In Expectation

The masculine and feminine -
denizens and daemons of a mind
too closed and too alone to counteract
the vast demands of a society
that seeks this separation in itself,
to somehow draw all power to the top;
leaving then, the base and essence
to relive, alone, a past alliance
that's already fled the scene.

Shall we have another round then...?
Unconsciously expecting bliss
each time we kiss a strangers' lips;
then becoming something other
than the face we show the world
within a light of numbered days
that somehow never seem to put
an end to those unceasing nights alone.
United for a moment,
but not a moment more,
for so many in command
demand we seek amends for crimes
that really are not criminal at all;
and wear again a face
of ever dying innocence.

Oft' we tend to speak in nursery rhymes,
as memories of easy times come back
to play us into innocence again;
when understanding meant no more
than just the purity of our experience.
We knew then, all untaught
that to see a bird, we must become
the flight of birds themselves,
soaring over mountains high;
and seas that only end at our command,
each time we fly in moments out of time.

Yet more and more reprisals
of unending reprimands
come ringing through our ears by wont
of those who never learned to fly at all;
yet here we pause, we fall again,
from past to present, flowing into futures
that may never have a chance to be at all;
for they tell us that those times
can be no more
and oh, so many still believe this true,
as death applauds the magnitude
of belief in its existence of illusion.

While spirits struggle, life abounding,
whispering within a screaming silence,
to bring its energy to bear upon us all.
Louder still, each evening after dusk
as night falls oh, so softly into us,
bellowing for ultimate release
within a spectacle or speech or action;
and more, within a fissure of pure poetry
never dared before into materialization,
until what comes right now so suddenly
becomes more than another morning after.

For the mind unwinds itself at times
just like an overburdened spring,
wound too tight to ease its way
back into the time we thought we knew;
unfocusing the focus
only moon-glow can impress
into spans of an arising happiness,
that never quite has surfaced here before
within a world so real that feelings
stream unchecked through all of being,
and thus through all that we are known to be.

Bodies stretched with tenderness
upon a bed of satin covered down,
seeking yet again for an uncanny
outcast feeling of pure bliss
and so we kiss another
almost-stranger reaching out,
who still seems so utterly familiar,
yet knows not what they're searching for
no matter years that play themselves
in spans of interactions incomplete;
that left themselves as mind snapped back
into precise and stoically disabled channels.

Feeding once again upon an innocence
that hadn't quite conceived itself just yet;
for they commanded time
to start again too soon.
Yet the world still spins around the sun
and morning comes again within
this organized and digital procrastination;
modernly computerized,
to get up and start again
just as the sun comes round the bend
to penetrate the mist
of unpretentious attitudes.

And love still sings in moods of gratitude
that linger in the sheets a little longer
(oh, more - for time allowed to take its course
flows so swiftly to and through infinity)
to receive yet one more kiss
of loving bliss released.
Recognizing and receiving
all that is most masculine and feminine
within a natural sense of circularity
giving to receive its gift again, eternally.

Each time we reach the spellbound site
of love's unaltered spell, enchanting
life into these forms of make-believe;
where heart and soul still dwell
in expectation . . .


Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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