Monthly Archives: February 2012

On the qui vive (for Lan)

Waiting for you to awaken
is watching for the dawn.
The phantoms of night flee before you,
dear love, come to rule both my earth and sky!

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

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Love Poem (written to Diana J., for Bobby D.)

What could rival the beauty of your face,
that mirror of such wonder and delight?
Only your body’s joyous bounty,
that feast for loving eyes.
Only your undaunted charm
could challenge the magic of such a face and form.
I wish you were my heart’s true friend.
For now, lovely one, I am slave
to your grace, to my desire for you.
Either free me with a No, fool!
or let me die, secure within your arms!

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Welcome

Welcome!  You are the newest among us.
If we may teach you something, let it then be this:
Work is, yes, a weapon to keep
the wolf from the door.
But it must be as well a song –
sung singly and together –
to hold high the heavens and make the earth spin
like a toy in a child’s hand,
lest we die before we live.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

On the ferry after a summer rain

Between her gray-clad thighs, a bright red paper cup
brimming with soda bubbled and held erect
a thin pink plastic straw, crook at its end.
She ran her fingers through her sweet wet hair,
as  C  O  N  V  E  R  S  E  stretched across her rising breasts.
Her skin was white as the paper of the pages
in the book she later opened,
to set upon those shapely gray-clad thighs.
Her hair was dark as the ink on every page.
But first, into her mouth she took
that thin pink plastic straw and sucked
with silent, pursed and crimson lips,
the iced and fizzing dark soda,
then crushed in her supple hands
the bright red paper cup.  She filled my senses,
then my mind, and now my frank words.
Watching her, I gloried in being
a singer of visions, a trader in dreams.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

The Tombs – a memory of the ’60s

The Tombs' Entrance on 36th St. near Prospect St., Georgetown, Washington D. C.

I buried a year there, beneath a wave
of sweat and five cubits of toil.
The Tombs:  were you named for that jail
in the owner’s native turf,
or for the gentle slaughter of time
in your dim, delightful forgoing of care?
We all have risen from your good friday –
Sinclair, Raimondo, Hammer; The Whale;
Bruno the Tusk-Toucher; Robert and I,
the chieftains’ messengers.
In ineffable ways, you saved us all.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Homecoming

‘Swift Potomac’s lovely daughter!’
I am here in the water
of life’s relentless flowing,
a pylon encrusted with tenacious barnacles:
memories, ghostly coronas of past desire.
‘Ever watching by the water’.
Do you sense me, as staid as you?
A stone worn by time and time’s pursuit;
yet mellow, burnished, warmed
as are the antique bricks that gird you,
‘Blue and Gray.’
I am sad, and dull perhaps, but I am here,
solid as the pylons in the water.
Perhaps my merit lies in being a bridge
to the future.  Do you sense me,
Potomac’s lovely daughter?
Oh, ‘smile on us today!’

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Two sides of the page

The surfaces of pages impel me
to spiral into a maze of reflection.
Each inside has its outside
just as coins each have an obverse and a reverse.
My heart and my mind and my senses
are festooned, are speckled , are suffused
with glimmering pieces of something inchoate,
something suffered, learned, or fancied,
which to somebody else are nothing
until made tangible, made manifest.
(This poem is getting much too abstract.  So,
I’m going to stomp my foot on the floor.)

What?  Hey!  Give me back that fig leaf!

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012