the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘romance’

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.


Pommelled fruit

Back up against a tree,
golden foliage shelters the curves,
freckled islands, a desert
of smooth sand, gripped by palms
soaked in the sweet, salty sweat of a summer night
squeezed of the juice from a fallen fruit.


Keep asking cause you’ve smbitten me.

If they were secure as me, they’d be free laughing hysterically underneath the foldout bed here with me,
Crazy thing, finding the perfect between extremes:
listens / disappears / won’t shut up / “Yes we know you’re here.”

How many sucker souls daily get seduced by your curiosity?
Tell me and keep asking, too, ’cause you’ve smbitten me.
Could I love this way? Is your interest real?
Yeah, but
could I get over the jealousy
of your interest–in all the other Mr. Mysterys?


The crushes

Vina Beans and marshmallows
over electric stoves,
testing physics experiments on Jasmine and
Heather, my Papillion, fluttering in the
Sunshine Shellie

Elizabeth and Mary, did you know?
Probably not, but
I told Sarah, well one of them, who was taken, but wanted away from me,
Niki, it would have been fun, but awkward dancing,
but I’m cool with that
as I’m sure Niki would have been sippin’ B&N mocha,
there was no sign as there was with Princesses on missions,
and along came another as always
holding them until they can fly–
away from me.

But there are Specks of smiling always discovering
disruptions and Allie ways,
oh, hesitant Beatrice,
beautiful in her doubt,
became a bulldog in order to feed the hungry


Mantis religiosa (only-pricks-of-protein)

Curious, I enter her sight
as the lab coats watch
administrating bright lights and magnifying glasses from above,
ingesting her scent, I approach cautiously,
we pray,
we stare
we flirt,
we dance,
our wings flitter
against the glass ceiling–you stop.
I tackle her into the grassy Green
rolling around abdomens aligned.

I gesture to leave,
but you blink and motion back,
toothed arms rubbing my chest gripping
her-moans–my fantasy,

locked, lips draw blood,
her arms thrash my sternum,
the S-bending of her abdomen revolves,
she blinks again as the
antennae lash out the eyes
and the late summer sky.

Epilogue:
“Placing them in the same jar, the male, in alarm, endeavored to escape. In a few minutes the female succeeded in grasping him. She first bit off his front tarsus, and consumed the tibia and femur. Next she gnawed out his left eye…it seems to be only by accident that a male ever escapes alive from the embraces of his partner”
-Leland Ossian Howard, Science, 1886


Only wires and air

And we bow down to these vaginal idols,
every moment of every day-
dream there she is–right beside me,
and I don’t even know her.
Such a pantheon to worship:
to assume there is a perfect goddess
is betting on Mercury
waiting, waiting for the return letter,
checking every conversation for an address to permanently live.
Oh! to be unmade by the batting of lashes and the curves
of roads that lead and twist and detour
signs left by others point, but behind
the wheel seems to be the only pointer,
pulling up beside a car zooming along to the same curves,
but a different road each time,
never to meet again.
Maybe if I collide and call Allstate, we’ll get to talk,
I could glance at her home address,
or at least she’d yell at me as we fill out forms.
It would be better than this
mechanism called radio with its chord-less voice
of only wires and air.


She’s all down here, all up there

Can’t decide
between the friend
and the idea of
crossing the bridge of action–
misunderstood always
like the use of English,
complicated, because there’s no way else to live–
I mean to analyze:
parsing desires and relationships
like grammar.

She’s all down here, all up there
in a heaven where they don’t wear white, but red
and don’t have it all together
and we love tension
because it refines
and that’s fine with me
as we pray for fortitude from the gurgle inside
and the pride that bubbles over
into the glass blown gods of creativity
reflecting second thoughts and shadows of fear in our minds’ eye
of what freedom from our common sense might have rung in our ears–
For all I have now are eyes and ears(–letters and sounds).


One of these days

we’ll watch movies, play monopoly,
I’ll be the terrier, you the cavalry,
we’ll sing and dance under clouds of rain,
not so similar songs, but the tune’ll be the same,
there’ll be reading of writing of long ago,
maybe quoting of passages we’ll always know:
we’ll bear the hearts we hide from public eye
to another that understands the why
there’s been cowering in corners too long–afraid,
afraid of what our Creator has blessed and made,
you’ll arrive on a north wind, I on a south,
will meet together and forget life without,
for I sense a change in the air,
but no vane heralds quite where.
or who or where it will take us to


No one to romance

There is no one to be the receiver of my romance,
No woman in my life worthy of my waiting on to dance,
I crave to craft art for her ear and eyes,
Listen to her laughter; comfort as she cries,
Meditate on her ruminations and discuss her daily digests.
Hear the air of her breath, watch the rise and fall of her chest.
Where is she? Tell me please,
So I can cherish her now. Certainly I must,
Construct trestles of trust before I rust.
Surely, it’s her time for me to see
And love all parts of her with every part of me.



© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.