Summer

She lingered over her martini, an olive

floating gracefully in the gin,

vermouth and humor sitting dry on her tongue.

The summer evening slowly inched itself across the tablecloth

until the light from the candle at the center

hindered its crusade to bring on the dark.

I ran my hand over the flame, letting it lick the dent of my palm,

inching it further down until

the quick pain reminded me of that first pinprick of love

the night we met. Do you remember

the earthy smell of the apples slowly rotting under the leaves?

The world altering itself beneath our feet?

There was a sense of urgency back then, a need

for hastened fingertips and my lips to always be pressed to yours, 

skin rubbed in raw emotion until it burned like kindling 

in the night. Your eyes were golden

under the lanterns, your hands pale birds

swooping over your plate.

In that moment my skin burned for the ocean

of your curls across my hips,

the charm on your necklace to brush against my thigh,

the warmth of summer waves to pulse beneath my skin. 

 
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Starward's picture

This poem is exquisely

This poem is exquisely beautiful.  Your command of imagery, metaphor and simile set a very high example for and to all of us who write poetry, and your work could certainly instruct those who need to undertand the varied forms of real poetry.


Starward

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C.Locke's picture

You're making me blush lol

You're making me blush lol


C.Locke

Starward's picture

Glad to do so, because the

Glad to do so, because the accuracy of my words is verified by a reading of the poem.  I wish I had seen this poem, or something like it, forty-five years ago when I first began to experience those preliminary urges toward poetry.


Starward

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