love poem

Aureolin Blooms

 

 

Florida showers leave the sun to hang hopeful in the sky.

Even under the safety of the umbrella it left

its reflection to bloom aureolin under your fingers

at the first drops of rain —

like when the artists had spread their paint across the watercolors

hanging inside the café,

bright splashes of hope to contrast the blues. Across the table

you uncross your legs, open

like the orchids flourishing on the windowsill,

lounging in the humidity

while it collects in your hair and trickles down your neck

like the most bewitching of poetry.

 

 

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

O Lover



O Lover,

 

how can you run

past the rhymes that slip through the creases

in your palms only to

etch them into my memory?

Yesterday

time sank fangs into my ankle, left tattoos

like heartbreak. You touched my face

and I stepped back,

out of reach.



View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Monet’s Parasol Beauty

She was a woman built in technicolor:

a vibrant Monet's parasol beauty in a miniskirt with

indecencies etched into her eyelids and the promise of
galaxies mapped out on her lips.

Tell them we died

in late evening while the band still lingered

over their cocktails
and rhythms slid like molasses
over moon-tanned shoulders and under stilettos.

Cinnamon wafted from her hair as she tapped a heel.
I imagined what my mother would say
and I suppose we gathered glances
like some do sea shells
and held them just as tightly.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I just felt like the original needed more OOMPH.

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Sea Glass

 

 

Knob kneed and pale,
I glow
before the waves with toes painted green

like the world through a piece of sea glass, my vision hazed and

calm. Your thumb presses my fingers

like the tactile press of a keyboard's

steps towards the fully formed sentences

I can't quite seem to finish. The storm on the horizon

is electrifying. It drowns out my breath with each rumble

echoing over the waves and we know we should leave,

move to safety,

but the water is the most intense

shade of you.

 

 

 

 

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

The Couch

 

 

There is a couch

            In a room.

            In a house.

            On a street.

            In a city.

            In a state.

            In a country.

That in this moment,

as I straddle you,

is my whole world.

 

 

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Crossroads

 

There was no shot glass for my vodka when
I made it to the crossroads only to find it crowded.
Weathered anxieties stitched between my eyebrows
and it felt only right to hang them out to dry with today’s laundry;

the sun bleaching them as strongly as it reddens your skin.
My love, 
you have no clue how hard it was not to touch you. 

So I lean against the only bare wall in the room
with my fingers twitching to hold something,

but all the packs of cigarettes were empty 
and there was no castle of beer cans in the hall. 
If I raised my head I can see your

thin figure standing over the stove top
begging

water to boil as the T.V. screen screamed like our parents did: 
You will burn in Hell for your sins! 


View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Dripping in Gold

 

I took her hand

and poured gold in her veins.

There was nothing more I could do.

 

 

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Clocks

 

I placed her head in my hands
and laced my fingers through the patchwork of her silence.
Clocks can't hold you, Love,
but they’ll eavesdrop
and try to slip a limit on moments.

View c.locke's Full Portfolio

Pan

 

 

I am no Pan, but follow me into the woods
just this once. I will protect you.



 

View c.locke's Full Portfolio