Best Couple On Poems
The trees do shine like the morning sun beams
There is a humble light that moves as streams
To bring a warm, calm feel throughout this spot
Where rain surely fell, right here so I thought
There are gas lamps that are lit on the poles
Cobblestone path is quite wet with some holes
And light is reflected off the pathway
As nature shines below where the leaves lay
A couple walks through the misty evening
Enjoying the crisp air that they’re breathing
They are caressed by all of what surrounds
Not a peep is expressed, there’s not a sound
They pass an old wooden bench from years past
And wonder how long this warm night will last
Russell Sivey
Chicago, 2009
Because he works in an office and is white
and because she who tans anyway has just
returned from a week at the Beach,
the commuters are certain she’s not black
yet they rustle in their seats.
They want to see her hands flick.
They want to see if rivers run dark
through ivory palms.
Martin may be dead
and Obama may have won
but in Chicago this morning at dawn
a rainbow of people
still rustle in their seats.
Donal Mahoney
Inspired by pastel art works contributed by: Sergey Sergeevich Solomko
Clouds of darkness, obliterating the daylights the richest diamond, merely the sun,
Galaxies, of dazzling night sky’s, undesirable pleasures, the sun formed settling beyond the shadows over the river.
Wooden ore’s fall over the sides of the lightly weighed wooden boat, two lovers set on a voyage to their newly founded futures, of love and adequate structures of their newly desired founding’s.
Kisses of greatness, now a day later with vivid beauty in her dreams, what a grand departure in his perception of this night of his pure devotedly structured adulation.
Fogs are common on the coast, until morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant yet unquiet river’s billow of troubles surged an under joyed.
There in the distance there sits the nightmare of his forgotten love, grotesque and wide, yet seemingly pulchritudinous.
Regretting his visual liaison, upon his past desires, forecasting her next ritual, of vulgarest and barbaric intentions, to put a curse on a love that only gave life its greatest prudent of all intentions, his demonic difficulties enforcing herself to come to terms, with the horrible man who’d been the bane of her horrifying mindless unrighteous of all cause’s, of all his fading newly intentions, with this newly founded love, on this dark river, on an old, ole wooden boat.
Saturday, February 19th; 2022
Inspired by pastel art works contributed by: Sergey Sergeevich Solomko
My lips were moist then
On lips trembling you felt me
Slither feeling you.
My lips are parched now
On your lips burning I feel
Me turn to ashes.
My eyes were closed then
On eyes unopen you felt
Me dreaming of you.
Eyes are open now
In your eyes unclosed I see
Me drowning in you.
There they sat on the park bench.
Both of their legs draped across the same knee.
Their shoulders were at ease, laid back against the bend.
They've sat for hours, the few people whom come and gone.
With shoes made for comfort, their heel felt the breeze.
Faces stretched in laughter, deep wrinkles found their shirt.
His arm napped around her, cheeks held up high.
She looked up ever so slightly nudging him with her elbow.
Time flew by, another afternoon spent in the park.
They looked straight ahead.
Orange leaves fell from the tree, she leaned closer to him.
Time walked right on by
Mixed Couple on the Morning Train
Chicago, 2009
Because he works in an office and is white
and because she who tans anyway has just
returned from a week at the Beach,
the commuters are certain she’s not black
yet they rustle in their seats.
They want to see her hands flick.
They want to see if rivers run dark
through ivory palms.
Martin may be dead
and Obama may have won
but in Chicago this morning at dawn
a rainbow of people
still rustle in their seats.
Donal Mahoney