Poetry Corner of Fine Rhyme
Page 2.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
William Butler Yeats - (1865- 1939)
William Butler Yeats - (1865- 1939)
Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2020
2015-2016
ONE YEAR LATER, WEDDING CAKE IN THE FREEZER by John Grey
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
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 fretit will always come to this:battalions of regretfor the lips we didn’t kiss. For the love that’s unrequitedfans imagined flames of bliss.And its fire once ignitedwill remind us what we miss. And it doesn’t really matterif autumnal fruits resistrelentless winds that scatterleaves that garishly insist. For whatever love we lavishin the early morning mist,by the evening we will languishfor the lips we never kissed.
Royal Mystery by Frank De Canio Should I have traced that trail of black and redthat slinked behind a serpent aisle of booksas I left the library? Was it dread,or did desire sow those pallid looksthat blossomed in her colors? Black - the dressshe wore on our first night out together.Red - that furnace of undulant tressesthat 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 queenwithout the regal head that lends it might?I’d best prostrate myself with chastened doubtbefore a more alarming truth comes out.
Ode to Olympia (in The Tales of Hoffman) by Frank De Canio
I’d love a mechanical dollthat’s wound up to move as I please.She’s neither tyrannical moll,seductress, curmudgeon nor tease.Though placing footsteps gingerlyshe rhapsodizes stilted movesby liberally chiming “oui”before she vigorously grooves. Yet should her mechanism failand she collapses on the floor,the winding of her springs availto help her rusty spirits soar.She even bounces on her feetwhen her recovery’s complete. And no component gives her pauseto entertain us with her songand cybernetic dance. She drawsapplause as soaring trills prolongthe demonstration of her skill.Her florid vocals are enoughto make the most complacent thrillwhen she adroitly flaunts her stuff.Oh, let me bask in the displayof the impeccable techniquebehind her color-laden lay.And note, those weary of her squeak.Beyond the turn-on of her trillare means to turn her off at will.
The Rain Comes by Patrick Doerksen
When you separate a dropfrom the sea,you can’t help capturingthe arbitrary.Raindrops patterpatternless on windows.We watch and wonderhow to make them matter.
Worms rush to the thresholdwhen the rain knockson their wide door.But they are sucked up like dropsby robinshopping and bobbingon the world’s wet lawn.
Is meaning always pulledfrom what is happyas a thread isfrom a tapestry,a drop from its sea?The rain comes, my life darkens,and the world’s suddenlyfull of worms protesting me.They do not want to bemy meaning.
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.
Forgotten by Robert Daseler
After her speech I waited for a minute
For her to finish talking to another
And thought what I should say and how begin it.
To run upon old friends is such a bother
When you are ambushed unexpectedly,
As I prepared to ambush her just now.
What kind of revenant was I to see,
Bewhiskered as I was, without the glow
Of boyish confidence, and heavier
Than I had been when we had met at first?
But we remain forever what we were,
If only in our consciousness, and trust
Our purpose to be constant, although blind.
I had not really loved her, but the ground
Was there to build upon, perhaps, and find
What others of her lovers must have found.
I introduced myself, but she, perplexed,
Gazed vaguely back at me and shook her head.
She didn't seem to recognize the text
That I recited plaintively, but said:
"I'm sorry, but my memory is not
What it should be, and all of that was long
Ago." She hadn't given me a thought
In all those years, and I did not belong
Among the shadows of her past amours.
I couldn't think what I should say but smiled
And let her turn to someone else. Of course
It has to be like this: We're defiled
By time, and even when remembered we
Are irredeemably remote from life
As others live it, slight in memory
And absent from the shores of love and grief.
Duels of Cursed Men by Matthew Wilson