Tomorrowville: Hockey Mom

Pitbull with lipstick
Could make a funny haiku
But I'll not go there

Come on, where else would you find a Sarah Palin inspired Senryu?

My Selections

Vessel:

When first I settle down to write
I know not where I'm going
Though fickle muse does every night
Just set the words a flowing

Sometimes I'm silly, rarely sad
Sometimes I write of love
Sometimes I get a story bad
And slap the muse above

I like to think I'm brilliant,
With fresh, unended tales
I think I've got a million;
The muse, she never fails

Now you may think this just a
Silly poem 'bout the muse
But see if in these simple lines
There's something you can use

I have no choice in this, you see,
The muse, she does dictate,
And in her fickle hand is ME,
Her willing empty slate.

The Soul's Banquet

This dining on daggers of distraction
Delays a heartier hunger,
A starvation born of this attraction;
Sate this emptiness, and linger.

Let the garden full of roses peek to see
What bloom fulfills their master’s need;
A banquet, then, to all the senses be,
Rest here; allow this soul to feed.

Come ever closer, patient Adonis,
Complete this halfway hollow frame,
Giving others only faintest solace;
Burn those pretenders with your flame.

Burn, when gone, as heaven’s visions oft do,
Know what joyous intent awaits,
Return exultant, warmly tender, true,
Bring union, so hunger abates.

For here’s where the half-souls rest from their plight,
Here the souls sing, brought together,
Come with a passion to last through the night;
Stay in this garden forever.

What Love Is (Dedicated To Norm)

Softly glowing embers of last night’s fire
Casting subtle shadows on your face
Rustle as you stir them; my own desire
Holds me in this warm romantic place.

Watching you by firelight I hold a sigh
Tracing every ripple of your form
Turning round you catch me and hold my eye
Smiling, you return to keep me warm.

This is what love is, content in this place,
Where the sharing completely abounds,
Quickening breath when a part of your space,
In your arms only hearts making sounds.

This passion that scorches my very soul
Is an aching my heart won’t unlearn,
Let the tinder burn down until it’s coal;
Though the embers may wane, we still burn.

Tomorrowville

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Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Hockey Mom

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