The afternoon light

 

The afternoon light

on the resting skin of your belly

as we lie afterward

and talk

is the first sunlight that has reached me

in weeks.

Swimming Through the Desert

 

Into every nook and cranny you have flowed

till every room of life has been refreshed by you

and I discover I’ve been swimming through

a dry and desert world where no one’s owed

a thing and many die of aching thirst,

their bones left bleaching in the sun while I

am always soaked and satisfied-- but why,

for me to see, must you have left me first?

Yet I had never known that I was in

the desert till we met, and then I learned

that all my life the constant sand had burned

my blistered feet, the sun had scorched my skin

and your love seemed so necessary then

like it does now that you are gone again.

Women's Fashion

 

Styles come and go and styles change

and I have noticed (though I won’t condemn)

some women feel the need to rearrange

themselves to fit the clothes that should fit them.

But my sweet wife has no such desperate need

to tailor her soft form when every vision

of every tailor only can succeed

upon my wife without my wife’s revision.

And yet it seems that current styles agree--

wide legs with her legs, high waists with waist,

and short loose sleeves to let her arms flow free--

with Dara’s body so that Dara is the taste

that women wear who live the wealthy life,

while Dara’s tailored for a poor man’s wife.

The Desert of Knowing

 

This life I live is a desert of knowing.

I see others pass in distant caravans

against the hazy horizon, suspicious clans

of silhouetted strangers rarely slowing.

I watch them, wondering where they’re going

half hopeful yet half fearful of their plans

for any contact on these shifting sands

is false and fleeting where nothing’s growing.

But somehow in this vast and lonely waste

I've found a garden lush and full and green

with beauty to admire and fruit to taste,

where lives of labor will not be erased

by burning winds, where air is cool and clean

and there’s no fear of seeing or being seen.

The Hug

 

So small a thing it is when analyzed

only comprised

of wrapping your arms around a torso.

We’ve done it a million times or so,

but then I thought to analyze it part by part

so yesterday while hugging you well

I thought of your heart

beating inside that shell

of ribs and sternum wrapped in flesh

softly compressed

against mine

and thought “So it’s that simple after all”

(Oh yes, and your mouth happens to fall

perfectly in line

for kissing.)

When the Magic Dies

 

The most awful thing of all is when the magic dies,

or rather hides itself from our adulting eyes

unlike when we were kids and, thinking less,

the sounds and colors seeped into our consciousness,

and listening to God’s creation sing

for us, we felt excitement for the smallest thing

and “five more minute” sunsets blazed

with all the urgency of end of days.

But though the world will less and less intrigue

our aging senses blunted by fatigue

and golden moments whisper more than shout,

you have to promise you will never doubt

our marriage is astonishingly rare,

though seeming common should your eye compare.

Action Hero

 

Life would be so simple if you were taken

by terrorists or some other faceless band.

I wouldn’t have to wonder where to stand

or should I act or if I were mistaken.

No cold self-doubt would leave me shaken

nor thought of criticism second-hand.

For once no need to ask, “Is this demand

less urgent than the passion it awakens?”

Just action, pure and unpolluted--

I’d load my guns and rage into the fray

with fists on skulls and blood (my own included)

flowing freely-- as the day concluded

I’d rescue you and carry you away--

but peaceful hours fill me with dismay.