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

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Poetry: Colorplay

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The morning sun became the trembling hand

On the door to the boudoir, revealing

Bowed leaves in dazzling shades of emerald,

Bright bursts of deep lemon, orchid and white.

The shock of color rendered the sculptures

Of the dead absurd, for no eyes so charmed

By this thrilling pageant of life could think

The vibrant present was not eternal.

We walked on to the chapel, where artists

Once transformed simple tints into the folds

Of a monk’s robe, and without word or thought

Found ourselves buying pastels in a shop

And carving out a small sliver of floor

In our tiny room to play with color.

Poetry: Welcoming Rain

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The sky was the color of unbleached whites

In a nickel-plated laundry basket,

Predictable—then the pressure collapsed,

The exposure darkened and the drama

Gave way to the perfect rhythm of rain—

Kissing leaves, nestling into clumps of earth,

Reviving the life trapped in the death-grip

Of summer—when all is action, movement,

Appearances, scheduled relaxation—

When we are all on display in the heat

Of the interrogative sun, shading

Our eyes from the truth—when the oxygen

Disappears, leaving us gasping for fall—

When the soft rain demands we go inside.