Shelley-Inspired Poetry

My poetry buddy's piece:

Gone

She left us right before Thanksgiving,
that wretched feast day for the living,
and as it nears again, I dread
it, for I fixate on the dead.
In fact, I hate all of November
since she died, also December.
Holidays merge with each other;
all are days without my mother.

She was not the best of cooks,
nor was she well-versed in books.
But she always kept us fed
and saw to it that we read.
Though her paycheck was quite meager,
you could not find one more eager
to invest in her girls' pleasure--
our smiles were the greater treasure.

Her voice was loud, her laugh was louder.
She made it clear to all: No prouder
parent could there ever be,
so high was her esteem for me.
And her belief that I could do
anything that I put my mind to
somehow morphed into a truth
(at least, I felt so in my youth).

But now she's gone, and with her went
the joys of winter holidays spent
with family, that, and too the drive
I had to create when she was alive.
For she was parent, friend and muse,
and no one else can fill those shoes.
No comrade, sibling, child or lover
could move me like my gentle mother.

(c) hmh, 2007


PAINTER AND DOMME MEET AT LAST

for D.

with your whip held loosely in hand
you take a drag from your cigarette;
paintbrush at the ready, i naked stand
to capture a moment i won't forget;
(but i sought a moment to transcend,
not take your lashes and regret!)
remy and cigars, a moment quite grand!
and your pleasure i do not neglect.
kissing, i taste my blood on your cheek so smooth,
and with my hands all over, your pain i soothe.

(c) fprm 2007