Saturday, July 18, 2009

still glad of a little seaside death

i. destructive though it seemed at the time

first there was the silver chance that rolled as bones
and delivered the stony pearl of your peach unto me:
that was a jeweled chalice which rolled away so mordantly
from the carved marble tomb of our musky white desire.

so we called them emeralds,
so we called them rubies,
so we called them sapphires.

if only I could have endlessly bitten those gleaming stones:
my alphabets have become a poor excuse for breathing.


it was only what we wanted, then and forever.

the violet rhythm of the your bonnet dirged on the strand
and celebrated, with pretty ribbons in a flapping cadence,
the unseemly end of a common sun that, suddenly, came around.

funny how some things never seem to last.

ii. thirty years just to pay the thirsty rent

here the plaid pleats are a sure sign of sin
and, also, the incandescent price of a gouged admission
to a circular trek that has, strangely, ceased to flatter.

there always is, of course, a paradise in the lifting of a hem.

iii. the incandescent joy of recovery

later, you donned your flowered bonnet without regret
and followed the familiar garden groove of marigolds
that, arguably, started and stopped at the same doorstep:
you seemed to remember the woven cat that stopped the draft-

the blue lungs that were deeply hidden in the chameleon clouds
could not breathe the periwinkle vapor of your dreams.

iv. released from gravitas and tossed into a crimson orbit

an endless parade of blue dignitaries
is marching towards the silky sunset
in silly robes with silly borders:

I said I could but now I can't.

to name every creature must be an unctuous burden,
when every alphabetic permutation, however comical,
must follow rules set down during a primordial sunrise-

when you know the last permutation will end the world.

beating the batted bane of beauty
is one kind of rune for the tiresome
crawl of the player piano of now:

ouch! does not quite state it.

that was a set of dots beyond your comprehension
playing a melody you could not understand.

they had one thing that you did not-
a testimonial captured in an eternal frieze.

v. it seems your brights are on again

the shiny hose unsystematically curled
upon itself begs the green striped maze
of stony lanes filled with cheap goods-
belying, if it can, the directed sashay down to the stony beach:

the whelks themselves will throw your buttery fortune,
drawing a card from the uncomfortable deck of rounded stones.

lips once pale are suddenly painted with desire.


  1. So valuable your writing, unique and expressionistic

  2. your works are really painting done with words, easy to read, feel and glide through.

  3. Gerry, the title drew me in. The content kept its promise. Absolutely breathtaking...

  4. You have certainly captured a hypnotic sea-like suggestiveness in this one, Gerry! Something misty that draws me into the tone, rhythm… No, I was not suggesting that I was nodding off! LOL. I meant it as a compliment.


  5. wow, Gerry.
    'thirty years just to pay the thirsty rent'

    I love the way you've woven color into this person's life, traced the ups and downs with it.
    Some amazing images.

    Wonderful read!

  6. Tell me one thing! Are you a literature graduate?

    Coz' your game with words is mind-blowing..

    Each set of verses are knitted so well using the most appropriate set of words..

    I really wait for you to write more.. this one was nice to read..:)

    what I really like in your work is the segregation of verses so beautifully!

    Waiting to see more of your works..

    P.S. Thanks to you, I have learned a lot of new words!!! ;)

  7. Referring to your comment about my poem #97 I'm sure it affects the meter greatly as it does not flow as smoothly.. My last 4 poems are a new style for me. I'm trying new things. I'm in awe of people who are so expressionistic, I'm not that intelligent with words. Thanks for visiting!

  8. What a treat to find your blog, and to be found by you. Thanks for your recent visit to When I Wax, and for the comment.

    This poem, and the others I have read here, crackle with an ecstatic existentialism. Keep at it, as the world is better for it. I will be back.