age old questioning

it is a puzzle,
this rugged terrain,
when in yesterday's imagination
the hills loomed before my eyes;
the sun rested,
and the hollow's shadow remained
my mystery.
you sometimes slept
while I roamed freely, gently
following the paths of this fertile valley.
sleep now,
for I find comfort in the barren plains;
these desert faults
allow the pieces to fit perfectly.
copyright © 2005 Sam



I Would Leave

I would leave
in the darkness of this storm
if your words would not follow

tonight
or tomorrow
if I do not awaken
with the bitter taste of thunder
on my tongue

it is a reminder
of a tenacious life
when a solitary leaf clings to a branch
while at the whim of the wind
the rest whirl around it
a frenzied dance of finality

I will leave tonight
or tomorrow
when the trees quiver naked
in the dark dawn
and your words fall
beneath my feet
copyright © 2005 Sam

Midnight Dreams - for Richard

comfort in spoons rest
through midnight dreams,
I am conscious of your breath
warm against my neck

I should not here
I have no rights in this world
you call home, you called me,
called me home and I listened

it is the chill Ocober wind
I fear, the rasp of breaths
knocking at the pane, mocking
my reason the remain here

against you, and the whispers
I hear with every moment
with every sigh. I feel the heels
of palms pushing me down

in ourselves we move deeper
until darkness passes
through these midnight dreams
and frigid winds cease at the edge of dawn.
copyright © 2004 Sam



The Saint's Garden

John insisted it happened
and so we believe, I believe
he sat upon arid earth
and cried for me.
The island revealed its visions
as they entered John's mind,
a place to call home amid desolation.

Last night I dreamt of John,
skin browned from the incessant sun,
tired fingers scrawling symbols on bark,
in sand, on my breast where my heart
pounds with trepidation

Last night John entered
and took me to my future.
A bleak outline of what will be,
drawn with those hands,
those perfect, tanned, tired hands
that know me, and know
where I am going and from whence I came.
copyright © 2004 Sam



This Sunday Morning

This Sunday morning
lazy light filters through the blinds
the aroma of automatic brewing
presses against thoughts
of late night admissions
curve of your hip here
and the warmth of your fingertips
tracing freckles across my breast
tell me the day will wait

roll over stretch into heat
a ray of sun winks on a tear
pauses on lips before sliding
wandering a path I follow

you said
"It was never easy for us, was it?"
but that was last night
Sunday mornings are for dreams
touches and making love
had you asked now
on this dawn of shared forgiveness
I would have an answer
copyright © 2004 Sam



Still Touching Life

Two loves have I - Shakespeare

When I wrote that summer
of those strange, uneasy feelings
that overshadowed my youthful
indifference, did you find it odd
that I could refashion love
to fit your body against mine?

Could I have known
you would pull away
at the mere suggestion
of what my words could elicit,
or how my thoughts would change
your peurile expectations?

Was I to know that twenty years
of prudent endeavours of trying
to side-step my dogged shadow,
would only lead you to read again
those faded and torn words?

I look now, into your eyes
to see the lies you told me
on that heated summer evening,
that night you walked away
with my words clutched tightly
to your breast and my hands
still touching life.
copyright © 2004 Sam



Another Time

You talked late into the night
of how time can draw from a simple woman
a complexity beyond even her own calculations;
how it can bend a knee
and leave her weak with knowledge
of irreparable futility.

I watched your eyes as you spoke,
as they strayed to the window,
the breeze-blown curtains,
and I wondered if you were catching words
whispered on the winds of a broken past,
or the storm of a splintered future.

I watched your mouth when you glanced back
to see if I was listening,
and saw the quivering of your lips in unison
with the trembling of your fingers
as they brushed each tear
that traced years from your eyes.

As you spoke of all that was and shouldn't be,
I caught a brief glimpse of the time
that stood between us -
wrapped in silk and demin,
two sizes smaller than my dreams,
with heels that cold puncture my thoughts.

I wanted to take your trembling fingers,
wrap them around the neck of time and squeeze
until hours of sweat and desire lay
mute and exhausted at your feet,
but now, I find myself too tired
to fight another time.
copyright © 2004 Sam

Does a poet truly know of what he writes when,
in a poem dedicated to a faceless vision,
he espouses of beauty beyond
that of mere human?

Breasts filled to ripeness, succulent
to a discriminating tongue,
firm thighs of tender muscle,
legs that live on forever in thought,
and wings, always wings to identify
such an angelic creature.

Colonel Sanders would be so proud.
copyright © 2004 Sam



Just Another Hangover

Sunday started with Saturday's nightmare -
the thump, thump of little feet
only served to enhance my dream
of being fifteen again
and re-evaluating my sexual preference;
my husband's morning kiss
on my fevered forehead felt
like his saliva had super-glued
strayed strands of hair to my eyebrows;
my bladder was wishing
it had the life of my pantyhose
hanging over the tub to drip dry;
the smell of greasy bacon and burnt toast
collided with visions of tossed cookies -
and everyone says they hate Mondays.
copyright © 2004 Sam


I Can't Get No Satisfaction

She plays the Rolling Stones
a few decibels higher
than our neighbours would smile upon,
floating naked through the kitchen
while my fingers stab at bubbles
in the sink of dirty dishes.

The thumping of crazed feet from above,
tell me that another has fallen victim
to our bedroom silence
and wishes to stomp his frustration.

A cat howls through the open window,
empathetic cries lamenting the inactivity,
a condition that seems to have
permeated a bitch-filled neighbourhood.

As I pull the plug and pick glass
and china chips from the drain,
I pray for Calgon, Pachelbel,
and Aphrodite's magic girdle
in a 150mg dose three times a day.
copyright © 2004 Sam

I thought of you
as day press down to a thin blue
and the horizon held
magenta lips in curling sneer

clouds shaped themselves
into snarling tigers
and head-bowed rhinos
vanishing as darkness settled

that was last night after you left -
tonight it is raining.
copyright © 2004 Sam


Dialogues of Anniversaries

Disguised as a man, pretending to be him
in leather jacket and unknotted tie,
you smoke your cigarette outside
the theatre, waiting and watching.

The crowd staggers out in tight circles
as you reach between woolen cloaks
with your eyes, setting your smile
upon the frailest and prettiest.

I can see her fitting into your arms,
your fingers warming in the waistband
of her Levi's, as her breath leaves traces
upon the black of your chest.

I pretend to be absorbed with Don Coles
and his dialogues of 'Anniversaries',
stuttered in skipped pages
of black and white and you.

Somewhere along the banks of the Thames ,
a young woman sat alone, Levi's rolled up
to her knees, exposing frail white legs,
questioning the reason for your bandaged ribs.

That was two years ago - today, the anniversary
of being free finds you wrapped
in your fears of textural white ribbon, and I alone,
reading dialogues of 'Anniversaries.'
copyright © 2004 Sam

Golden Dreams of Tantric Sex

In a land called Galliano,
ice floats upon the sea,
and it is here Cointreau delights
to take and marry me.

The froth on lips is heaven pure,
a taste like Orange Juice,
and as the Cream fills to the top,
at once, I am seduced.

But then the fruits yell and scream,
"Cointreau, you're being unfair,
liquering this virgin into your dreams,"
cry Apple, Banana, and Pear.

yet Rum(ble) and tumble we do all night,
my body alive with a fizz,
like a Club Soda shaken too much,
orgasmic as a long-held piss.

Waking this morning I hold my head,
and pray I wasn't a fool last night,
but all is cool when I hear my lover
moan her own Alfonso delight.
copyright © 2004 Sam


Crows Watch as We Make Love

relating a story of how I lost my virginity
in Fanshawe Park not for the first time
but for the most memorable I remember
and the story goes we put a flame
to the 'no littering' sign to warm our feet
to warm our touch as she pasted
Labatt's Blue labels to my navel
and all worlds pointed toward heaven
wings flapped somewhere above
I could have convinced myself had I a voice
that angels had descended to brush
the rust from my eyes that stared into my past
forcing me to swallow my guilt to taste
for the very first time the salty sting of joy
yet relinquishing to her hands my freedom
as she picked black feathers from my belly button.
copyright © 2004 Sam



The High Cost of Zucchini

I remember us in the kitchen
entering into another laboured
discussion of what brought us here,
where to go from here, "What is this here?"
she, pulling rotted zucchini, leftover spaghetti,
and molded three grain bagels
from the refrigerator, all the while
blaming me for an unhealthy appetite.

I remember thinking as I stirred
sugar into my tea how the spoons
looked larger when we first met,
how the suger tasted sweeter,
the tea seemed milder,
and the refrigerator door
didn't slam as loudly.

And I wasn't blamed
for an unhealthy appetite then.
I remember thinking I knew
what brought us here, where we were going,
and where I could shove her goddamn
"What is this here," zucchini.

I remember watching her pull on
leather boots and fitting
tight Tommy jeans over them
complaining about the high cost
of the zucchini she just tossed out,
while placing the initialed luggage
outside the door. I remember
adding another spoonful of sugar
and I remember the day
I switched to coffee and gained twenty pounds.
copyright © 2004 Sam

To Love a Poet

Mornings upon waking you see
through sun-bleached blinds
much more than I. I do not wake
to your day,
find newness with each blink,
hear hymnists on the sill,
find naked warmth.

Someday's you whisper,
"The poet is dead,"
and perhaps I wish that was true.
When space is measured by words,
how often I wish you silent.

At times I want to reach up,
shade your thoughts from light,
and find distance consumed
by your touch.

She is an innocent mistress,
a simple seduction that you
cannot live without, and I
dare not take from you.

Today I welcome the rain,
find strength in your silence,
and as thigh touches thigh,
I press firm against your whispers.
copyright © 2004 Sam


What I Cannot Tell You

your body curves around a statement
I falter but acknowledge it as my own
and in the stuttered steps toward this
my lips trace the outline of your question
and my own "how could I not?"
copyright © 2004 Sam


A Conceit of Autumnal Friendship

I find branches drawn like arms
reaching across a pool of serenity;
a leaf - just one, for more would prove shame -
falls silently and ripples that calm allegiance,
and a blush lingers for one more day.
copyright © 2004 Sam

Spring Thaw

mid February the river cracks
attempting to swallow the sun
and one brown shoe

maples bend by gales
touching arm to shadow
to footsteps all but erased

this forest is yours
a wood that entombs
your presence

your spirit runs
with shouting winds
through barren trees

you will never rest
until March waters flow
and time speaks

of weighted limbs
sunken secrets
and one brown shoe.
copyright © 2004 Sam

On mornings like this, I study her,
clothed in silk and smile;
the languid tempo of her awakening
when coffee steams her eyelashes
as if ungluing a stamped moment.
An eyebrow shifts toward a question,
and lays back to her own answer.
Shy fingers find the involuntary slide
of her blonde veil and hide within it.
There is silence in her movements,
a quiet meditation of grace and beauty,
and there is nothing more I could ask for
but that these lessons be life-learned.

Sam/05

One night when you wrote aloud
of love, I listened hour upon hour;
your voice a low caress,
like fingers gently brushing
a dustcover, turning pages
of amatory thoughts;
my breaths lay at your thigh,
and I dreamed we were a tome
of the most desirable words.

With cool fingertips drawing on flesh,
you wrote upon breasts, upon belly,
'til too distracted, you erased all words
in need of a better climax to the story,
and I was left creating my own.

Sam/05

Some mornings the sun reaches thru the blinds with such perfect intensity, it bathes the one next to me in an angelic glow. But I know better - I do.