Monthly Archives: September 2011

Dream

In my dream among the willows
the wind sings in your hair
the clouds dance for the moon
the stars envy your smile
Who’s-her-love? cries the nightjar.
Not I!  Not I!  Awake!

*    *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011

(untitled)

Words ravish me.  A prey to dreams am I.
Flesh seeker, dream stalker!  Here am I,
the dot upon your i, the cross upon your t.
Yet you cannot see me, for I
am the vision on the far side of naught.
So all and each am I:  sound and silence,
fullness and void, waking and sleeping,
flower and worm, wind and stone,
star, and the dark core of your eye;
the melody of light, the lyrics born of shadow.
Just look for me, listen intently!
I’m here still and always in a vortex
of images and silence and words.

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011

Thoughts on a rainy Autumn day

Each drop of this cool rain is more fire than gem
or heaven’s tear that wantonly brands me
on shirt and trousers, as I walk briskly
through Autumn’s failing light toward home.

I feel the murmur of this crystal fire,
coursing over me in clear syllables,
sweet yet raucous all at once.
It’s your dear voice, your hands, coy butterflies,
come to flutter at ear, cheek, shoulder, breast,
to glide lower, so teasingly, to rest.

A gust steals my breath away.

I think then of you, mistress of my heart,
friend so dear that words fall dumb and awed
before such beauty, such sweet gentle charm,
and eyes that make the very world
flush with resigned envy and keen desire.

At last I reach our door and so escape
the tiny fingers of this rain.
But never shall I escape –
nor would such ever be my wish –
the pleasing play, the fire,
the honeyed brilliance of you.

Oh, dearest one! So do I dream and sing,
wet and burning all at once.
And so I close the door, but not my heart…

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

Oranges (for Lan)

There pulse through my senses
the form and scent of oranges
in the rain.  Images of you disrobing
drift within my weary eyes.
Your clothes, silken peelings,
fall away, one by one, and reveal
your beauty’s sweet and shapely pulp.
You turn toward me in shadow.
Your bright eyes and your nipples’ firm, pink disks
gaze upon me, this stranger become your lover,
and your surest friend all these years,
through eons of verse and rain.
The wind is rising and the scent of oranges
rains upon me a storm of kisses.

*     *    *

© Gregory V Driscoll 2011

Coming of Age

I’ve learned to doubt,
to examine and question.
I ask myself:  Is it reason
or self-centered apostasy?
I wish the sun would shine
and burn the mist away!

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011

Beauty

It cannot be –
as the adage would have it –
that beauty lies in the beholder’s eye.
For then I would be God
and such is blasphemy.
No.  Such perfection exists on its own account.
And my eye?  But a mirror.
And this page?  But a shadow
cast by your light against my art.

*      *     *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2011

Coming out of the anesthesia

Fear of death is dread of our imperfect selves,
of what would have been if only we’d made it so.

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(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2011