Tag Archives: Lovers

In the Heat of a Summer Night

It takes more than a fan

and four hours of sunless dark

to erase the heat from the day

and you from my mind

At times I yearn just to pick up the phone

and listen to the sound of you now

Out in the black of this August night

the full moon sprays passion in silvered light

upon everything it touches

the madness of lovers and poets

the crazy thoughts that skip across the dark

and the years that forget: time passes

It is then that I remember hiding in the barn

waiting for that silent silhouette to appear

that black form of you

framed by the edges

of weathered,

horse-kicked, age-battered doors

you, standing against the dusty stars

a milky way that you said you couldn’t see

yet so broad, it banded the sky behind your shoulders

and drew your body, larger and larger, upon its porous canvas

as you drew closer to me

Those warm soft nights of nickle-sheened light

spilled across the silence of arms enclosing

sweet naked sweat

born in shadows, straw and hay

and our breath

your watchful dog’s wagging tail

our only opponent, giving us and our secret away

The fan and the heat have fought this day

though neither have won the night or me

it is sleep that now begs this poet to bed

where passion will flicker

into tomes of dreams

and ashes of broken lovers


Thursday Poets Rally week 27

Photo: Google images at www.bjvicks.com/exposed/index.php?showimage=5


Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized

Across the breakfast table…

You sit, absorbed in another thick spy intrigue murder mystery political uprising story with just enough sex in it to keep you checking the this-has-all-the-right-ingredients tick box, designating the author as a best seller, stellar tale-teller who makes lots of money writing. His books fill your shelves to prove it.  We had to get rid of some last year to just make room for more.

Meanwhile I reside here on my chair with a fifty-page volume, so slender it could be mistaken for a magazine – if only it was taller, wider and the cover more flimsy than it is now. My book is one of only two that the poet ever published before he died. I need never worry about running out of room for his books or becoming bored with the same shape, plot and characters that, reworked one hundred and one different ways, receive new names and settings in each predictable story.

There you, enmeshed with the pages of your New York Times book-of-the-week, engaged with fast-paced heros and caricatured characters – thinner than the paper that holds their names – eat cereal and read, oblivious of my thoughts or even aware that I share the table with you, along with the salt, napkins and sugar bowl. I bet my poet would have written about the bowl; how the lid always drops sweet crumbs on the table; how I carefully wipe them up, look at you and smile.

Photo courtesy of Diane Waldron

4 Thursday Poets Rally week 28

Feel free to comment and star-grade. Thank you for reading!


Filed under Flash & Micro Fiction, Poetry, Uncategorized