Another Poem

It's poetry day! YAY!

I wrote this poem last summer. Since then, it has gone through many editations.

New Mexico Rhapsody

The wild bleeds hot, musty blood in Texas,

While here, mother mountain cradles us,

Weeping cool tears of love on our cheeks,

Down her own bosom, and onto the trees.

The trees sway in the wind.

Their leaves rustle and call in some long forgotten tongue.

It is Helena.

Invoke her and she’ll bring the rain.

The rain pours here.

Lightning lurches across the sky,

Dragging Thunder along by the coattails.

I hear them coming.

The night is falling and I want to walk that ancient road.

I need to cry.

I step inside and follow the spiral in.

The storm draws closer.

“Why can’t I cry when I feel all of this hurt?”

No answer.

Lightning, then Thunder.

I shed human skin,

Leap from the sacred space,

And fly across the grass and through the trees.

I am a deer now,

Bounding toward the storm,

Seeking shelter.

Lightning. Thunder.

Photographs taken at night.

Exposed to the storm.

Pray for lightning,

Demand it of the heavens.

Walk up and down the road;

The camera captures your soul walking.

Lightning. Thunder.

(Lightning darting forward across the darkening sky;

Thunder loping behind,

Happy nevertheless to be with the one he loves.

Theirs’ must be a passionate love affair;

Crackling and rumbling in between earth and sky,

The storm their bed sheets.

Lightning wraps swift-moving arms around Thunder,

Kisses him electrically.

Thunder is his. Thunder moans.

Thunder holds onto Lightning tightly.

Follows him all around the sky,

But Lightning is always a step ahead of him.

He darts back to Thunder, then soars ahead.

Lightning is flirtatious; he has seen the world.

He wants more than Thunder,

Some nights he sneaks off to make love to the Earth.

Thunder sees.

These are the nights that Thunder cries out the loudest.

Lightning loves Thunder,

But sometimes he forgets.

Thunder will always forgive him.

I heard them last night, making love.

Surely it was a sweet and tender thing they did.)

Your lips were tender on mine,

There, under the First Street Bridge.

I can still taste you.

You taste of coffee and stale nicotine.

It is not a pleasant taste,

And yet coming from you, there is no better.

Just give me a tiny lick,

A tiny sip of your saliva;

A minute piece of your heart,

That I might patch my broken one.

Thing to be grateful for: I've moved on from the heartbreak that caused me to write this poem a LONG time ago.