The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Mas Canet, France
If you have comments or suggestions for Alan Morgan, you can contact this author at:
Armjam@aol.com (Alan Morgan)
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caressing everywhere my weary body.
My lover has gone.
Already I miss the first, hot touch
of our waking.
Outside birds are singing,
A day is coming.
I feel my heart throbbing,
I remember when I loved a girl and never knew it;
'till one afternoon she ran forever,
and wed another.
And I, young fool, in rage went to some distant country.
Now, forty years have passed and she
is in me still.
The smell, the taste, the eyes:
Ah yes those eyes.
I can still recall those eyes.
Brown, I think. Yes.............
And that pale face.
All lost so quickly one careless afternoon.
In the Sweet Time
Walking through fresh mountain air,
In the sweet season of spring.
I came across fields of wild orchids.
And the delight of their dancing charms,
the vivid greenness of new life,
reminded me of my true love.
And I wept tears of gratitude:
feeling once more that joy
which moves within me
As she moves.
Looking at you, the other day,
quietly relaxing in a low armchair.
One leg tucked carelessly underneath the other.
And that long black hair, falling free for once;
I thought once more how beautiful you are.
Your graceful stillness broken
by expressive movements of your long dark eyebrows
and the glow, within those chestnut eyes,
as they fill with laughter.
Around you air sparkles.
So when you left
the magic went too.
And I trembled at the sudden change
as life became an empty wilderness again.
Those gentle lines upon your face
remind me of times past;
when you stood by me.
While none would lift a finger.
Your firm hand, resting on my shoulder,
whilst looking weaker people in the eye.
Your honest face, full of laughter, at disaster.
Pain eases as you age:
But memories linger.
Shall we paint,
you and I,
To remember, one another by.
Then lie them face to face
in a private sunny place,
we should find mixed paint,
So I am you and you are me.
Perhaps part of me will always be in you
and part of you in me.
Softest of Tongues
With the softest of tongues we love
each tender place;
Quivering in awe
at the beautiful rhythm of our music.
Even stones sigh
when we fly.
There is the scent of you.
The longing for you; and that
Oh so exquisite ache of
I must have you again.
in the cool morning air.
With that slow, confident, salsa swaying swagger
of one who has loved too well.
Pausin, only to wipe a lazy tear from
a sated blue eye.
As those clever fingers of her lover
play a Chopin Polonaise upon her spine.