The Maintenance of Paradise

We walk into the picture of her eyes

Where butterflies on raindrops sweetly dance

And flowers of all colours hypnotize

And rainbows drop before her very glance –

So orderly and bright, a Paradise

Is here created where she trains her gaze,

For she allows that buttercups are nice

And won’t allow those weeds from stranger days –

So into this a gremlin ghoul in grime

Whose dark chaotic squint creates a mess

Of toads and lizards, snakes and other crimes

Against her cultured garden… nonetheless

She knows some heroes with a spade or two

Who'll look to give him soon his gruesome due.

The Dog Bites

“You are the wounded one in this – you are

The one who needs, while I could not need less:

You are the lover, spreading on a star,

While I’m the dying dream of some caress.”

“Yes, you’re my wound, you’ve bitten me, while I

Must have your serum kiss to heal, transfuse me –

I feel you there, cold in the night, and die;

You stand within my threshold and refuse me.”

“So here I stand, both wound and healing drug,

And there you lie a victim of my bite?

In circles I spin round and stand and hug

A centre which is coldly made of spite?”

“So, yes, you understand, you’re that and more.”

“In spite, therefore, I shut your open door."

My Venus in the Morning

The morning on my terrace shines so bright

That any thought of clocks becomes a crime

Arising from impatience and blind spite

Where dark thoughts burden us, but here sweet time

Alights the thoughts and takes the mind

To star-lit places travelled in our dreams

Where sometimes when awake we wake to find

Again within the confines of what seems -

So, my sweet Venus, take your blissful ride

Within this morning you and I now share

Already here, the two of us inside

A happy brightness where we’re both aware

That here and there mean naught – but here you are

Beside me now, my brighter morning star.

Your Thighs at Midnight (to Venus Callipygian)

In naked midnight you as votive stand

In darkness there where moonlight serves

What’s first a blur, but then your reaching hand

Draws all attention to your thighs’ seen curves –

It’s there within the night all light affirms

The beauty of what curves and swells and moves:

In grace a better moon, in shape all terms

Or measurements of grace your form improves –

So here I stand, hid in a voyeur’s guise,   

In awe and witness of my wakened dream

Of moving thighs that now in whiteness rise

To fall within my mind where now they stream

With other forms held ever to be caught

That rise again when inspiration’s sought.

Leda to the Swan

I hold for you these cups in sacrifice

To what you are and all you come to be –

Here to entice, I pay the votive’s price

In supplication of your sovereignty.

So hold me here, my better husband, love –

I turn for your embrace, for I choose you;

Here procreate yourself, fly from above –

I freely give you what’s your rostrum’s due.

So all my flesh in prayer, I concentrate

Upon these eggs I show to brute, force, light

And their full incarnation, so I wait

For your high bill and wings, your feathered might

To catch me here, these vessels for your need,

And here now sound, clench, break, spill, god, I plead.

The Door Denied

She stares ahead, but thinks, “Good God, who’s he? –

He looked at me and understood too well –

And yet I don’t recall who he’s to me –

Those weird judgmental eyes seemed as from hell!”

“Oh God, she looked so shocked – damn, what scared her?

I glanced at her, I think, just for a second,

But in that little moment we two were

Combined and, by some force here, likewise reckoned!”

“I want to run away – he draws me back

Towards those eyes I've never seen before.”

“I want to run to her – the air now black

With adoration, fright – some dreadful door

Has opened here for us to step in through.”

“But I deny myself and he does too.”