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
Monday, August 31, 2009
Haikus
Motel Haiku #1
no canvas, no paints
simply mouth, hands and hope
and maybe some rope.
and
Motel Haiku #2
no paints, no canvas
simply mouth, hands and rope
and maybe some hope
no canvas, no paints
simply mouth, hands and hope
and maybe some rope.
and
Motel Haiku #2
no paints, no canvas
simply mouth, hands and rope
and maybe some hope
Poem Out of the Desert
Motel in the Desert
As we age, will passion fade
will it simply be a victim of complacency
like ice in a glass of whiskey
Whiskey!
Bourbon, neat.
Sitting alone in this motel
dry air, hot night
sketches
and paintings
and photographs
to my left and to my right.
A self-imposed exile
from my usual creative space
a need to re-charge
a need to get away
to find my center
and to overthink
and, of course, refill my drink.
[Age combined with ice
will not water it down
we are on the brink]
If it is miles or years or universes
in my heart and my head, my soul and my bed
you will have me in our way.
but now out here in the motel,
alone but not lonely
I wish that moment were here today.
fpr 8-7-09
As we age, will passion fade
will it simply be a victim of complacency
like ice in a glass of whiskey
Whiskey!
Bourbon, neat.
Sitting alone in this motel
dry air, hot night
sketches
and paintings
and photographs
to my left and to my right.
A self-imposed exile
from my usual creative space
a need to re-charge
a need to get away
to find my center
and to overthink
and, of course, refill my drink.
[Age combined with ice
will not water it down
we are on the brink]
If it is miles or years or universes
in my heart and my head, my soul and my bed
you will have me in our way.
but now out here in the motel,
alone but not lonely
I wish that moment were here today.
fpr 8-7-09
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
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
sitting on a bench in savannah
a cigar and a bench on a steamy,
sweltering savannah summer day,
memorials and markers to
eighteenth-century heroes long gone,
two benches down,
a woman in a summer floral dress
enjoys her needlepoint,
a juice and a yogurt,
dark hair, looking very greek,
like the waitress at the olympia cafe.
if you were here with me,
you might encourage me to talk to her,
yet you would not give me away;
afar, you encourage my explorations
and you egg me on to play;
but i chose not to move,
paralyzed by a number of ridiculous fears,
also
lamenting the fact that you are not here.
fprm
August 2009
a cigar and a bench on a steamy,
sweltering savannah summer day,
memorials and markers to
eighteenth-century heroes long gone,
two benches down,
a woman in a summer floral dress
enjoys her needlepoint,
a juice and a yogurt,
dark hair, looking very greek,
like the waitress at the olympia cafe.
if you were here with me,
you might encourage me to talk to her,
yet you would not give me away;
afar, you encourage my explorations
and you egg me on to play;
but i chose not to move,
paralyzed by a number of ridiculous fears,
also
lamenting the fact that you are not here.
fprm
August 2009
More Pieces in August 2009
INT - The Blue Movie Motel
the painter sat
on the bed
and watched sadie undress.
usually he liked to help:
he would stand behind and
unfasten buttons,
pull sweaters over heads,
gently pull down skirts and blue jeans
all the while
kissing and biting necks
wrapping his arms around waists and shoulders.
all this in front of the motel mirror,
so they could watch.
but this afternoon,
with sadie,
whom he had yet to see naked,
the painter felt like watching.
and as she slowly undressed,
he sipped his bourbon,
took a few pulls from his cigar,
and said:
"leave the pearls on, please."
fprm
8-26-09
Motel Mirror
Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror, wine glass in one hand and my cigar in the other. You wear nothing but the pearls I gave you just a few hours before. And you smile as you catch me noticing you from the bed.
It is a typical motel, with the standard double bed, a full-length mirror, an old TV without cable, and a heavy orange curtain across the large window shielding us from the outside world. We’ve been coming here for years though, and we are treated like regulars. The towels are warm and soft, and there is also a small fridge full of my second-favorite beer. Across the road in the middle of the desert is a diner which will deliver breakfast, if we desire.
Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror and before me. You take a sip of the pinot noir and a light puff from the Hemingway and then exhale. As a painter, I admire your body, your smile and your eyes and wonder why I’ve never painted you before. But then again, why would I need to paint you. I am happy with you here. Alone. With me. This is our world and our universe. Outside of it, we are prisoners, but within these walls, we are free.
fprm
8-21-09
At the Corner Café
As I wait for you at the corner café, I nurse my whiskey and examine my cigar. A similar one had been consumed by you the night before. Most of it anyway, because before it was done you put it into the ashtray, turned your back to the motel mirror and gracefully approached the bed, your smile more mischievous than serene, your eyes focused on your prize, your other hand cradling the glass of pinot noir.
And I looked up at you, glasses resting on my mussed up hair, cigar clenched in between my teeth, notebooks and sketchbooks surrounding me. You walked slowly along my side of the bed and handed me the wine glass, from which I took a long sip and then placed on the night stand. And you crawled on top of the bed, and pulled the sheet away from me and straddled me just above the waist. You laughed a bit as the hair on my stomach tickled the inside of your legs, and then you leaned forward, put your hands on either side of my face and kissed me on the forehead, just below my glasses.
Outside, the thunder began, first with a few sporadic claps and then more consistently, and soon the rain began. It was odd for the desert but appreciated by both of us. Sheets of rain pounded the large window hidden by the heavy orange curtain, and the concert of thunder, rain, an old creaky mattress, and our coordinated breathing began.
Earlier this day, I took a drive into town, knowing that you enjoyed sleeping in, waited for the one used-book store to open and did a bit of browsing, and then around 11 a.m. made my way to the café and ordered a whiskey. I lit the cigar and sipped the bourbon and waited for you, thinking of our symphony.
Then the barkeep comes out and hands me a message on a matchbook he hurriedly used to transcribe and convey it. A note from you: “come home, come play, it looks like more rain today.”
I look up at the sky, which was a light cloudless blue as far as the eye could see. And I enjoy the contrast with the earthy, sun-beaten hues of the American desert. There is no chance of rain, I think to myself. But what do I know? You are the magician. With you, anything can happen.
fprm 8-21-09
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