Heart to heart

They say the eyes

Spy best to where

The soul lies,

Lifted curtains to

A window

On the deepest desires

Shaded from unwanted

Intrusion with a

Flicker of a lash

But I say the pathway

To the heart is through

The mouth,

Penetrating pursed lips

With the tip of the tongue

To taste love’s thick honey

To take it in

Swallow it whole

Let it linger inside

And bloom

Sucking up every drip of it

Heart to heart

First bloom

I wait for the thaw

That comes this time of year

Those nimble buds

Blunt and poignant

Pointed upward

Each glistening

With bits of melting

Waiting to drip

Aching to explode

With a rush into

The warm air

Rubbed whole until

They rise up and flower

The wind shakes them

Making them shudder

I drink in each limb

With my eyes

Each drip touching

My lips with

Its wet kiss

The whole world throbbing

At this touch

That first blush

Forgotten at full bloom

And longed for when

The leaves fall

And the world goes barren

That ache

That sweet ache

Priceless!

Adam

I can’t touch the apple

And not think of your

Cool skin against

My overheated fingers

The drip of condensation

From my breath

Spilling onto my palm

The tang lingering

On the tip of my tongue

As I ache to bite

To break the red flesh

To slip the juice

I know will

Taste so sweet

Surrender

( modified from an earlier poem)

We turn to sleep again at dawn,

the pale glow of morning against the dusty sky,

chirping birds and hooting trains singing,

the entanglement of bed sheets and

oversized pillows around our arms and legs,

the webs of passion,

or roots to some greater desire

of which neither can attest,

wood pressed against wood,

growing in and out of the barriers,

of our lives,

filled with moist dreams

and abrupt awakenings,

bars of light over limbs

only dawn can expose,

revealing us

in ways we never expected

but not undesired

for at the root of it all,

in this wrestling

over night

we ultimately

ache for

surrender.

Morning glory

I spend my life

Waiting for you to open

The pale glow

Of morning ripping

Though the lace

Eyes wide

Lips parted

Waiting to turn

To seed

Even before

I have succeeded

In pulling

Open the petals.

Each layer

Loosened with gentle

Fingers,

I ply

Feeling inside

For that place

Where your seeds

Form

My touch inching

Deep through

The quivering

Softness

Some flowers

Do best in night

Drawing heat

From some

Deeper place

The invisibility

Of progress,

As fingers seek

Sweet nectar,

But me

Whose eyes

Feed as easily

As my fingers

I need to see

And feel

And if possible

Taste each

Petal as it

Falls away,

Morning glory

Withering only

To the mounting heat

Only exploding

Sunlight

Can bring

Believe in miracles

I needed to find

Something real to cling to

In my routine Friday night

Fortune cookies

I got with my pecan shrimp

And broccoli

Some measure of wisdom

Or home the mundane

World has ironed out

With starched shirts

And practical solutions

Something beyond
the typical predictions of

“You’ll be rich,”

Or “Lucky” or “Wise,”

Something to hint that

A life full of frustrating struggles

Leads to more than

Gray hair and a bent back,

And forlorn glances

At what might have beens,

But all I got in this Friday’s batch

Was the stale taste of lemon cookie

And all too practical advice about

Discipline and self control.

And life being full of routines

I went to my Sunday morning laundry

And watched my world spin around

In the dryer, while near by feet,

Fluttering around my ankles

Like a pale butterfly,

Someone else’s abandoned fortune

Begging for me to retrieve,

Filled with no mundane advice at all,

But what I needed to hear most,

What we all need to hear all the time,

What we cannot possibly life without

Without going crazy,

“Believe in miracles,” was all it said.

Waiting

“Don’t speak until you’re spoken to,”

Sister Cecilia used to tell me

Right after she smacked me

In the back of the head

For blurting out in class,

Or laughing too loudly

Or letting her overhear

Some rude remark.

The pain of her blow

Adding to the lessons

She tried to get through

My thick skull

About not assuming

I had the right

To impose my opinion

In places where

I didn’t belong

That wild kid

In the black of the class

Too busy melting crayons

On the radiators

To actually pay attention

To what was going on

And yet, with guilt-stained

Multi-colored fingers

Poking up into the air

While saying whatever it was

That came to my mind

At the time,

“Don’t speak unless you’re

Spoken to,” the angry nun

Always told me, and I

Said, “Of course I won’t,”

Yet always did,

Needing more than

The back of her hand

To get that lesson

In my head,

Thought after so many

Years, I learned,

To wait until spoken to

Before I make

An utter fool of myself.