Monthly Archives: March 2012

Under sentence of near bliss

You caught me in flagrant delight
surveying the swell of your breasts,
the treasure of your thighs,
the swift bravura of your derrière…

Have eyes fingers?  Thoughts, a tongue?
‘Off to the gallows with him!’  Yes, yes!
To tumble through that narrow door
into Kingdom Come!

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Advertisements

Writing, again

In the next life – if there be one –
I’m surely destined to write ceaselessly.
It will be either my reward
or my punishment, and that’s only just
seeing that I write almost endlessly
in the here and now.  It’s both a calling
and a curse.  Shout Amen, brothers!
Shout Amen, sisters!  Clap your hands and sing!

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Walking in the rain

Walking around in the rain can be a pleasant experience when it’s warm;  you just know that, even if you’re soaked to the bone, you’re not likely to shiver, or quiver, or shake with chills.

But walking in rain in the near wintry days of November or the late Winter days of early March is a gruesome task, a punishment, almost like being in a dark, dank, flowing dungeon, waiting for the rats to appear, and – uh, oh – that shadow up ahead may be the guillotine.

At last, relief!  A cruel respite but release from the cold rain nonetheless. (But, really, what is that thing up ahead?  Oh, yes! Of course!  The massive hulk of the oak near the turning of the path…)

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Song of Songs (written to Fanta N., for Rodney S.)

Ma belle petite d’Afrique!
Perchance these guileless words will pique
your dark innocence to look on me,
not as the slave to lust I surely am
but the one I so wish to be:
captive not only to my own desires
but to yours and your love as well.

I often fancy that your nipples sense
the same wonderment that flashes in your eyes.
And in my mind I see you naked,
your shower done, the droplets brilliant gems
arrayed upon your honeyed, near chocolate skin…

…and then those precious petals midst your thighs
I gently part, fingers trembling,
and taste the salty sweetness of your dreams…

So let me look long upon you,
ma belle petite d’Afrique,
for you like me are dark, but comely.
And let these verses start our Song of Songs.

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

El viaje / The voyage – a poem in Spanish with English translation (for Sheila D.)

En esta cubierta parada estoy
navegando
hacia el viento y la puesta del sol,
por ondas indomables
como las voces dentro de mí,
tempestad de versos,
del destello deseo
que se rompe en el tiempo
para de sueños añicos hacer,
momentos, astillas del recuerdo…

En esta cubierta parada estoy
las aquas debajo de mí
como diós nimbado de espuma
y derrame de astros
todavía ocultos
que esperan la revelación…

En esta cubierta parada estoy
navegando
hacia el viento y la puesta del sol,
por ondas indomables
como las voces dentro de mí

*     *    *

(translation)

On this deck I stand,
into the wind and sunset sailing
through waves
wild as the voices inside me,
a tempest of verses,
lightning’s desire
that breaks against time
to shatter dreams
into moments remembered…

On this deck I stand,
the waters beneath me
like a god ringed
in a nimbus of spray
and a shower of stars
yet unseen,
awaiting their revelation…

On this deck I stand,
into the wind and sunset sailing
through waves
wild as the voices inside me…

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

The Old Neighborhood

HOT HEROES  read the sign
above Larsen’s delicatessen.
No simple gaffe, this extra ‘e’.
For here, indeed, gathered swashbucklers and cowboys
who burned to prove the limits of courage,
of loyalty and love.
Here loitered maverick knights,
itinerant samurai
of the short and the long sword,
lusting after adventures
for the body, for the soul.
Here too rallied selfless fellows
whose deeds went unremarked,
who then felt spite rising in their gentle souls
in the face of such inequity, such injustice.
Heroes all  –  each in a different way.
That bastion of banality proclaimed,
unwittingly, their nature to the world.

*     *    *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012

Landscape from the ground

Blood drips from a shattered flower
as the rain waits for the bombers to pass…

The rain and silence fall once more.
Blood drips still from that shattered flower.

The screams, the sobs, the moaning now
are mixed with the water, one with the earth.

The wind rushes about madly howling
Who dares murder the dream in the seed?

Silence and tears are the only answers.
The sun climbs higher moving west.

*    *   *

(c) Gregory V Driscoll  2012