The Gobi Desert Cycle-DISCOBOLUS

DISCOBOLUS

he  rakes leaves with his chest like statues might in a Discobolus.

he would always cast down his eye on everything.

 

he had led a small-ish life so far, but consequentially,

or, because of it actually, he could hold onto a tiger and not bear down at all.

 

he whispered a fervent prayer and was surprised when his voice was engulfed

into a pandemic-like sea of other voices; this one nodding, that one cautiously still.

 

but, musing,

as any

girl would,

I can

only remember,

of course,

the faint

pressing outline

of his

backbone protruding

from his

white collared

cotton shirt

and a

questioning neck,

leaning out

only to

ask a

pointless question.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 

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The Gobi Desert Cycle-HANDS

HANDS

These Hands seem to have matured too fast.

They do not enter: they appear as if by magic-

 always caught up in a lightening strike

dashing away, only come back, softly embracing, as David’s own:

chiseled, fingers tipped, and, essentially, they were perfect.

 

Godly dear, they were all anger, perhaps distrust or worry, 

but someone said that they were lazy, and I had to agree.

They sat slumped, on his collarbone, waiting to be straightened

when will you stop that nitpicking?  i wonder, and it makes me as mad as his hands looked.

On occasion they broke things, and, essentially, they were unshakable.

 

Sometimes, when I lie in bed alone, I silently wish that they would come out and press gently against mine.

just five,

maybe eight good seconds.

It would stop my heart from throbbing, 

It would stop the hoping, the watching, the waiting, 

and maybe the strange , awe-struck wonder.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry