Afternoons in Spring

Sarah sits at the piano and tells me of the kiss

That means little, but as a kiss,

And I am left just with her voice in

The dryness of this wilderness.

This afternoon in Spring rings sounds of war,

But I am drunk with flesh and frailties

And whispered sighs in darkened rooms,

Strewn scented petals and sorrow’s promise.

Sarah sings in minor keys through five speakers

Awakening what has been long forgotten

And guides my heart’s tide this past noon’s Spring

Inside the coral canopy of your embrace.

Drenched with the entreaties of skin and dance

We are swept away in the whirlwind’s chaff

In humid ageless echoes that wax and wane

For our sweetest rhythms and scattered vows.

Sarah sings enchantment and seduction,

The breath of this woman and this desire

That drowns the late afternoon’s uncertainties

In floods of passion and later regret.

I look into your eyes that spin the innocence

Of the past and its many casualties,

Of the present and its vulnerabilities,

And see life’s narrative that aches twice torn.

Sarah’s songs weave the net of all your scars

Inside the saddest web of common things;

You show your beauty in the afternoon’s rounded light   

And I am breathless with what I have never known before.

Your face is the bower’s apple flush in Spring,

The scarlet hue that stirs my water’s time;

Your voice unlocks the ghetto’s shuttered gate

And unveils the wettest flowers awash with afternoon.

Sarah’s song rises to the firmament’s hem,

The rainbow’s pleasure and its secrets,

The ancient fragrance at the water’s nexus,

As I am borne in the afternoon’s tidal light.

At dusk the day drifts through falling light

As mists and memories engage the city’s roar,

And we lay drenched in Sarah’s timeless song

Drunk with the ichor of afternoons in Spring.

This Truth, This Beauty

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” - that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Keats

I have never believed in Truth,

Nor how it measures the cold between the stars

Or counts the sand scattered on the beach.

I have never believed in Truth,

Nor all its revealed, spectral wonder;

Miracles, cloistered in shadows and fog.

I have never believed in Truth,

Nor lover’s sighs and promises

For passion spent and futures spun.

I have only believed in Beauty,

Wrapped sinuous and slender before me,

Forsaking all but the moment’s frailties,

Holding me amid the clutter of my days.

Against the dark, you take my arm

And warm this cold November night,

Bright glasses filled with grace and wine;

Against the dark the dancers twirl,

Skirts flashing, heels hammering

And you turn to me, bouquets and smiles.

I have never believed in Truth

Nor all its vulgar variations.

Just Beauty, and its temporal grace,

Who lies sinuous and tall before me

Filling my moment with lissome delight.