Poetry Year - The poems I owe

August 1st

The sanctity of heart's design is my sacrament,

which you take to sacred lips as thee drink me in.

In this transported from this age that has fallen from poetry,

through prose, through dialog, and is left,

only, with exclamations. That lowest form of language.

But in the sensuality of your caress of kiss,

all that is new, is old again,

my garments take on the transparency of lace,

windows to my flushing flooding need.

Open to that joy which is without passing,

in the way that that which only the fleeting can be.

A glance transfixes like a nail through the eyes and into memory,

a touch marks upon the map the spot which is forever in one place,

a word whispered on the air, is the storm that is perfection to it grace.

I hope my face is this to you, and sets your heart's imagination, free.

Bless my face with your kisses,

bless my cheek with your touch,

bless my ears with your breath,

and never let them go from me.

August 2nd

The aching of the heart is mere cliche, would that I could dispense with it,

not the aching, nor the words, but with the heart itself.

I wish that you would plunge your hand through my chest,

pulling from its cage this beating, breaking, bleeding thing.

It gushes a roaring tide within my ears,

around my chest it binds with bonds of iron bands.

With each beat, it turns a key that cranks the closer,

until no air can enter through my mouth,

until you have kissed it.

Give me just one drink of you, give me just one moment

then let me sink in lethe to darkness dwelling,

happy suicide on the alter of your fluid mastery,

of these poor limbs which would dance,

or move, or lie, or come or go, or sit or rest,

all at your command.

Rip the breath from me with the hurling pulse of pleasure,

fill me with the future that is without measure,

then let me die in your arms, my beating heart in your hands.

Because that is how, at this moment, I truly feel.

August 3rd

Far far away, in the lands that are green rolling fields,

that are filled with spirits and with myth,

from whence came your ancestors,

hair spun of gold, eyes poured of ocean,

skin brushed with snow, lips blossomed with roses.

For all the pretty of your features,

your bones are cut of mountains, your arms encompass whole lands.

With them you encircle me, and take my virgin country with the ocean wave

that makes and maketh passion winged to the sky,

carried by clouds the bringers of the cooling water,

the birthing of life below, and within,

whose scattered touches, feel like acid on my skin,

but sustenance when they sink within.

August 4th

These rhymes pile up on my fingers,

like scattered bodies go after rapture in the heights.

I show the splendors of your faith in my reflection,

to give up all for a ring of gold and cross of silver,

if that is the will where fate should lie.

But it is not for this or them that I give these demonstrations,

I do not bow to him, or them, but only then to kneel and nod,

and kiss your hands as willing bride,

cloaked and clad in wedding white,

untouched by any past save that I share with you.