the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘relationship’

Time in a queen’s single slough

The one time, I’d give up time–twice,
as fast as chlorophyll leaves fall
to the ground: blood. Oranges coupled with bitters,
the saving grace: incoherent post-midnight mumblings of the past
day passing, air calms, (eupnea)
Leviathan to break free, locked up in this Loch
Lethargy desiring, to dote its anti-dote, anticipating
the smearing of oil, and the anointed,
return the plastic clamshell, tearing away,
thermoformed around a thermometer’s rising crescent,
carmine colored by parasitic spirits leaving,
into veins cautiously cauterizing
a brand. New. Return to each single second
is not difficult to imagine place to serve,
time in a queen’s single slough, tossing,
turning slowly-recalling at once,
upon a time.

The recent mail

if I had just discovered a fresh letter from the post,
there would be more pining for
I would love you more if you had introduced yourself yesterday
or if I knew less grace less often

I don’t see much of you,when I do, we don’t talk.
I’m running–I promise I love you
and I would tell the pagans this–
if I saw some every once and a while.

Copper pennies

Copper pennies rolling across hardwood floors
camouflaged by stain, heavy spit from change jars,
“Messy chunks!”
I yell inside as pennies wave farewell:
split onto the floor–
another relationship gathers spare change,
but solid the jar still stays–albeit sideways–
ready for another handful of unwanted memories
and thoughts of distrust culminating in
bills beckoning a deeper exchange

The night after

The dial-tone returned, and I lied silently down
re-associating us into singular pronouns,
surely, I’ll wake from what my subconscious’s unwound,
for yet no tear or murmuring of sound,
but this phone’s clock blinks only three here,
maturity or just callousness as I fear?
Can’t help but call grace, mother–
forgiven, madness today, forgiving madness another,
forcing resentment resolved
by persons entirely uninvolved,
waiting for our critics critiquing,
sick of “but so sweet and cute”– as if comforting?!
and rehearsing witnessing words of an evangelist,
cramming faith into a one minute gist.
The night after–kettle corn is popping,
adhering to uncle’s doc’s rule of no butter sopping.
Launching kernels into the air, I catch 22:
if I hate or love, I consume you.
If you must consume me to live alone, again
Then, eat and let the rest of our lives begin.

The sadness

The urge
the tube top
the water
the beer
the muscles
the dreams
the pool
the pain
the regret

© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.