“You Take My Hand”

 

and in that gesture
satisfy my dizzy, naked need,
spellbound as spent leaf
whose golden moment
has no hunger left
but blissful floats
mid magic flutter
back to earth.

“Holy Hands!”

John card playing(John Casey) Photo by Jacqueline Casey

I dreamt last night I attend
the Church of the Holy Hands!
Firm fanatics, believers brew;
a congregation of Fifty-Two.

“Have pocket aces in your stew
before you receive your due;
before glory rains upon you, too!”

I genuflect, bow and find a pew
as the devil shoves his chips my way.
All my Hold’em followers chant: “Tsk-tsk.
It ain’t ‘gamblin’, you fool!
Just a calculated risk!”

 (write a 66 word piece.  Include the word, fanatic.)

“Promises”

seagulls-flying-26933029

“Promises”

You’re rolling out to sea
You’re waving me goodbye
Yet I am not set free
this seagull cannot fly.

“Goodbye”, the buoy tolls.
“I’ll miss you more and more.
Release my restless soul.
Adrift, I cannot soar.”

I’ve learned one certain truth:
there isn’t any death.
There’s only your last words
where I am left bereft.

Don’t ask a ‘pardon me’;
I’ll free you in advance.
I’ll let your kisses go
forgetting our last dance.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in.
Don’t ask me not to share
as boundless heartache mends.

Goodbye, goodbye, my heart
your sins now have reprieve
as I forgive your part:
your love did not deceive.

So waves my hurt from shore;
Your wintry face is pale
as I will love you more
as soft now sets your sail.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in…
But once the moment’s gone
Love’s promises don’t end.

 

 

“The Game”

 “The Game”

Faint amber glow remains to haunt
their fiery past.
Her slumber stirs.  His candle cast
and with its burn, her snuffer there again to taunt
but not to trim his light.
His wick still wild with passion’s flight.
dreams emboldened; reckless delight.

nightmare-300x245Painting by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825)

“Invictus” by Henley

This seems such a great poem to begin the New Year, 2014.

“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”
William Ernest Henley, poet. Vanity Fair Magazine 11/26/1892.