Words for Wednesday

Restricted Fragile Materials 

~ CATHERINE BARNETT

It should be easy, I tell my son,

to dispose of the possessions kept

in these rooms.

I’ve left some things on a shelf for him, see?

These coupons might still be valid,

the vinegar will keep forever.

I’ve always liked the idea of order.

I’ve always liked the idea of the sofa at West Elm

but never did commit.

If  I could, I’d just lie here

taking measurements,

leaving ghostlier and ghostlier

impressions until thinking ends

and the lights go out.

Let my memory-depleted memory

preserve all this joy:

restricted fragile materials.

Who can stop me?

It’s not illegal to want to hold on.

To get to my archives,

my son will have to put his ear to the ground,

listen for a quiet scream.

And beneath that, like groundwater,

the endless chatter

of praise and lament.

How will I tell him the river I

feared to drink from

has come to drink from me?

May he, too, have fair winds

and following seas.

Photo by the blogger. If you copy, please link back.

Monday at the Movies

Would watch

This Is a Prayer to Aphrodite. This Is a Prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer to Aphrodite.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for love and beauty.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for wine and roses.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for orgasm.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

Turning my eyes from ugly times, I cry to the Goddess of Beauty.  Beaten down again and again, I cry to She Who Enjoys.

“Aphrodite!” I cry.  “You wear sea foam, You stand on a shell, You are surrounded by cherubim.  Send, Great Goddess, Your cherubim to bring beauty back to the world.”

My Goddess lifts Her left foot, Her left foot covered in foam.  She shakes off the foam and begins to dance.

This is a prayer to Aphrodite.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for mirth and irreverance.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for perfume and starlight.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for artists and lovers.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

In a time of cruelty and hatred, I cry to the Goddess of Love.  Out of sorrow and deep depression, I cry to She Who Stirs Passion.

“Aphrodite!” I cry.  “You take many lovers, You admire Your own beauty, Your shining eyes light up the world.  Turn again, Great Goddess, Your eyes upon us that we may remember why we Resist.”

My Goddess looks at Herself in a mirror.  My Goddess takes joy in her own beauty.  Slowly, She holds the mirror up to us and invites us to see what we can create.

This is a prayer for foot rubs and sex toys.  This is prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for dancing and music.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for the reasons why.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer to Aphrodite.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

Photo by the blogger. If you copy, please link back.

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Blessed Beltane

Walpurgisnacht

Monday at the Movies

Words for Wednesday

His Own Apollo

~Cyrus Cassells

My friend is by no means Dracula or a werewolf,

but the full moon’s mostly lawless beauty

has never failed to tantalize him,

to lure him outdoors.

Tonight the gallivanting moon,

all systems go,

makes a pallid cascade in the Roman street,

while my spirited mentor relates,

over chamomile tea,

his once-upon-a-time penchant for “cruising.”

At first, he found unhampered freedom

in forest anonymity and horseplay,

and a kind of erotic royalty,

since, in his galvanizing “strolls”

(his tickling noun for them),

his Olympian blondness

and glittering  gimlet eyes

made him “the belle of the ball”—

the besotted men’s clandestine lips

and fly-by-night hands

at sweet stations of  his body,

a reckless Song of Solomon.

“At the witching hour,”

in the mesmerizing woods,

with his lingering or ablaze admirers,

sometimes he experienced

authentic ecstasy,

as if  he could dwell forever

in the subsuming hallelujah and ellipsis

of  his final orgasm,

or sing to his frenetic cohort

of al fresco confederates

and acolytes of moonlight,

like a vast-throated Pavarotti.

At stark sunup, he’d tiptoe back

to his milquetoast rooms,

his small shade-drawn oasis,

staving off  his workday

or collegiate tussles

with a truant’s joys: a treasure trove

of shelled pistachios

and a pack of unfailing Camels.

My friend is by no means Methuselah,

though he’s white-haired,

devoted to the domestic nowadays,

the linnet’s aria and the owl’s call

are still thrilling to encounter.

Tonight, my untrammeled maestro confesses

he perceives the roll-call beauty

of foraging, at-the-ready men,

circling and coupling in the forest

with the will of conquistadors,

as more fleet and arresting than ever.

He insists that strolling nights

under the alluring moon,

when no one’s waiting for him,

is no longer worth his while.

As a buoyant elder, a riveting sage,

he’s vibrant but done with the hunt,

the unmonitored prowl.

He knows, to the marrow, how easily

the bracing woods can become

an overriding obsession

or an illusory escape.

Breathing in the ebullient nighttime air,

under the moon’s penetrating,

busybody gaze, in his invisible tie

and dress suit of solitude, all politesse,

he’s his own best company,

his own intoxicating Apollo.

Picture found here.

Monday at the Movies

Too close to home?

Springtime Here

I borrowed this from Byron Ballard.