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Patrick Frost Poem
Panes of glass in my soul divide me from my past
Portals that serve as the windows into my future
Yet clearly distort the visions of my present tense
Frosty panes on the periphery of my vision ahead
Wavy, hazy rain streaked dusty and cracked obscure
Coats the window with grime from the road’s voyage
Mirror to the rear shows the receding ways taken
Those paths not chosen, not explored, detoured away
May suggest that the views now studied would differ
Is that better or worse or simply not the same as today?
But if we took another voyage down alternative highways
Would the panes show us the same in the mirror behind?
As water drops seek the same path from here to there
Newton’s laws joining the same river from diverse streams
Would I still see a similar vista as our paths converge?
Or is this expedition uniquely dependent upon our fate
Decorated with the dusty mud and stones of the road taken
Always different but the same as forever in its timely physics
Like a door passed through, does light pass in transiting a pane
Glass clear or hazy, bending the beams into prisms of color
Yesterday impacting on how I steer my life into tomorrow
Come along for the ride, sit next to me and call out the road signs
Enjoy your view and wipe away the frosted breath so I can see
Our vistas may not be the same, but I can still turn and see you
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
A rose can set the tone
In a bunch or all alone
Petals fragrant and fluted
Like a metaphor, red flushed
Like a virgin kissed to blush
Blossom lifted to my lips
A gift from mine to my lover
Perfume bringing us together
Tongue upon the thornless bud
It is the beauty that maintains
The flower stimulates my brain
Trembling and dew decorated
A rose assaults the senses
Tears down all the fences
Leaves open wide on stems
In accepting my loving gift
Can your passion rise swift
As we entwine, climbing vines
Cloris the Goddess of Flowers
You lay naked on a soft bower
Holding your hips, inside you
Timely blossom releases its perfume
A universal metaphor of the womb
Moved by breezes becoming a storm
A rose presented to you from mine
Moment stretches into orgasm time
Pollen of love upon your belly
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
Coleridge once wrote of the Khan’s pleasure dome
Where Mnemosyne, the mother of muses did roam
And her daughter, Caliope, was the muse of epic poetry
Gave rise to Orpheus, who joined Jason on his odyssey
His love, Eurydice was killed while dancing to his tune
A beautiful nymph, the daughter of Apollo, died to soon
Tragedy and comedy underlie classic Greek Mythology
And while ancient in deed, is the basis of psychology
Thus when the creativity springs from my inner mind
I recognize my source of beauty, the special muse behind
Humble poet, graced by a lovely and elegant guiding sprite
A heavenly creature that slips into my dreams in the night
In deed and thought she shines golden light on Earth
Like the starry celestial orb guiding lost sailors to the North
Perhaps she is unaware of her power, unaware of her love
But all I can say is that she is my muse, shinning from above
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
Sometimes you can hide yourself in a mirror
Not everything’s revealed within its glimmer
What you see is only your outer reflection
You’re only looking at lights reverse deflection
Your eye’s look forward but only see back
It’s truly an optical mirage, a reflective façade
Sometimes there are lies in the reflection
Walls that are built to provide you protection
Like makeup used to cover flaws and cracks
Hiding blemishes and limiting the attacks
Paradoxes of light, a brightness that is dimmer
Illuminating the truth, obscuring the grimmer
Sometimes the truth is only seen as fraud
When your outer skin hides what is inside
Mirrors are unique as they capture misdirection
Curved paths of light are only retinal projections
Images presented to the world may never lack
But they may not represent a faithful track
Sometimes a reflection is defined by the shimmers
Of the underlying image like candlelight that flickers
Giving up truths behind the lies seen by refraction
In a mirror’s view when you are open to inspection
Less defined by vision compared to the abstract
Of what is promised to your soul through God’s contract
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
Black and white, I see your outline
Naked body with curves sublime
A face hidden in the shadows
Exposed shoulders seen below
Breasts covered by sheets of light
Seductress, goddess of the night
Wearing nothing, yet mostly obscured
It's the darkness that leaves you bared
My eyes devour your sultry mystery
Tormented in the dark I cannot see
Painted in stockings of light and dark
Hips and belly exposed erotically stark
Your arms open in invitation to sex
I sigh in anticipation, take those steps
Like a 40’s fallen angel, you open
Passion in the night, A noir's token
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
Under the bright lights and up on the main stage
A woman spins plates while the audience rage
She has on a tight dress in its sequined glory
We can watch her caper and listen to her story
I have this plate spinning and now another there
Two in the back, balanced on the legs of that chair
Spin and twirl, I am adding more to whirl and spin
Keeping those up and adding yet more with a grin
So many plates are spinning with more suspended
Darting and dashing –no time- success is dependent
On not allowing anything to slow, to falter, to fall
More on the stage, again, now go low, now go tall
The music is garish and the strain shows on her face
A forest of spinning plates, the strain leaves its trace
That plate is my job, with its demands on my time
The pretty one is my daughter, my absence a crime
I don’t even know if my lover is here; think about that
There is a plate by were I read a book, its where I sat
Once the show has started, there is so little time left
Keeping all these plates spinning is a skill of the deft
They spin and spin and I am alone up here in the front
What happens if one falls, I can’t risk it, I simply wont
I am getting tired and I want to go to sleep in a warm bed
I want to make love to my man, kiss my girl’s soft head
Too many plates are spinning around, but if I add more
Won’t it be better for me, there is lots of room on the floor
The audience claps and chants and demands the trick
But tonight I’m going to make love and try to be orgasmic
I hear a voice whisper, he says, drop some of those plates
Come out with me, let’s eat some dinner, go out on a date
Broken dishes and shards of pottery can be swept up easily
But giggling and laughing is what you should seek eagerly
It will be there tomorrow, the tricks and the onerous tasks
Cara mio, it is my whispers “you are doing all that is asked”
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2018
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Patrick Frost Poem
Autumn scents the air
Heat is gone but not the love
Cold nights are lonely
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2018
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Patrick Frost Poem
Achy with flu, but to tired to drift into a deep sleep, my body stalks the corridors of twilight, moving between being awake and floating on dreams. Time is a stranger to physics and physics are dictated by my restless thoughts that have become unmoored and adrift.
My head is too hot, but my feet are cold. The murmurings of an evil sprite that sits by my ear and whispers jokes about my failures and describes the ironies of how my dreams of success are just puns of failures. I try to argue with him but he is privy to all and understands nothing and capers with delight at my dismay. Growing furious, I try to grapple with him, but says with a wink “I know of things that are much worse, do you want to sing those songs with me later?”
The clock next to my bed says its 2:04AM, and I think: “How interesting, that is the same as my temperature. What a fever I am running!”. Yet, I know I am wrong, and I wonder if fevers are measured in Celsius, Fahrenheit or kilometers. But that doesn’t seem right somehow.
I wonder if I should have taken another pill; a Tylenol or LSD or maybe something to give me an erection. It has been such a long time since I have had intercourse, and my hand moves to my penis and finds it asleep. “Traitor! Even if my head hurts to much to screw, who would want me?”.
Did I hear that from the girl sitting on my bookcase and putting on different faces with her lipstick. I don’t recognize her names but I remember the heartaches. She laughs and says “too bad, had you been more of somethings and less of others, I could have loved you. But you were less and more, so I went to be away from here and off to be there.”
How did I not notice a basket of kittens are tangling with the skeins of fate? I try to catch them, but they are so delicate that I crush them into smaller cats and press them deeper into the lace. If only I could put them back in the basket, but the tiny cats get under the bed, in the closet, and behind the comforter where the sprite plays with them using a bit of life’s twine.
The clock says its 1:30 AM and that just seems unfair. I've slept through this hour and now I am much more tired and sore than the first time I was here before. A pill would be nice, maybe one to make me sleep or allow me talk to that girl who I know is loving someone else in a way that I can’t capture. Like those freaking kittens! Maybe I should have dreamed of a puppy?
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2018
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Patrick Frost Poem
An autumn pallet of colors so bright
Makes my heart sing with delight
When the weather gets cooler,
And the nights are so much darker
I dream of sitting with you by the fire
Crisp is the fall air that carries the scents
The perfume of summer long since spent
When the weather was much warmer
And the days were so much longer
I dream of you sitting with me by the fire
Gray days, cold and bundled in warm sweaters
Cheeks and hair kissed by the wind unfettered
Promise of holidays, families together
And the days will be so much more festive
I dream of holding you close by the fire
Apples and spices and tastes rich with the fall
Promise of snow and ice underlying it all
Then the nights will be bitter and cold
And the last of the year will turn sullen and old
But I dream of the warmth of your body by the fire
Leaves bright, and painted and beautiful decorating the trees
Gladdens the heart, opens the senses, emotions it frees
Each morning it dawns clean and exciting
And the autumn of the year becomes more enticing
As I dream of your eyes reflecting the light of the fire
You are to me, a beautiful gift, reminding me of what I gained
Mostly the good, the wonderful and sometimes of the pain
When I first met you, on the path of my life
And the journey we take, together tonight
As you feel my heart beat to the heat of the fire
An artist’s pallet can not capture the autumn colors
Of the changing seasons or the harvest moon’s pallor
The nights will be cold and the days much shorter
And I look forward to spring days on the horizon
As we hold each other’s souls in the flames of the fire.
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2017
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Patrick Frost Poem
Sitting there on the wet cold pavement
Here is warm solace from a cold bottle
Preaching the gospel of the destitute
Exploring the vanity of my self defeats
Anger leads to harmonious frustrations
I’m lying to friends that I don’t really like
These strangers who randomly joined me
To share confidences and profane insight
Tonight there are stories I want to tell you
But no one hears my words, silent they are
Dreams I once felt, they lightened my heart
Now thoughts that pierce with anxiousness
Times were so different then today’s now
Now was never what I believed would be
A path I thought to take went to somewhere
Not imagined, leading astray, winding away
Quaff the rum and feel the heat in my limbs
Numb my ranting and close my blind eyes
Silence the mute people who talk of nothing
But of failures they embraced to themselves
Should I continue to fight for a pyrrhic victory?
Own the end of the struggle, defined by the road
Or talk about beginnings to start the ending of all
Leaving on this trail, is there another path to take
These Kinetic forces that define my movements
Dancing to fates that hate the songs being sung
Music of remorse, harmony of horn’s cacophony
The orchestra that’s directed by a fickly conductor
Are these choices made ago, set by today’s reality
Or can the things that I do now be fixed in the past
Is it now time to do the things I want to do tomorrow
Can I stop what was begun by not ending the game?
The remorse of love not taken, not made, not tried
The safety of shelter when nothing is done or risked
Words that aren’t said to people who weren’t listening
So what is worse, not being who you were not to be?
Tonight, I am going to get drunk and explore my faults
Laugh at those jokes not told and cry from pains not felt
Dream of success not earned and defeats I am proud of
Try to be the man I was before I was a man full grown
Copyright © Patrick Frost | Year Posted 2018
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