By Robert A. Rife, April 12, 2013

These dreams, they sit in search of home

a place where wishing feeds no more

on fodder fit for those who roam

but heart’s are fed with love restored.

_____________

Awash among a driftwood tide

of love and laughter’s dizzy gaze

her hopeful pirouettes collide;

his hesitancy cautious, prays.

_____________

A garden, still, in Springtime comes

to bless the air with fragrance, sweet.

And angels dance to pipe and drum

when new love breathes and faces meet.

_____________

Remember now these words tonight

and go, frame life through love, aright.

Picture: www.zedge.net

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have walked these streets

these cavernous coffins, sparkling but barren,

her belly bearing the swift and moaning metal tide.

 

She belches out her disapproval

and hungrily takes her place, an upward striving,

a downward gravity, host to vagabonds.

 

This headmistress of a language tasting

like rubber, and smoke and old pizza boxes

tossed together in a back alley salad of sad.

 

Here the fingers don’t touch across

the chapel ceiling, draped in mystery.

Here the collective taunt the painters with maintenance.

 

The broken, steely sky is punctured through

with a thousand fluorescent lights;

and night is confused with day.

 

Downtown hustlers shepherd their shivering flock

of skin and leather, studs and paint

so their shoes can match the shiny lights.

 

Down the sides, around the backs

over the heaps, through broken gates

go the wayward shadows…in the city.

 

Picture: www.city-data.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All dialogue hid not her desp’rate groans,

instead were heard her pious reflections.

Since none could know what left her so alone,

from deep within her arose deflections.

* * *

When the way gets lost and roads are ending,

new pathways arise, revealing the way

to life’s redeeming freedom befriending.

Then it is tomorrow’s hope comes today.

* * *

Settle not yourself into the dark of night,

Lay yourself out upon God’s altar of light.

 

Picture: www.dailymail.co.uk

 

 

 

 

The identifiable fragrance of Spring-like a poet’s muse

jumps out from behind every bush, reincarnating

the Spring before. Earlier winterish liaisons, now past,

succumb to her shameless, jaunty trysts

with a randy sun. They entangle, twisting

in whimsical lust and, in their embrace,

Summer is born.

 

Picture: www.auracoffee.co.il

Glory days

Why does he keep coming back?

He doesn’t belong here.

At least his buddies

still think he’s cool.

Or so they say

when they’re not

scared to

death.

* * *

Cafeteria politics

Why could she never sit here?

Her tits weren’t big enough;

her face, not pretty.

So, instead, her

answer was

always

“yes.”

* * *

Behind the bleachers

He fumbles with her bra strap,

his body hot with lust.

Her apprehensions

keep on growing;

something else

forcing

in.

 * * *

“I think I’m pregnant”

“I think I’m pregnant,” she said,

ignoring his disdain.

“Well, you wanted it,”

he said, coldly.

Then turning,

he just…

left.

* * *

Bullied

He knew that he was diff’rent.

They knew he was a fag.

They trapped him outside.

Whimpering there he,

bloodied and

alone,

cried.

* * *

Picture from www.timnaas.deviantart.com

Painting: “Hope floats” by Winnie Givot

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ground lay still, her humped, brown shoulders

shrug off a tacit morning mist.

“What just happened?” she seems to ask the sprawling heaven.

“Things shall once again grow here”, the answer comes.

And the cloudless sky locks eyes with the hopeful ground

and whispers, “yesterday, I tasted royal blood.”