GENTLY TUCKED US IN

Yes, my eyes lit up, coal bright

like an enigma about to disclose it’s riddle.

And my imminent silhouette

spread like an orange-red wraith

under a wisp of sun,

turning solid in your embrace.

I like the way you became familiar with my skin,

found the faint scent of perspiration

to which you returned again and again,

and the way you traced the rise

up the back of my thigh, cupped my bottom

on the way, continued your voyage

along my spine. We both watched the exploration

in the mirror, spectators of our own recital.

Leisurely, the evening wrote itself

in lines of verse made of sighs

and irrational sounds. Before sleep

gathered her kin, three soft words

and a final kiss gently tucked us in.

end/Michael

CONCERT OF THE GODS

One hundred thousand suns burst their rinds,

dispense pools of  swirling light -

before names, before time, spontaneous tendrils

hemorrhage passionately. Celestial white

splinters like porcelain. Without remorse each

stabs the fertile soil of night.

Atlas groans under the mass, fingers claw

toward stability, bending, shrugging, shifting,

hoisting each outburst into position.

Picking up my guitar, eyes closed,

empathic fist clenched as an in-breath tightens

each muscle before the down-stroke.

Poised, without plan, silver strings

cower beneath my hovering hand,

chords slammed through a Sunn Amp.

I mimic the concert of God –

Agni ejaculates red streams of semen

one rogue ember penetrates a crack in the egg,

congealing softly. Denizens of Eternity

stand to admire, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

and Infinity bursts into bloom.

Notes like ash drift from the eager womb,

seeds burrow, sprout songs. Incessant pulsing

moves the rapt onlookers to applause.

One whispers, “Hush”, and then conception,

gestation, birth.

A spiral of milk piques full nipples.

Sorcerers and scientists explain how

continents were knit together, how stray notes

strung randomly are subject to no magic.

The full belly grows warm with spawn,

igneous arms lift the dawn, infant fingers rise

into cerulean skies, wiggling cloud-ward.

The child is laid under a crescent cradle,

golden bough gently tilting

spills pearl white milk to young Earth;

first breath, the infant suckles…

there has been a birth.

end/michael