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.

 

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

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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.

Poetry: The Fog

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We live in the impenetrable fog,

The perfect expression of impotence,

Where no one is capable of leading

Or following, where β€œImagine” becomes

β€œWouldn’t It Be Nice” and bright ideals turn

Like sour milk into clichΓ©s, where the love

For one’s kind scratches out a meager life

In advertisements dripping with the sighs

Of nostalgia, the moans of Peter Pan.

We are victims of having been gathered

Into masses, transformed into dreary

Statistics that reveal the opposite

Of the intention: Β that we have destroyed

The right of a human being to choose.

Poetry: Bloggers

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Like newborn birds, flightless and clamoring

For bits of worm, the noises that explode

From our heads fill the ether, a mad cry

For attention in the hope that someone

We will never meet casually clicks

A button, indicating we are liked.

In this universe, where everyone

Seems to have something to say and the tools

To publish random thoughts and images

To what seems to be the civilized world,

Every act becomes duplicitous,

Each comment filled with hidden agendas

So you never know who is listening

Or that your words make any difference.

Β© Dzain |Β Stock Free ImagesΒ &Β Dreamstime Stock Photos