Tuesday, March 14, 2006

I know well the shape of admiration you express
and poetry of hunger spread thick against paper
walls, where we are silhouettes: the soft of
memory —

nights when the moon would drive the lamps out,
a thin hush over our flesh— we felt it then as it
quickened along the vine. And in the dark,

we'd lower our voices and touch in the last hours
before dawn. Each stroke a maddening of sorts
left to linger, like words or warm breath in the air.

Such things come easy with the steady hand.
And even if it were all a dream, may I sleep til

Spring, to rise again through the flames.

3 comments to Cher:

Lost Days said...

Winds howl within, to a lute’s refrain,
gathering as old pains pool solemnly,
fears and tears of days not quite past,
memories of love’s lore and the risks,
yet there within, there in deep hollows,
lies the spark of renewal, the breath
of life’s essence awaiting sole call,
that voice of fate, that voice unknown
yet recognized without doubt, without
hesitation, without ability to ignore,
it reverberates throughout the depths,
it summons the spark to come forth,
to ignite, to burst into passion’s
unquenchable flame, and in that solitary
moment, radiance spreads like wildfire,
and the heart knows, and understands...

ryan said...

oOoOooOOo this poem is so froth-y
*grin*

Cherilyn Ferroggiaro said...

I don't know how I came up with that word! Funny, but yes, it does fit this poem. :o Brat! Thanks all.

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