Copulating With The Scalpel Blade Of Desire

I have copulated with

the scalpel blade

of desire

as it caressed

the warm, hot flesh

of my safety and security

severing

the calcified umbilicus

of my arrogant despair

and the intimate possibilities

that border

this threshold of love.

I spilled upon

the septic sheets

of my sibylline surrender

singly, wholly,

desperately

alone

with unending pulsations

of emptiness

until there was nothing left

but the stillborn vestige

of my freedom

and the silent cry

of my

singularity!

© p. donovan

Your Eyes, My Gaze

I'd stare into your eyes forever;

deep, endless pits

of beauty and despair,

of passion and sorrow,

of life and death,

of gray and green.

I'd get lost forever

as my gaze meets yours,

even when I look away

my gaze will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

Slowly we will move closer.

Mentally our souls will meet.

Using our eyes as a passage,

I will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

© Connor Donovan

So Far From Doe Bay

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes
while your slender, naked, nubile body
slipped seductively into the hot tub of my anticipation
on that secluded Northwest Island.

Within minutes, all else melted away
except those green eyes
and a familiar conversation
begun so long ago;
(absent of word and voice)
interrupted only by the splashing of your son
as he played periodically with your attention.

Even before our introduction,
I knew why
I had come to this place.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come;
through nights of fiery passion
entangled as one
(the taste of your body, the sent of your heat)
to Sunday night dinners of garlic and wine
and olive oil kisses with basil and thyme.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone.
We’ve gone so far away.
On two separate ferries.
In two separate cars.
As two separate lives.
Forever entwined in the moment of
one unforgettable hello
and
one
everlasting
goodbye.

© p. donovan

The Man Massacres The Concept Of Time

The man massacres the concept of time
as he sees it slowly
creeping through his lover's veins.

He cries out angrily
at the feeling of hate.
He sings out joyfully
at the knowledge of love.

He reaps and sows
the fact of evolution.
But drowns the myth
of revolution.

© Connor Donovan

SQUATTER

A squatter squats inside my house,

I give him shelter, bread, and wine,

I give him everything that is mine.

He spends the night and that's just fine.

I let him stay because he shows

that he is safe, and that I know.

I give him everything I sow

all my sheets and all my clothes.

And then the next morning comes.

He awakes, and then he's gone.

Just as he leaves another comes.

This one's family, a close friend.

No, I know it's not the end,

so I let him come in.

No, the bell doesn't toll for him.

As I greet this friend with hi,

he says "hello" and then he sighs.

What's wrong my friend, I must ask.

He says he's done and gone to die.

I say I am surprised, although I'm not,

it's in his eyes.

He says "farewell" and "I must go."

I say "goodbye, I loved you so."

The last time I see him go.

A stranger comes to my door,

not a squatter, not a whore.

This man, I know him well,

yet he is a stranger still.

I shut the door in his face.

He says, "That won't do, your a disgrace."

I open up the door to see,

the man has become me.

I shut the door and run away.

Things collapse and fadeaway.

I've run into another day.

© Connor Donovan, 9/11

Solstice Supplication

In the dark,
the night,
of late December,
as the sun hid his countenance from human view,
I sat with my father beneath the scented boughs
cracking the shells of walnuts, almonds, and their kin.

His hands,
rough, muscled, and calloused,
held the precious seeds within their firm and gentle grasp
“nothing so strong as gentleness”
and released the life enhancing substance that formed my
young and forming soul.

Oh, Light of light; Oh, Seed of seeds!
Wherein lies my path?
Let Janus show his faces forward,
set me down, let your book be known to me,
let your word be spoken and mine ears be worthy.

Show me his face again.

© Dan Cicora

Anemia

This space between us,

intimately conversant,

has suffered too long

its poetic anemia.

Iron-deficient

without the meat of literary dialogue,

we have been limping through

life's hemorrhagic events

with seductive fatigue

searching for a rhyme or reason

for having no reasonable rhyme.

Enough, I say!

I am your hunter

and here is your meat,

blood-red and raw,

charbroiled in the heat

of my love for you.

Read it to your satiety

and digest it well

for tomorrow you will be

hungry for more.

© p. donovan