Sparks flicker from honey lips.
Shower me in purest fire.
Gravity lathes my ellipse
as we bask in our desire.
Shudders quake when passion grips
this yearning howls to inspire.
My mantle once longed to drift
in shame and disappointment.
Your voice charmed a brilliant shift
spurring my blazing accent.
Dancing comets praise our gift--
this hallowed ordained event.
My youthful friend, when I was a lad
such as you, I was dismayed to find
that running a stick across the lathes of a fence
did not make music.
My hopes were the regular beat of a stick
on slats would compose a song.
It scratched the bright, white paint of the pickets,
it oscillated my hand,
it made a noise equal to the rhythm
of my steps but it did not make music.
Remember this sad story, my young fellow,
so that you too will learn;
life’s expectations should not be too splendid
for I fear you will find it is the only
means by which your disappointments
are diminished.
Rum me fast,
Let it warm snowy sinews,
My fingers cannot move,
Heat them at last,
My legs feel leaden,
As if weighing tons,
Let them march past,
My facial muscles are screwed in hold,
Liquefy them from the cold,
Light the furnace,
Let the fire grab the rum in embrace,
Bring me a bowl of hot soup,
Which can heat me,
From toe to lip,
Put over me warmer clothes,
Freezing winds are working in like sharp lathes,
They are all my dearest hopes,
As I lye forlorn on a cold footpath,
And stagger up to get up catching stand rope.
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