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STIRRING UP THE BOTTOM
We have started a poetry revival in historic Shockoe bottom and shall continue to stir it here on the 
World Wide Web.
 

 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 modestly,  
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 )

 

Photo by Eugene Brown

© Jimmy Warner, 2011

 

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