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Sunday, March 30, 2014

Saturday Rain

Originally posted online Apr 6, 2011


Together uncover the bed
sliding coverlets and quilts
to the floor.
We move beneath the clean crisp sheets
the touch of hand to hip,
tongue to throat
breath to breath
enclosing us in sensation.

The memory of a thousand nights
gone before
provides us a menu for pleasure –
we pick and choose
without thought,
eating of each other
until we are sated.

We press bruised lips
to eyes that flutter,
darkened by shadows
that slide across walls
another rainy Saturday
well spent.

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Thursday, March 27, 2014

An Aubade of Spring


Winter’s plodding sombre time
comes to a welcome close.
All things move slower in the cold
save my fingertips on my keyboard,
fallen leaves lie fallow
like fallen moods
lie sodden from their season’s melted blankets
awaiting the quickening
we all feel
just out of sight.

The sonorous drone of winter’s groan -
will it spring into exalted tune
when it warms?
Will it expand into the hum
of a trillion lives beginning?
Would my sodden heart
begin an aria to new beginnings?

Would my curious hands
weave words of magical cures?
Can I see past the pain of arthritic joints
and shoveler’s calloused hands to find
new growth, new starts,
and second chances?
I hunger for the new,
to wash the taste of the past
from my lips.

And so I watch this patch of sun
crawl along my wall until it kisses me.
Giving up on the harsh memories
of frost and rime, I think only
of greenery, the twitter of birds
and the soft kiss of love.

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Tuesday, March 25, 2014

I Beat him Every Time


He never gave up, but I was more skilled
Even though he tried so hard.
His Rock’em Sock’em robot always got killed
And I always played the winning card.

At backgammon we made up our own set of rules
But the luck of the dice fell my way.
In Museum Jackpot I collected more jewels
Until he cried and refused to play.

I beat him at Othello, Risk and Candy Land,
His Battleship got sunk every single time.
Whether Poker, War, or Fish, I had the winning hand,
And at Clue I solved each and every crime.

“But it’s not fair!” he said in a voice with a whine,
As I whipped him at checkers once more.
It is true the victories always seemed to be mine
And as a loser he was continually sore.

Of course, I know the honest truth
For my continued gaming perfection,
I was alone for most of my youth,
Competing against my own reflection.

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Friday, March 21, 2014

Poets Starve

The Poer Poet by Carl Spitzweg


In a world where knowledge
is the new currency
poets starve.

We offer words -
thornless and long-stemmed
hoping for them to bloom within you.

They thirst, and desiccate
unless you nourish them
so that they might thrive into circumference.

Poverty is a poem
that dies just after
you decide not to read it.

And we bleed for each one,
willing to pay the price
for those few pressed into the book of your life.

If you knew what I meant
before you read what I wrote
you have doomed me to dust.

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Monday, March 17, 2014

An Irishman Explains Himself


It is my own decision, my own preference,
my choice to be either liked or admired.
I have decided that fitting in is not nearly the same
as discovering where I belong.

And so I wander this world, and I watch.

I’ve seen the moments when dawn snuck up on the rooster,
witnessed the many times a good woman took him back
and the times he let her down again.
I was horrified but not surprised
to learn how much bad there is,

If you choose to seek it out.

And I’ve been present at moments of such wonder,
such magnificent intricacy
and statistical anomaly,
that I weep for their transience.

They’ve often happened at the dinner table.

There has been growth, and reversal,
pain and pleasure, fortune and hunger,
and the boundless sundry wants and desires
of someone who has always faced life
leading with his chin.

I cherish my solitude.

Sometimes I’ll hop a ride and end up somewhere else;
just because I can. I’ve slept under a blanket of stars
all alone, with nothing between me and the heavens
but the mistakes I’ve made.

If I never cross the line how do I know where it is?

I’ve come to believe that of all man’s endeavors,
of all the inventions, practices, rituals, customs or habits -
the finest and most complete form of communication
possible between two souls
costs nothing more than the time it takes.

I believe in kissing.


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© Christopher Reilley 2008

Sunday, March 16, 2014

The Meaning and the Message


They slipped so sweetly
into the burning hunger between them,
unaware of the lapping of surf,
knowing only the dancing of their tongues
seeking the harmonies of their lust.

The beach was abandoned,
like the pretense of civility they
tossed aside, groping and clutching
as only two brand new lovers are able.

The whispered adoration they had prayed for
was finally spilling into their heated grasp,
tossing tops and hastily pulled cotton to the dry sand,
tearing away at each other in a slow simmering motion,
a time-lapse frenzy,
their wants overcoming
any need for restraint,
yet neither wanted this moment of purity to end.

The fire between them made the sun sizzle,
kissing the wet skyline
as it snuck away below the horizon
seeking its own modesty,
and when she felt his stubble feast
on the white lushness of her swan’s neck
and his still-denim’d bulge hit her pubic bone,
rocking with just the right clitoral tease
her toes pointed, as rigid as a Puritan,
her insides melted and gushed,
and warmth blanketed her
from the inside.

She didn’t care if her discarded clothes
were washed out to the licking sea,
He cared nothing for the time, or tide.
In their mutual abandon
they found their meaning,
and their message.

This piece was written from a poetry prompt from, in which the task was to write a poem without using the sense of vision, or sight, in any way.

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I Never Thought


In my youth I did not plan
on needing this body for this long,
so I drove it like a getaway car
I was planning to leave in flames
on the side of a highway.

I treated it like the cabinet
under the kitchen sink
and filled it with enough chemicals
to keep a stadium clean
well into the next millennium.

Getting old
was never on the agenda.
I never expected to outlive
so many people in my life,
including friends and relatives
who were a lot nicer to themselves
then I ever tried to be.

I thought my starving and hearty demons
would consume me long before theirs would.
As it turns out, mine had no need for my life
only my bankrupt soul.

Growing old was not on my bucket list.
Nowhere in my my wildest dreams
did it occur to me that I would
live long enough to meet her,
my wife, and my perfect woman
of those wild tempest-tossed dreams.

If I knew that she was going to be
there, waiting for me like an angel
at the gates of Heaven,
then I would have tried harder
to make it this far in better shape.

I had never imagined that I would be in love,
that I would want to stick around
to see what happened next.
Never assumed I'd be worth a damn
once I got to this point.
I never thought I would look forward
to looking forward,
to see tomorrow.

I never thought.

Thursday, March 13, 2014



Geese are returning and life is bursting free,
the days and nights are now spaced equally.

What was frozen is now warming, generally,
sunshine unclenches what was tightly gripped in me.

Enough dark remains to remind us all to rest
large mammals now unwind from their long rest,

hidden bulbs are sprouting a noble skyward quest
and folks start preparing their Easter Sunday best.

The Equinox is here, Spring is sprung upon us all,
flowers are drinking in the rains every time they fall,

starlight has it own tidal pull, we each hear the call,
ice and fire dance along razors edge, to rise and then fall.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Dystopian Doom


When cities have all devolved to rust
and nothing is left of diamonds but dust,
when there is no one left for you to trust,
The world will have passed away.

It has taken a thousand thousand Mays;
a countless stream of nights and days
a planetary lifetime spent in selfish haze
With little enough being left to say.

There’s been war on this globe since before my birth
Not one single day of peace for Mother Earth
Since mankind has always neglected her worth
being born knowing no other way.

We choked her with poison pumped into air,
acid in her rain, from here to there
soiled our own bed with hardly a care,
leaving us no place to stay.

Oh, we talk the talk when push comes to shove,
and do what we must in the name of self-love
but when nuclear clouds block the sun above
we will be forced to deal with our decay.

Our science has stepped over ethical bounds
giddy with glee over each discovery found
and there are now so few philosophers around,
that this mongrel dog has wasted its day.

There is yet time to forestall our demise,
we need to be looking with Earth’s green eyes
we can at least be careful if we cannot be wise
or we can return to the dust and clay.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

What Else Can I Do?


Many events occur
while the world spins
on the tip of God’s finger.

Ocean drops fall like tears
depositing themselves on the walls of caves,
winds whistle tunelessly
catching hair in a madcap dance,
and depositing trash into lonely corners.

Plans made by man get lost in the current of life
as they discover that they must paddle twice as hard
to avoid the jagged rocks
on the far side of the precipice.

And we age, and we learn, and we die
sometimes with a smile on our lips
or else with the last kiss we will ever know,
our breath joining the chorus
as we gasp our last gasp into the ether.

My head, even now, thrown back in laughter
Has bought me far more than money thrown forward,
I could press myself down, deeper into the mattress,
or work myself harder than a Chinese seamtress,
or I could laugh myself sick at the folly of it all,
but I’ll never slap my own face as hard as the sea has done
nor will I find forgiveness in a barmaid’s smile.

These things and more could I do,
while the globe spins on its course
oblivious to my wants or needs.
The only place I will find a helping hand
is inside my own sleeve.