Companion Poem and Painting

(I've always enjoyed the interaction between visual art and the written word. All this thinking about photography and women and armchairs...this could almost be a companion piece to 'Passionately Yours.')


Sitting

In my studio,
in my armchair,
you are as welcome
as if it were my bed.

Except now, we are in different roles,
and I play
the professional,
the painter,
the photographer,
peering through the lens,
focusing on your eyes,
your hands,
you lips,
the bit of leg and knee
revealed under the soft warm robe.

And you are the model
and you are the muse;
a role I offered and
that you could have refused.

My hand shakes as it tries to sketch;
fear of failing you,
of misrepresenting you
overwhelms.

Yet as I draw,
and as you sit,
your slight smile
seems to say,
work hard for now,
and then we’ll play.


fpr, 8-3-09

New Poem - Intimacy

intimacy

from across the table
you close your eyes and smile
as the others gab a while
and among that group
you say little and watch
as your companions nurse their scotch
at this dinner party
you seem shy and alone
eager for it all to be done
but from across this table
you reach out silently
and we revel in our intimacy.

fpr
8-5-09

New Poem in August - Meditations

meditations

at night,
at rest, i can only hear
the rhythmic purring of the cat
and the shuffle of drunken feet
on the sidewalk.

in bed,
quietly taking measured breaths
eyes closed, body at rest, no tenseness,
and in place of the om as a mantra,
i repeat your sacred name.

dear,
i wish you were here beside me
first lightly touching me
progressively intense, silently
altering my consciousness.

dear,
as i meditate, i also speculate:
your hands, your lips, your mouth, your hips,
a string of black pearls lying on your back
in that dark holy hour.

dear,
we are impatient, but we can wait.
no! we must wait, no matter how I am overwhelmed
by images of your touch and kiss
and your voraciousness.

at night,
at rest, i can only hear
the manic conga drum in my heart
as i meditate upon the idea of your most recent shower;
in body, mind and soul, i’m yours to devour.

fprm
8-12-09

New Poem: Muse's Magic

Muse’s Magic

across a continent

words reach me

and I take the plunge:

the light scratching sound of brush on wood

the delicate stroke of palette knife

to immortalize your gorgeous slinky legs

a phonograph

a pair of bongos

books on a dresser

in an undisclosed location with a view of the old gray square

not having met

(and god knows when)

free verse and blues transcend

through your poem (and other words) I am touched

my muse and collaborator

and friend.


© 1-30-2009, fprm