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Monday, October 19, 2015

Like the Surf Loves the Shore





LIKE THE SURF LOVES THE SHORE


Across the tan lines
the tongue licks,
sucks the half moon band
closer to heaven
until
it narrows to a tight lip,
then swallows.

It repeats
and repeats
and repeats.

Spume splats the rocks
in a rhythm matched by
sloppy goodbye kisses
that mean hello
in their private
tongue.
Heat meets cool,
flows,
churns,
steaming within.

The surf batters the coast
as hunger batters ecstasy
within them both,
their final kiss
gone with the middle wind
carrying love
to the heights.








©2015 Christopher Reilley
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Monday, October 12, 2015

The Here and Now



THE HERE AND NOW


Come live this moment, the Here and Now
among the vast cascade of years.
Wring every drop that Fates allow
from cold jealousies and furnished fears.

Average lovelies are forever fifteen,
while true beauty grows older above.
No great passion in those too green;
while fine for lust, but not for Love.

Eventually you might come to see
my soul by yours beguiled,
our dance of Love would be as free
as the laughter of a playful child.

Come love me, for what time may take
before you must drift away.
Of my hunger a virtue I will make
and dine upon you while I may.

Let us wrestle with the hand of Fate
and if our success is meant,
let love be something we can create
despite others attempts to prevent.



©2011 Christopher Reilley



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Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Ode to a Ginger



ODE TO A GINGER

It was the eyes that got me, those eyes,
undecided between green or brown,
the transition betwixt and between
a cosmic riot -
galactic nebulae swirls
like pictures from Hubble,
iridescence that caught the light,
played with it like a lazy cat
then loosed upon you,
drowning you in complex beauty.

The hair was the primary lure, sure,
New England Forest red -
a shade that demanded attention,
drawing the eye
away from drab gray reality.

Freckles pulled you closer -
like a pointillist painting
their overall shade
scintillated into individuated dots,
skin refusing to brown in sunlight
converted tan to a binary score,
compelling my vision to wander,
a glance extending to a visual caress.

And where her skin was unkissed by sun;
pale as moon-milk,
porcelain frail -
a kiss would find shivering life
quickened into heat.

But it was those eyes;
those piercing portals to goddess
born to a race called unlucky,
those eyes spun me around
from the inside, reversed my polarity
and taught my heart the cruelest trick -
the creation of a hole
where only she could reside.

And when we parted,
said farewells with forever in their echo,
she carried a small piece of me away with her
and it is out there still.







©2015 Christopher Reilley

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The Magic of the Blues




The Magic of the Blues

Blues.
Pain.
Hope lives.
Music also lives.

There is truth in pain.

All men, women, children feel the heart's beat.

There is always music in Hope,
and there is Truth in the Blues.

Even the whitest of white men
is only three heartbreaks away
from being a bluesman.

The Blues was born
the day the verdant West African shoreline
fell away from sight,
while the overloaded ship
slipped away from the horizon.

The only way the magic of the Blues will ever die out
from the musical language of this world we share
is if by some small chance the power of love
becomes greater than the love of power
and the world knows nothing but peace.


This poem is a Fibonacci sequence.

©2015 Christopher Reilley

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