They Sicken

"They sicken of the calm who know the storm."
                                                       Dorothy Parker


They sicken of the calm
who know the storm,
it holds no promise.

The calm is a
black hole sucking
life in.

The storm is Life,
twisting, screaming
and dancing near Death.

Once you have
counted coup on
codeine and car wrecks,

been shot at and missed
every good thing
seems mundane.

Reality stands no chance
when sharpened point imaginings
soar infinitely.

The coolest green grass
of contentment is no memory
compared to swimming
the crashing surf of melancholy.

Those who know the storm
cringe against days blinding rays
but are comforted at the breast
of darkest night.

The Stars Weep With Longing

Even the stars

wept

with longing 

for the Lady.

Her every move

strings and bells

and 

Sirens song.

The poet had

freed 

her from a 

stifling  affair

with a 

pirate who had

stolen her 

away from

a Kingdom 

she was 

ordained to 

serve.

She had 

fallen in love,

when he

accomplished

this feat 

with niether

pistol or sword

but only

the power 

of his 

clever words.

And  

he with her

centuries before,

some say 

the beginning 

of time,

at the birth

of the stars.

In the brilliance

of daylight

he would gaze

at her, 

the tilt of her 

head, the bend

of her wrist,

he would

relish in

the peal of her

laughter.

And he would 

write verses

never ending

proclaiming 

the feelings

he'd always 

known.

In the comfort

of night he 

would trace 

her naked 

shoulders with

fingertips

and tell her

stories of 

the lives 

he had lived,

and he would kiss

gently her

nape, and she

would settle

into the arms

that had

held her,

since the moon 

was young.