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| "Face 198d" © 2016 David Prashker |
All our lives we fumble in the dark
like teenage lovers
under cover of a midnight park
searching for what is never as we dreamed
scared as much of darkness as “the other”
scared of our own indoctrinated guilt
tormented by the phantom mythic beast
alleged to lurk beneath the lovers’ quilt
or in priapic playfulness at least -
yet who is never really so ferocious as he seemed
*
Ayishah, I long to interpret the silence
you weave about your absence
the coded messages inside your letters
which confirm our deeper correspondence
the secrets of your hidden life
untouched by circumstance
Ayishah
It is not true what they say
about the heart growing fonder
like teenage lovers
under cover of a midnight park
searching for what is never as we dreamed
scared as much of darkness as “the other”
scared of our own indoctrinated guilt
tormented by the phantom mythic beast
alleged to lurk beneath the lovers’ quilt
or in priapic playfulness at least -
yet who is never really so ferocious as he seemed
*
Ayishah, I long to interpret the silence
you weave about your absence
the coded messages inside your letters
which confirm our deeper correspondence
the secrets of your hidden life
untouched by circumstance
Ayishah
It is not true what they say
about the heart growing fonder
Emotions wander
Opinions vary
In my case anyway
absence makes the heart grow wary
*
All our lives we torment ourselves with Love
does she doesn’t she
will she won’t she
The cry of need
the cry of lust
the cry of seeking seed
The cry of passion turned into disgust
the cry of ultimate betrayal
The cry of laughter
at the hindsight-understood naivety
of happy-ever-after
And each cry sounding so much the same
and still such difference
Each cry issuing from the selfsame vein
of guilt and innocence
Each cry ending and beginning
in the selfsame dream
ending and beginning
in a susurration
and a primal scream
*
I am thinking, Ayishah
not of the first time
but of the very first time
Of the sixteen-year-old girl I kissed
when I was seventeen
in the days before sex
had become enshrouded
in mystery and taboo
days when love was not yet Love
and you were not yet You
Nothing is more important than the very first time
and every time
should always be the very first time
for with each new relationship we enter
we renew our own virginity
render ourselves pure and uncorrupt again
ready for the necessary violation of our innocence...
(no, today the poetry is not lucid; only the wound that engendered the need for poetry, bleeding, but incoherently)…
*
Ayishah
it has been too long
our song remains unfinished
and I am stranded here
longing to interpret the silence
you weave about your absence
the coded messages inside your letters
which confirm our deeper correspondence
the secrets of your hidden life
untouched by circumstance
Ayishah
It is not true what they say
about the heart growing fonder
Ayishah, please be kind to me
the summer is almost gone
Seven years have I waited for thee
seven years and then seven
and now the long winter draws on
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
Opinions vary
In my case anyway
absence makes the heart grow wary
*
All our lives we torment ourselves with Love
does she doesn’t she
will she won’t she
The cry of need
the cry of lust
the cry of seeking seed
The cry of passion turned into disgust
the cry of ultimate betrayal
The cry of laughter
at the hindsight-understood naivety
of happy-ever-after
And each cry sounding so much the same
and still such difference
Each cry issuing from the selfsame vein
of guilt and innocence
Each cry ending and beginning
in the selfsame dream
ending and beginning
in a susurration
and a primal scream
*
I am thinking, Ayishah
not of the first time
but of the very first time
Of the sixteen-year-old girl I kissed
when I was seventeen
in the days before sex
had become enshrouded
in mystery and taboo
days when love was not yet Love
and you were not yet You
Nothing is more important than the very first time
and every time
should always be the very first time
for with each new relationship we enter
we renew our own virginity
render ourselves pure and uncorrupt again
ready for the necessary violation of our innocence...
(no, today the poetry is not lucid; only the wound that engendered the need for poetry, bleeding, but incoherently)…
*
Ayishah
it has been too long
our song remains unfinished
and I am stranded here
longing to interpret the silence
you weave about your absence
the coded messages inside your letters
which confirm our deeper correspondence
the secrets of your hidden life
untouched by circumstance
Ayishah
It is not true what they say
about the heart growing fonder
Emotions wander
Opinions vary
In my case anyway
absence makes the heart grow wary
Opinions vary
In my case anyway
absence makes the heart grow wary
the summer is almost gone
Seven years have I waited for thee
seven years and then seven
and now the long winter draws on
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
Copyright © 2016 David Prashker
All rights reserved
The Argaman Press
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