Terry's blog: "My poetry"

Flame 

A single candle

stood between us

 lighting up your innocence

 and my desire.

 A single candle

made the moment sacred

 and our flesh grew warm

 as the flame grew higher.

A single fear

was all that stood between us

'til your trembling breath

 blew out the flame

 and lit the fire.

Terry

Amid the Million Mannequins

@

Amid the million mannequins

(their fixed stares empty

like eye-holes of skulls)

you stand

trying to make them see,

touching plastic arms

to make them feel,

kissing dumb mouths

and screaming

(your eyes damp with pain)

at their deafness.

You held them.

They did not grow warm,

There was no longing

in their bloodless touch

nor comfort

in their pale arms.

I too was still--

lost in the stiff maze

of their tangled limbs

and the eternal chill

of their arid eyes...

until I stumbled

into the oasis

of your gaze,

the well of your mouth,

the healing breeze

of your touch...

and moved--perhaps just one step--

among these smiling dead...

and you saw.

When I wonder now

what brought (at last)

us here

(into this throbbing sanctuary

of pain and joy)

I remember

those vacant eyes

and all around us

lips that would not yield,

and ears that did not hear,

and mouths that could not speak,

and flesh that could not feel...

and I know why we, my love, must love

and how it came to be...

because only we are real

and because, you see,

we see.

Summer Storm

When the lightning of your gaze

chars my brain,

when your tongue thunders

in my ear,

when I stumble against the torrent

of your sweet breath,

I close my eyes

and let my fingers fumble

for the softness

and the stillness

of your rain.

Child to Child

@

Here

(below the pane

beneath the sill,

twice painted

but not yet filled)

rest the carved initials

of our humid love.

These letters

(to those who see them now)

may conjure images

of hands that held,

of lemonade

sipped and spilled

on old porch swings

and, perhaps, a kiss

on one abundant cricket-night

in June.

Oh...

the hands did hold,

did surely touch,

first tentative

as child to child,

then bold

as new flesh

seeks its own.

Nakedness

(glistening and braiding

by the light of eyes

and shade of moon)

throbbed with youth away

into the brine-stung agony

of shameful

(therefore, overwhelming)

joy,

ending in the surge

of our eruption into sin.

Here,

it all is written

(pure flesh and lust belied

by boy with knife)

the first love shudder

sealed under sill

(in guise of innocence)

for all to see

yet none but us to know.

After the first ecstasy

there is no other.

October Feast

Suddenly you were at the door

knocking like the rain

from which you ran.

You shook droplets from your hair

and laughed

as your raincoat

slid softly to the floor.

Your hands were cold.

You said mine were warm.

Neither of us complained.

Later, at the maple table

in the kitchen,

we gorged ourselves on pumpkin bread

and steaming apple cider.

You ate so greedily

I had to kiss away the crumbs--

as I had the raindrops

clinging to your lips.

Our plates and cups lay empty,

yet the feast continued

well into the storm.

When the rain let up, you left,

dragging your crumpled raincoat

through the puddles on the walk.

Since then, I hardly think of you

except when pumpkin bread is passed around

or when the kitchen smells of apples

or the cider sizzles on the stove

or on a rainy, autumn afternoon

or when the sky is overcast

or sometimes when

a single cloud

moves past.

Terry

Momentary Miracles

Lives, more fragile than dreams,

meet and tremble as they touch

in the semi-darkness

of their waking sleep.

Should they touch too long,

the visions fix.

Lives link

like hands on hands

like bare arms entwined

like moist flesh clinging.

Lips and eyes wander

amid millions of lips and eyes.

In momentary miracles

sometimes the right eyes

and the right lips

fuse

and shut out the darkness

by closing into each other

as birds fold in their young

as mouths of babes

close on their mothers’ breasts

as one dream closes

to start anew

as I fold gently

into you.

Terry

Now in Spring

Had you left in summer

when the sun lies heavy around us

sweltering the meadows,

and even the baby birds have gone

without a last embrace,

I would have merely smiled sadly

and memorized the beauty

of your face.

Had you left in Fall

when the trees grow brilliant once

before they bleed their sorrow,

and the flowers drop their petals

on the dying lawn,

I would have merely frowned to miss

the quite autumnal redness of your hair

when you were gone.

And had you left in winter

when we bundle up

against the chill

when barren trees are even empty

of the birds, I know

I would have merely sighed

to lose the comfort of your hands

as I watched you go.

But you are leaving now in spring

when every other lovely thing returns,

when flowers, blossoms, buds, and birds

are lining up for us

to welcome home with kisses.

Now I know

the tragic irony of parting--

This is!

Terry