Poetry: Birthday

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Birthday candles being lit

We honored the day with bottles of wine,

Gifts, and never enough conversation.

It was his twenty-seventh, maybe her

Forty-fifth, or perhaps it was someone’s

Sixty-second. That would be the hardest,

Reminding us that life is too often

Measured in sixty-second increments.

I wonder why we measure it at all:

What does it matter what year it occurred

Or which day of the week the thing happened

Or how many minutes slipped our fingers?

Time is relentless only when you slip

Out of the moment and into your fear,

Only when you make life a statistic.

 

 

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Poetry: Modern Existence

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Old woman  looking at the sky with fear

 

Nothing like a tightly wound spring straining

To uncoil unpredictably without

Warning at inconvenient moments.

More like a top, spinning in defiance

Of old, tired men who claim to have proven

Perpetual motion ephemeral.

So, no, I will not earn any headlines

For random or deliberate killing;

No, I will not merit headlines at all.

I will be content to register years

In some database in a nowhere place

Where not a soul or program will witness

The terror that fuels my rite of passage:

The enduring fear of relaxation.

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

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