eugenepower-poems

Like the precocious strawberry, You come wild in the forest; Bright vermillion, crunchy seeds, citrous tongue; Briefly there; suddenly, Like a miracle of nature, You're Gone.

An emerald set in blue brocade Sheltered in a horseshoe bay Lies below a path up high Through cliffs of resin scented pine. Domed nest of ancient spirit rest; A sleeping sacred womb In dawn’s retiring mists; In depths of deep dense blue .

On damp earth Butterflies extend coiled tongues to drink. They rise in clouds, Like petals on the wind.

The writer must write! But first the writer must piss, So the writer goes for a piss and come back to write. The writer must drink! So the writer drinks and resumes writing. The writer must smoke! And so the writer smokes And writes. The writer drinks And smokes And writes. The writer writes. The writer drinks ouzo with water and ice. The writer smokes marijuana. The writer is dizzy, Listening to crazy, abstract jazz, Floating on a sea of anise perfumed waves.

The ghost of my last lover is still with me; Her lips, her skin; her smile Spreading out for the corners of her mouth, Like golden rays of sun. Her body is swaying close to mine, As we walking arm-in-arm, Her long blonde hair tickling my skin. Her ghost is here with me, Loving me, questioning me. She is in the shower; Water bouncing her beautiful curves. I wash her. She looks into my eyes and says: "Do you still love me?"

Ice melds with whiskey-gold; Mellows mind to drift, Emerging from its own eclipse To travel universes untold. A reflection on the merits of drinking uisce beatha;  Irish Gaelic for, 'water of life'; more commonly know as whiskey.