Sunday, October 7, 2012

Raisans for Breakfast



By Michael Bell

I see you…still,
Your contours of loveliness in the rain wet window moving…
Past a shadow,
Past lanes of red or white beams stretching east or west.

I see your smile turn towards me while an autumn sun sheds its last light.
Your Island hand adorned with silver ring…

I see you press a radio button while I drive
Carefully… on glistening streets of an early evening's round.
Only wind from an open window kisses your lips.

Perhaps you're the friend of kindergarden days hunting
Grasshoppers in the wheat fields of summer,

Perhaps from that last day of flirtation in the desert camp
Where an astonished boy met allure of sweet-heart candy and a pretty girl’s eyes.

Who knows under or above the earth?

For whilst Memory of robust days abide…
I seek still to live strong in the climate of the age.

And tell with serious face that you standing human are
No longer a girl but a woman for whom laboring men
Would build a thousand castles.

Think not unkindly…then…of this stammering man’s shoddy cloak.
Models crawled past his cannon on the left long ago,

And bewildered…

He follows a path left by broken twigs of yesterday,
Quietly looking for the gentle beat to your heart.