greenmountaineer's thread

His and Her

We've lived too long in Leggoland
with his and her bathroom sinks
and separate cups for Listerine,
a tub for you, a shower for me.

I'll bring you fresh mint for your lips,
a wineskin filled with Beaujolais.
I'll French kiss sweetness on your tongue.
I'll build a fire in the fireplace.

I’ll be the tinder that kindles the flame
though I’ll be gentle, I’ll be kind inside
your skin.

greenmountaineer said:

His and Her

We've lived too long in Leggoland
with his and her bathroom sinks
and separate cups for Listerine,
a tub for you, a shower for me.

I'll bring you fresh mint for your lips,
a wineskin filled with Beaujolais.
I'll French kiss sweetness on your tongue.
I'll build a fire in the fireplace.

I’ll be the tinder that kindles the flame
though I’ll be gentle, I’ll be kind inside
your skin.

Click to expand...

Sweet tender and romantic like a sunset picturesque and great sonics in the final paragraph,
All thos "in" sounds anyone would think you were making love to my eye balls

todski28 said:

Sweet tender and romantic like a sunset picturesque and great sonics in the final paragraph,
All thos "in" sounds anyone would think you were making love to my eye balls

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Thanks, tod. The “ins” were intended to be subtle. I thought of including “foreskin,” but the would have blown my cover, so to speak

greenmountaineer said:

Thanks, tod. The “ins” were intended to be subtle. I thought of including “foreskin,” but the would have blown my cover, so to speak

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As far as i can tell no one likes cover blown in their eyes.... mayhbe a little too far on that one....

Good to read your work again gm

The kind inside your skin is such a lovely finish. Well done.

cherries_on_snow said:

The kind inside your skin is such a lovely finish. Well done.

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Thank you, cherries. It’s nice of you to comment.

Dear Brad

As I sit here writing this poem
in the shotgun seat of your Camaro
neon signs across the street
bleed Rooms to Rent by Day or Week
to barely lay down for an hour.

I hear your digital clock crow twice
and watch you having steamy food
by the window in a greasy spoon
where you will order the usual
omelette to hide the odor of
perfume.

A Quaking Shaker

I like women too much, Ebenezer,
but don't you go think I don't believe
Mother Ann Lee's departure presages
The Second Appearing as feminine.
She was, after all, the Holy Spirit
Incarnate, was she not?

Still, Miss Pettibone's a fine piece of work,
who knows how to shake by the way,
when we dance "Come Life, Come Shaker Life,"
but her brother doesn’t like it,
glaring as he does at Thaddeus's
cockeyed glances across the room.

It's bad enough only six of us men
remain and we quibble about the farm
while Sisters Hortense and Emily,
what the world people call menopausal,
remind us every morning
the livestock need more hay.

Alas!, last night as the harvest moon rose
through the crescent hole of the privy,
I lost my way to sin, Ebenezer,
with spiders, crickets, and splinters therein,
oiling the pennywhistle
with thoughts of Sarah Pettibone.

Sleepaway

Mon Dieu!, his dream was a wet
Mediterranean patio
from sea mist at dawn in Saint Tropez
where a naked Genevieve
reclined on a chaise longue crying
because Marie in the boudoir
pulled on his brilliantined hair,
screaming “Wilbur, mon Amor!”
at midnight after thirty-five years
of marriage next to a wide eyed
Ethel.

........

A Patron Saint for Garbagemen

The bells announce it's nine am.
ó Briain prays the trash is light
and dogs with provenance won’t bite
at an Irishman in Kensington

whose scullery maids would like to pluck
the jewelry of High Anglicans
attending matins rather than
dead chickens for their coq au vin.

"Too meager pay for daily bread
of dustbin men," ó Briain says
at noon when bells ring once again.

He thinks about a sacred heart
beneath some burlap bags in bed
his naked Aileen on whose bum
he could bounce a bob upon

and prays there has to be saint
when bells last ring at three p.m.,
a patron for all garbage men,
to help O'Briain stay awake
when Aileen puts their Sean to bed.

Modigliani’s Nude Bargains With the Artist.

I’m not to be a facsimile of
L'Origine du Monde, n'est-ce pas?
although I have felt its pain.

If not the source of life disrobed,
what am I then, Signore,
your youth in the streets of Rome?

Will my almond eyes and slope of my nose
accentuate the red of my lips

and will the length of my neck
and curvature of my hips
draw the eyes of hungry men

to my breasts for which your pittance
will buy some bread tonight for my son
or bundle of sticks to burn before bed?

In The Mikveh

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Yet again Sysiphus slips.
Time is a heavy second hand rock

that ticks uphill on a wall hanging clock
in the mikveh where Sophie strips.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Thinking of Zvi, she slips off her frock.
Her joy overflows; it drips.
Time is a heavy second hand rock.

"My bloody monthly widow's walk
is finally over," she quips.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

She dreams of their bedroom knock knock knock knock
and the mellow red wine they'll sip.
Time is a heavy second hand rock

until again she takes off her frock
for Zvi's song of songs on her lips.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Time is a heavy second hand rock.

Totem

I want to say it’s a totem of love,
still muscular, the stark
naked elm whose bark has fallen
pointing headstrong towards the sun.

I wonder how many gnarly rings
there are to be counted inside
as the dawn's resplendent mist

glistens and drips down the stump
from last night's enduring tryst
with a full moon goddess sky.

Tequila Sunrise


She dreamt that one day she would find
some macho lips she'd love to kiss
and sleep with after love was kind.

María's metamorphosis
was turtle dove that spread its wings
to bedbug bloodshot eyes

that spot remaining nightstand rings
from empty bottle motel lies,
a cockroach running from the bed,

and drops of blood on sheets that dried
a darker red than neon signs
that bleed cheap rooms for just one night.

Early Renaissance Men Having Grappa

They had paper before we did, Aldo,
but their calligraphy, such as it is,
lacks Giotto's linear perspective.
Furthermore, we have our basilicas
and I my plenary indulgences
as well as Rodrigo’s clandestine promise
of absolution should commerce inspire
a second imbroglio with Sforza.

But what can we do? We have to offset
Our tithing to His Holiness, don't we?

And when will those little yellow men know
the Silk Road like all roads must lead to Rome?

Tenderness

I wrote this poem in bed
after Rosalind smiled at me,

and then there was Connie who smiles with her eyes.
Kevin tells guy jokes at midnight.

Sandy of the dawn calls me "Bud,"
and the one whose name I mispronounce,

Hermione with a long e,
makes love to me through her mask

and gloves with a soft spoken please
who rolls me over and bandages me.


This is National Nurses' Week in the US. A little more than 4 years ago I spent 11 days in the hospital, half of which was spent in I.C.U. I'll never forget how wonderful the nurses were, truly remarkable people.

greenmountaineer said:

Totem

I want to say it’s a totem of love,
still muscular, the stark
naked elm whose bark has fallen
pointing headstrong towards the sun.

I wonder how many gnarly rings
there are to be counted inside
as the dawn's resplendent mist

glistens and drips down the stump
from last night's enduring tryst
with a full moon goddess sky.

Click to expand...

erotica filled with humanity

greenmountaineer said:

Tenderness

I wrote this poem in bed
after Rosalind smiled at me,

and then there was Connie who smiles with her eyes.
Kevin tells guy jokes at midnight.

Sandy of the dawn calls me "Bud,"
and the one whose name I mispronounce,

Hermione with a long e,
makes love to me through her mask

and gloves with a soft spoken please
who rolls me over and bandages me.


This is National Nurses' Week in the US. A little more than 4 years ago I spent 11 days in the hospital, half of which was spent in I.C.U. I'll never forget how wonderful the nurses were, truly remarkable people.

Click to expand...

a fitting tribute, original phrasing, a tangential view. love it.

butters said:

erotica filled with humanity


a fitting tribute, original phrasing, a tangential view. love it.

Click to expand...

Thanks, butters

A Girl and her Dog on Skunk Hollow Road

Teats sagging for puppies not there,
the black bitch wags its mud crusted tail
and chases another thingamabob
Little Girl tosses next to the trailer
missing its skirt like a Carnie whore
still working the farmhands in November.

It's March the seventh on Skunk Hollow Road
where a rusted out lawn mower leans
against a rusted out snowmobile,
and the mercury's still at seventeen,
although it feels like twenty below

when the wind whips a tee shirt off the line
Queenie will fetch to take to the hole
she dug in the fall when the sun was high
since fur on a rug is warmer than snow
another day down on Skunk Hollow Road.

Isolde's Lament

How now, Isolde? she mutters to herself,
to take his note as sweet and thereby shelve
it in thy heart as would a maiden swayed
or play the wife who waits 'til peace is staid
'tween men at war? Ah, dear girl, thou shalt wait
forever that were true, because the fate
of men means kill each other in the name
of God, more property, or merely fame.

His note I fear was but a facile lie
he'll write another poor wench by the by
while horse awaits that's trained to set the pace
according to its master’s creep or haste.

'Tis settled then, Isolde. T'was but a shame
thou hadn't kicked his balls that he not game
some other lass the nuns give counsel free.
Why, even Friar Patrick prays for thee.

Hope

‘‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in."
DEATH OF THE HIRED MAN by Robert Frost

Jail was a skin head that didn't like won't
whose cock fight left a ghastly sight,
but after a dab of olive oil
as salve on two black eyes

Georgie the drunk and disorderly made
the pots and pans in the mess hall shine
before all the bad boys got up
for omelets their mothers never fried

because he once upon a time
wore the finest double-breasted
whites at "Le Cirque" among the seersucker
suits and taffeta dresses,

waiting in line for his signature dish,
known as "George Eggs Benedict,"
when the sound of his G was as smooth as
a glass of Côte de Bergerac.

“Two days gone,” Mission Man said
to the judge remanding Georgie to him,
but anywhere was a prison for him,

except in the kitchen at the Mission
where Georgie takes some powdered eggs
to put the George back in.

It probably happens to most of us. When I go back I'm often appalled by the line breaks I've deployed in various poems and need to re-cast all kinds of stuff. I don't think Lit lets one edit poems/stories that have been submitted so one's errors will remain until the aliens arrive or an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) weapon destroys all servers

Point is that your concerns are perfectly normal and widely-shared

Faith

Dinah read the Daily News
about the crime and mayhem.
"This is why we need Jesus Christ"
she whispered on the evening shift,
waiting for the theater crowd
going out, coming in.

“Evenin’, Dinah. Twenty second,
223's clogged again.
Hey there, Girl, your Handyman
would like to hear some ‘Stormy Weather'
like the times you used to sing
to tease us bad boys after church."

She knows the names of Sammy's girls
and husbands; she knows their kids;
she sews for them her Christmas gifts
and has to know how each one is
before she plays his game,

the one that Sammy loves so much
because there was a time,
if only in a young man's mind
when Dinah was his Lena Horne
pining for her man.

The elevator starts to drone
as Dinah slides the grillwork shut
as if percussion set the tone,
and strings and winds were warming up.

First comes whisper, then a moan,
then comes all of heaven's glory
eight by six feet, My Oh My!
and even though ain’t no sun up,
Dinah’s risin' Lordy, Lordy,
praise You, Jesus, up, up, up in the sky!


Hope

There were times when you couldn't scrape
two dimes for a pint of might
there be better days on Fulton
far from the marching bands parade
for your US Army blood, sweat, and tears,
shortened for time at the beach

Whenever we heard Isaiah say grace,
the truth was our stew wasn't beef;
"Why spend money on what is not bread?"
The man had a sense of humor, as in
baking ersatz apple pie
while singing "Putting in the Ritz."

So here's a toast, Snap Crackle Pop,
to our Woolworth's five and dime life,
and, yes, we'll take your word for it,
Rice Krispies taste better with beer than pretzels
you said just for kicks while we listened to
crackling on the radio.

So to hell with those pinstripes uptown
on Edelstein's black and white TV
if Koufax is pitching, Jackie's on third,
the Duke's playing shallow in center field,
and modern day saints, wearing blue collars,
rise and shine and say "Wait 'til next year."


Love

I should have realized then, my Dear,
how important pictures were,

our wedding portrait for example,
once face down upon the mantel

like a still life, I the apple bitten,
you the peach, emblem of virtue,

in time forgiver of more than hidden
French postcards found in the attic.

So after I make you toast and tea
and seat you in your wingback chair

whereby the view is south southeast,
I say the sun will rise again,

knowing my voice is just a sound
like bath water pouring down the drain

where tonight I'll scrub your skin,
dry you, dress you, and tuck you in.

April Fool

The seed was bad, ergo the blossom
I knew how to say in Lungworm or Latin
as if to the manner born.

A pound is a pound, Bloke, the rent was due
I paid with a love song, absent love,
and they named me a gastromancer,

but how I wish my stomach had purred,
and fur balls had twisted my tongue
for now there's a frog that lives in my throat.

So bless me, Father, before I croak.
I'm as hollow as any man is.
Bleistein never had slime in his eye.

I don't really know beginning from end.
Somethings are cruel, but April is kind.