wants love with freezer burn
 Or mold, mildew, or something worse
 So look at it, even immerse
 In its sweet lines, but vow to spurn
 The lure to eat, persistent yearn
 To cling to past, chapter and verse.
 Who needs a vapid metaphor,
 Why add to anguish, nibble stale
 And gross crumbs, spill half on the floor,
 No tender glow in faces pale
 And stomach pained, and what is more
 Let recall not bad taste prevail.

 ANNA IN THE RAIN      by John Grey

 What digs its heels into the teeming rain
 Plots fierce against the downpour, firm and still,
 No matter the affront, it must remain
 Outside the maelstrom, inside of its will.
 The martyr of the thunderstorm cries out
 I won’t submit, I will not disappear,
 What’s hurricanes when I’ve subdued self doubt,
 I will not leave but for what brought me here.
 What greets its monsters rigid as a stone
 Devours the squalls, the wind eventually,
 A sculpture set in stubbornness and bone
 Could hold against the world potentially.
 To make a point empathetically this way,
 A drenching is a humble price to pay.

Soft and Exotic    by Robert L. Martin

Skin from the other side so exotic
Nature’s rousing brew, a potion, a narcotic
It casts the other side under a spell
Stories too impassioned too fervent to tell
A love song grows from the garden of Eros
A winding melody thru’ broad and narrows
Around radiant peaks and valleys so mysterious
Of exalted poems with verses so serious
Hidden words screaming, “Come forth my love”
My skin like white velvet as clouds drift above
Electric to the touch and stirring to the loins
A place to where pleasure and heaven joins
To pass over love’s glowing with my fingers
Like reveling in perfume and all that lingers
To live and die in this state of ecstasy
A place where I can set my spirit free
Take me home your skin soft as fleece
Home is where we lie together in peace
Skin from the other side
Skin so magnetic and erotic

Song of the Night   by Frank De Canio

However much we fret
it will always come to this:
battalions of regret
for the lips we didn’t kiss.
For the love that’s unrequited
fans imagined flames of bliss.
And its fire once ignited
will remind us what we miss.
And it doesn’t really matter
if autumnal fruits resist
relentless winds that scatter
leaves that garishly insist.
For whatever love we lavish
in the early morning mist,
by the evening we will languish
for the lips we never kissed.

Royal Mystery  by Frank De Canio
Should I have traced that trail of black and red
that slinked behind a serpent aisle of books
as I left the library? Was it dread,
or did desire sow those pallid looks
that blossomed in her colors? Black - the dress
she wore on our first night out together.
Red - that furnace of undulant tresses
that warms her face like tropical weather.
But was it really her I thought I’d seen -
my dream Aurora slinking out of sight?
Or did she bear the mantle of my queen
without the regal head that lends it might?
I’d best prostrate myself with chastened doubt
before a more alarming truth comes out.

Ode to Olympia (in The Tales of Hoffman)
                          by Frank De Canio

I’d love a mechanical doll
that’s wound up to move as I please.
She’s neither tyrannical moll,
seductress, curmudgeon nor tease.
Though placing footsteps gingerly
she rhapsodizes stilted moves
by liberally chiming “oui”
before she vigorously grooves. 
Yet should her mechanism fail
and she collapses on the floor,
the winding of her springs avail
to help her rusty spirits soar.
She even bounces on her feet
when her recovery’s complete. 
And no component gives her pause
to entertain us with her song
and cybernetic dance. She draws
applause as soaring trills prolong
the demonstration of her skill.
Her florid vocals are enough
to make the most complacent thrill
when she adroitly flaunts her stuff.
Oh, let me bask in the display
of the impeccable technique
behind her color-laden lay.
And note, those weary of her squeak.
Beyond the turn-on of her trill
are means to turn her off at will.  

The Rain Comes    by Patrick Doerksen 

When you separate a drop
from the sea,
you can’t help capturing
the arbitrary.
Raindrops patter
patternless on windows.
We watch and wonder
how to make them matter.

Worms rush to the threshold
when the rain knocks
on their wide door.
But they are sucked up like drops
by robins
hopping and bobbing
on the world’s wet lawn.

Is meaning always pulled
from what is happy
as a thread is
from a tapestry,
a drop from its sea?
The rain comes, my life darkens,
and the world’s suddenly
full of worms protesting me.
They do not want to be
my meaning.


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