October 2002

First Poetry Class

It was OK if he airbrushed in the colors of the sky 
Blue through green to a dull orange fade that 
Became a flotilla of red potatoes and cauliflower.

No one objected to his first peep holes of night 
Waking in the deeps of approaching dark. 
It was a way to compare the cosmos to Eos the 
Goddess, dressing and undressing in her heaven.

But, what he really longed for was a girl on the far 
Aisle of the classroom, bowing her head in modesty,  
Refusing to let him see her more than once a day.

In the Shadow of Dangerous Men

So many injured beings from the war, 
Twisted minds I learned to live with, 
To love despite the hairpin turns. 
I expected to be thrown clear, each time
Though not unaffected by them. 
Secondhand trauma cannot be undone.

 In the shadow of dangerous men 
You become equally dangerous; 
But if you learn anything at all, 
You only become a danger to yourself.

Tree Sprite (Smoky the Nymph)

Your long tendrils of hair lick flame-like 
As you breathe flowers in a fitful rest,  
Over your figure runs a flowing arm and I
Realize, you resemble a slim beauty 
Who can waft an eddy of vague bouquet 
Through forest breaks and violets that    
Cause green-sweet childish memories
To entice me to your silent caress.

I beg for your inspiring graces, admire 
The lightness you lay on the leaves, 
Your tender polish, but I can merely  
Choose once, while you embrace all 
Poets, swearing them to compassion, 
and to abandon any form of jealousy.
I swear by your arms that unravel me,
Take tenuous chances to instruct me.

I can enjoy your love nest oblivion 
While others watch my decline with 
Fascination, perplexed by gibberish, 
Telling no one my source of ecstasy.
It isn’t boyish form, timid androgyny,
Hidden femininity I seek when I turn
To your deep woods companionship, 
But a fable of my own inner blessing.

 Veiled in moonlight, fused in the mist, 
I sense the patience of a dry pod you 
Cure, poised to spread should wild 
Fire threaten your charge, where you 
Will someday drop to the moss the 
Idea that you are all the sustenance 
A forest needs, all the poetry a poet 
Can endure, sprouting our offspring.   

Halloween 00
Halloween 00(2 )

Jimmy Warner, © 2002