poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034

LYN LIFSHIN : Snake Dream
MARK A. MURPHY : Snow Dream

for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audience,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish


LYN LIFSHIN
Snake Dream

His eyes, for weeks, piercing. It’s a fantasy but it feels he is looking where no one has. There is a class, ballet, or ballroom and he comes up and touches my shoulder as another one had the other morning in waltz. “Relax!” only with this man, the words move in deeper. “I can help you,” he says, moving deeper. In the next frame, shaking, I’m about to be moving into his arms, a private class in a room more like a bed room than a studio. He tells me I remind him of his wife, tells me she has so many clothes but wears the same ones. “Do I know, even as a dancer, he whispers, women 30 to 40 years bloom.” I know he must know I’m not that but he is choreographing a piece we will perform. In the dream, a longing I never feel awake. I hope my tights and velvet camouflage emptiness I don’t want him to see. I will give it my all. It will be like giving the sexiest, hottest novelist what he says was his best blow job, a one time per- formance, a tryst, not an affair

poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034





MARK A. MURPHY
Snow Dream 

In your absence snow has drifted into the woods where we might have camped, only I don’t see you in a tent in the snow. I saw you last night in some strangers’ house miles from any campsite, bound by feral cats, hell bent on their ferocity. All love is change. You tell me to love another, but I’m stubborn, refusing to give you up. You’re sure we will meet again, at least once more, before dying. Your words bring tears to my eyes, I’ve little strength without you, no sense of carrying on alone. Let’s go to that campsite now, see the dome tent pitched in the snow. Let’s walk in each other’s footprints through the deep drifts where no government could bother our secret lay. In your absence snow has drifted all over the Pennine hills, all over old England.

poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034





MARK A. MURPHY
Interstellar

What void is this, castrates man and silences the beloved – our lovers already selfless and sexless as if just out of earshot of the next failed romance, the next reckoning with God? What now of all the words written, all exhortations, all whispering down the years, where one being ineluctably ends as two creatures without sustenance, suffering by degrees, fading out to darkness. Are we all done, lover or do we hold out for one last kiss, a last embrace before the fall, where man and woman might yet have a last chance, win the day in spite of all our disappointments?




thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/034.html
link to POETRYREPAIRS




All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading





Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop



No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, WILL NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.


I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian


free counters
>
REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary


read more poetry

LYN LIFSHIN

MARK A. MURPHY

"poetryrepairsblog.com"
for your comments, critiques, criticism
or general discussion of poetry

top