PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We cleared the whole yard of debris like small rocks,

sharp shards of broken twigs and gnarly roots

protruding, and even a couple stripped screws.

Then we put on Alexei's birthday party---

and the afternoon's revelry was hearty.

News from Moscow?---more and more amiss;

more murders and martyrdoms have come to pass.

The several invited, discrete guests told

us quite a lot that day.  After they had gone,

and dusk became as beautiful as a dawn,

Alexei and Kolya, holding hands stepped

outside; giggling, Kolya kicked off his shoes

and then pulled off Alexei's high, stiff boots:

Kolya's gift had been semi-sheer, blue socks,

a flawlessly translucent pair like his;

and then the two, boyfriends, played on the lawn,

pausing only to share a slow, wet kiss. 

Despite what old prudes and haters have said

(this prejudice held strongly by the Bolsheviks---

fastidious murderers, those jealous pricks,

mincing about, a crimson star above

each bulbous, bloodthirsty, and Marxist head---

failed lawyers and brute thugs, and far too bold),

Kolya stayed all night:  in Alexei's bed,

itself quite comfortable for them, he slept---

both of them sleepy after making love

(neither entirely naked: both had kept

their semi-sheer, and now grass-stained socks on).

The day had been successful (yes, I mean

a grand time the day Alexei turned eighteen,

a gorgeous young man, now eighteen years old).

Starwardized