October, 1997
First Love
A teardrop mirrors a tear
That may tear at the turn
Of a heartbeat out of sync
Beating slower than the past
But faster in the present.
The pace provides the pilgrim
In the casting of first love
Where he fasts and goes sleepless,
Trademarks of this phenomenon
Wherein consequent loss he gains,
A staggering truce he must wage to win
In seeking what he'll never regain.
Fires of Hell
The last surge of summer
Spreads its feverish wave,
Beads pouring from your pores,
Your face shedding tropical tears.The wind is listless, immobile
Not a whimper of relief,
And your clothing chokes against your body
Like an adhesive bond.The baking sun blisters the landscape
Trapping you in its oven,
And you feel woozy, disarranged
So you seek the gospel of shade
To assuage the raging inferno,
But even there the air swelters
Mocking your trance-like stupor.Desperate measures now turn to prayer,
Soliciting a change of seasons,
An attitude that turns to fall
The only rescue from this torment.
The Clothesline
Clothes hanging on my neighbor's line
Like memories, each article a person, a reminder
Of furtive manifestations unfolding
In the gentle breeze tossing them to and fro.
Undergarments where some are tattered
And worn to the brink of mutilation,
Where white is no longer a color,
Work pants bulging in pockets and seams
And shirts where once just a tiny rift
Grows greatly with each session.
But there is a newness here as well,
Bright vivacious wear that I've never seen
Are all a part of this varied collection.The rigging barely holds in the morn
But as the sun lifts and bathes its heat
In the noonlit overhead angle
The hemp resurges to more erstwhile status
As the mixtured gathering dries.
Soon hands will make appearance
So I study the outside closet once more,
Vigorous in my fathomed survey
While my neighbor secures the final secrets
Exposed far more than lips would chance
And known only to her and me.
Camouflage
Into the clammy mist of the fog
An invisible dog barks
And you slip in absence from my hand,
Startled, a mere step away,
I reach out to renew our union
But blindness veils your effort
And only voices join us.The air hovers like a greyish, bleaching barrier,
So thick the world seems lost, possessed,
Draping us into a dreamlike enclosure,
We cling clandestine to one another
Almost blissful in this sacred mystery
While the sightless world surrounds us,
Guiding us snail-like to an unknown destination.
Where the misty film may clear from view.But the performance of our letting go
Makes preferences uncertain,
And I am want to saunter adrift
Through this mantel of moisture
Where I see the blur of sanctity exist.
Between Two Phases
Swaying in the breeze of felicity
A genuine autumn announcement
Enlists my essential cravings
In freshened evaporating air.
The southern blow is fleeced,
Placed in its yearly abeyance,
Yes the summers gummy oppression subsides
To this agreeable atmospheric mood
Where the former stagnate infusion of heat
And the winters frigid encroaching regime
Are held in a stage of seasonal posture . . .
Falls release between two extremes.
Copyright © Jonathan K. Lawler
All rights reserved.Jonathan K. Lawler resides on Danforth Street in Portland's West End. A disabled American naval veteran, he holds undergraduate degrees in theater and elementary education. He was born in North Waterford.