Thursday, December 20, 2007


It seems that my Muse only kicks me in the butt while I am in lust, in love, or in pain. Odd how poetry rises to the surface every time the emotions are fired up; at least for me.


Pretty words,
patent and sugar-coated
are never enough
to truly touch you.

Some myopic greeting card writer
spinning cotton-candy phrases,
could never know the thrill
of holding your hand
on mountain tops.

Last year midst the morass
of the holidays,
we pulled apart;
as if the pure polarity
between us
had been misdirected,
and the power flow seemed
to ebb.
But I have since discovered
that was only on my side
of the magnet.
Your half continued
to pulsate,
showering the stratosphere
with intense vibrations,
deeply visceral,
disrupting satellite reception,
and keeping me awake
at night.

Your heart was breaking,
but somehow
you never lost hope;
not completely.
An image of you
was burned triple deep
into the tissues of my choroid,
refusing to leave me.
Mostly your icon would come
to me in the dark,
and when I would wake
each morning,
I would still have your dream kisses
on my lips.

Our love,
invisible and invincible,
weathered the terrible tempest
of our seperation,
and like a rod of iron
driven hard
into the beating heart
of my obstinance,
it roused me
from the depths
I had fled to,
and left me safe
in your arms.

Yes,I have returned,
and the emotional revenue
I've received
has already made me
a wealthy man.

Glenn Buttkus Valentine's Day 1990

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