MagicClare

Neuropathy nudges Crisply across fingertips; Flaming pen drips as Mental strength dissipates Into malleable mirage.

The suppler April breezes call a name As if the lilting, lifting air could speak A syllable or more, divine, to tame An inner child that needs to welcome weak In order for the strength of wind to flame Into the heart and reach its white-hot peak, Arresting kiddish beats that hold to blame Superfluous, old acts that tend to peek Through better, bolder thuds a time or two And, stifling lighter, laughing tufts of fire, Attempt to crush what would be freshened, new, Once ear could hear divine and feel desire Of stronger, smoother breeze and beat so true That ne'er a pulse of play or game requires Its silence, pride, or old approache

I'll wait a while, as stable as the land Its pungent soil tilled lovingly by hand Awaiting fine, new flowerings, gifts of god The growth that greens with time to bless the sod I'll wait a while, as constant as the moon Its glowing waxing, waning always boon To eyes uplifted, praying to the air In solitary silence, soul laid bare I'll wait a while, as patient as the sea Its wafting, gentle, rolling waves so free Their motion making marvelous, sweet curls As life and tide transform that which unfurls I'll wait a while, as shiny as the sun Its warming, golden rays just like the one Whose face was caring, smiling, kind and free And

If intimations sweet could be believed And glory in the flower salves the soul, Then when the worried mind needs be relieved Of care, to thwart unseemly thoughts that dole Out tremor, nightmare, fury, fiery grief, The war-torn heart would merely need to turn To peaceful memories of pond and leaf In order to be freed, and from life learn That years provide the potent kiss that heals Beyond man's youth, and fame, and family, And past all other grand and golden deals, Accomplishments, and blind sincerities. While love applied to nature's never dull Or lacking in return of gracious glee, The philosophic mind can't e'er be full To b

You warned me not to love you with my eyes That soften, pupils widened, never wise When time and distance drape o'er every day And keep them blind to hazel-brown display You warned me not to love you with my skin That blushes hot, enfolded from within While silent follicles, nerve sensors light Meet fingerpads that mold flesh in the night You warned me not to love you with my heart That swells whenever syllables chance dart From your full lips, their pulses peaking sweet And low like thrumming bass chords' yearning heat You warned me not to love you with my mind That craves your scent of books, cd's, entwined With morning coffee

The green of summer morphs into a maze Of lush nights' languid, humid, heated haze, Torrential rains and thund'rous, Zeus-arced skies, With sighs each ivory after-cloud belies. Then em'rald, eyelash lush so ripens, full Of magic midnights with intrinsic pull, That August love Apollo never knew (Despite directing lyre with eager Muse) Intoxicates the senses ever blythe, Perfuming nostrils, permeating eyes, Eliminating need, and want, and chance, In favor of a sweet heart's moonlit dance.   Yet in the morning mist a lush heart finds   A rain-washed clarity as day rewinds.

A ruffian in rather strange attire Became a muse one night for but an hour, While songs of eagles ripped from out his jaws And ancient melodies defying laws Flowed deftly, nimble fingers stretching strings As if he fretted wild imaginings That all men ask for, feel, and yet do tame Instead of vetting nature's fulsome flame; Yet in that hour uncommon Eros lied, Unwrapping years of promise, steady pride, Intuitively trapping what men want Within their widened eyes and minds made gaunt,    Ballistic bars so harassing their hearts    That few fall home come dawn, as night departs.

So meekly met, poetically akin, Two souls who laud Romantic Lyrics--rare, That English, lovely Lake group dwelling in The mysteries of nature, heart and bare God worship, not in woebegone or sin! 'Tis Gabriel's own song that rings--not glare Of eye, but hesitant beatitude in Your eyes and bars of syllables that care To hand out humor, honest tide, and spin The language of the Lakes into the sea With force unmet by Byron's knotty din Or even William's walks with Dorothy! If your long laborings of pen were sin A spark of milky mindset might arise, Swept up by force of nature, clad in skin Of alabaster muscle, threatening rise

If words could picture blooms of blissful sound, The lavender contentment of a sigh Escaping depths of diaphragm, unwound And clock-like with a spring-thrust force of high Release, expanding, then a gentling round Of rising, falling breast and rose-lipped 'bye Said far too soon, though slowly it resound To mouth a pulse of passion sweet and nigh, Then so too words would gently paint the heart, The primal force, the feeler of sigh's gift And tender-tough defender at the start Afraid of falling freely or to shift    From that pure solo state no words define    Heart feels the sigh, and loves, and cries divine!

Marble petals bloom Drizzling dew on winter's edge Ripping into spring.