Poetry: The Choice

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On occasion, one comes to understand

That life as a fictional character

Leads to an empty pit, and the effort

To remember the lines corrodes the soul.

In these rare moments of blessed darkness,

One is faced with a choice: to tell the truth

Or let it ride. One could lead anywhere,

The other to the bottomless cavern.

As you consider the choice, images

Of faces turned and sounds of sighs pull hard

In one direction, demanding you call up

The courage to deny them attention

If you have any real intent to learn

The hard part of acting without a script.

 

Photo: © Duey | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

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Poetry: Idle Freedom

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The somnolent sun tosses amber light

To the twisty trees flush with rich, green leaves,

That saunter to the light as if they were

Snagging a lazy fly ball. Water flows

Weakly under an indifferent breeze

That feels as if it had just awoken

From an afternoon nap. In a few months

These images will vanish as the sun

Becomes a useless ball, a heartless joke,

The trees stripped raw, the leaves a sad carpet,

The water suspended in time, the breeze,

Mad with tense wakefulness, will change its name.

Huddling by fires, we will damn cold winter

And long for warm nights of idle freedom.

Poetry: The Fire of Music

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Bass guitar pounds against blue atmosphere

Spun by glass oil lamps, shimmering candles

Dancing to each surging note as I move

Muscles to place my body in clear view

 

The guitarist teases each bite of silk

From his fingers while I reach down to feel

Strength building to conquest.

 

The door opens,

The blood surges.

I grow hard in deep breaths.

 

Eyes drawn to eyes averted, drawn to breasts

In profile, thighs effortlessly moving

To music within, music surrounding.

 

Muscles move to meet, always in rhythm,

With cold intent.

 

One will melt.

One will rise.

Two will ignite in the fire of music.

 

©2012 Robert Morrow. Photo Credit: © Papuga2006 | Stock Free Images &Dreamstime Stock Photos

Poetry: Movement

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I recall a speck of ancient wisdom

That the mark of success is to embrace

Patience: to lounge aside a riverbank

For a whole day, doing nothing except

Loving the long moment. This bright image

Fills me with dread and despair, for I want

To move like the river, to unravel

In an orgy of endless change, to bounce

On a kaleidoscope of shifting floors,

Under the spinning skies, rushing ahead

Through random currents, by stony shores,

Between the strange delights of helplessness

And the certainty that within movement

Lies the eternal rush of becoming.