An old poem rewritten with the benefit of poetic maturity.
A thousand impish flowers labor
in the cymbal crashing Souza
march of spring, spritzing
ambrosial jets of vapor
levitating an invisible gaseous cloud
of potent lurking scent
to ambush the preoccupied or proud
citizen-in-passing, day tragically spent.
A floral mugging is surely done,
Honeysuckle Aromatis stuns the nostrils,
mercilessly not deigning to slightly spare
citizen-in-passing of transcendence
to anesthetic purging of every care.
It is not now the walking path
that is so adamantly seen but stark
images from a former Bonanza life
projected in stroboscopic chaos
upon an incandescent screen, an ethos
quite unlike what is and what soon will be.
Friends appear roasting marshmallows
with well muscled hands talking with
abandon around a winking campfire
but calmly so as not to burn their lips.
Friday's date cracks a door.
Suspense, then emerges in heels,
lime chiffon blouse, curls, ample hips
snug in black satin smelling
like Honeysuckle accepting a hand.
Darkness stops a tireless basketball game,
shooting and dribbling with barbaric ardor
without traveling, ceases and sweaty bodies
pile into well tuned cars to drive
to the ice cream parlor.
The bobber plunges as a scrappy
fat bluegill fights casting dull
metallic flashes reflecting twilight
over the teeming cricket ranting lake.
Halloween appears in naive
pageantry with jugs of cider, floating
apples, revelers mobbing to shake
the living room of a Cape Cod house.
Incandescence dims in the gusting
night wind and it is the walking path
that is seen running to what is and
what soon will be, well trod by the
blind footsteps of citizen-in-passing
feeling robbed of everything and
left naked with elements as intoxicating
scent dissipates and so
do the honeysuckle memories
of fragrant days long ago.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 709 times
Written on 2008-07-07 at 05:19
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Honeysuckle Memories
A thousand impish flowers labor
in the cymbal crashing Souza
march of spring, spritzing
ambrosial jets of vapor
levitating an invisible gaseous cloud
of potent lurking scent
to ambush the preoccupied or proud
citizen-in-passing, day tragically spent.
A floral mugging is surely done,
Honeysuckle Aromatis stuns the nostrils,
mercilessly not deigning to slightly spare
citizen-in-passing of transcendence
to anesthetic purging of every care.
It is not now the walking path
that is so adamantly seen but stark
images from a former Bonanza life
projected in stroboscopic chaos
upon an incandescent screen, an ethos
quite unlike what is and what soon will be.
Friends appear roasting marshmallows
with well muscled hands talking with
abandon around a winking campfire
but calmly so as not to burn their lips.
Friday's date cracks a door.
Suspense, then emerges in heels,
lime chiffon blouse, curls, ample hips
snug in black satin smelling
like Honeysuckle accepting a hand.
Darkness stops a tireless basketball game,
shooting and dribbling with barbaric ardor
without traveling, ceases and sweaty bodies
pile into well tuned cars to drive
to the ice cream parlor.
The bobber plunges as a scrappy
fat bluegill fights casting dull
metallic flashes reflecting twilight
over the teeming cricket ranting lake.
Halloween appears in naive
pageantry with jugs of cider, floating
apples, revelers mobbing to shake
the living room of a Cape Cod house.
Incandescence dims in the gusting
night wind and it is the walking path
that is seen running to what is and
what soon will be, well trod by the
blind footsteps of citizen-in-passing
feeling robbed of everything and
left naked with elements as intoxicating
scent dissipates and so
do the honeysuckle memories
of fragrant days long ago.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 709 times
Written on 2008-07-07 at 05:19
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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