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Storm Clouds

It rained the day you died
I wasn’t there
I had to find an almanac
To figure out
What your last day was like
But I knew without knowing
It rained.

Did you think of me?
Our happy times together
Our yelling
Our purring
The soft sounds of night’s sweet music
My silent tears,
A salty rain.

Storm clouds are blowing in
I sit by the window
To stare at the world outside
To roam the world within me
To pull you forward in my thoughts
It’s all mixed up with days upon days,
But, I know – It is the water, it is the rain
That brings you to me.

That night at the beach
Our first time
Water was everywhere
The ocean slamming against the shore
Rain falling on our car
In a cascade of frenzied lust –

The thirst –
Our lips wet
Warm
Sweet
The drill of desire and passion sweeps
Tangled up in arms and legs
The reclining seat as our sweat infused
The rain continued to fall.

Pisces dear Pisces
It was the water
In which we drowned
Love’s passionate redress
That holds our memories
Each time the clouds coalesce
Your spirit comes to me
We are again, alone
On that beach
Finding love for the first time
Through salty tears,
I remember.

© Susan Morgan Bosler
February 22, 2013

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Rebel, Just Because

 

The guy with the wild beard

Sitting in the corner

Drinking coffee

Eating pie

Reading Marx with practiced sighs

Turned down corners of his lips

His Social-ism mask

In full disguise

A useful idiot

Born to cry

 

“I bet,” thought the waitress, “he doesn’t tip.”

I’m sure he has not bathed in a bit

What is it about him that beckons me?

There’s a devil hiding in his tight jeans

I bet I could revolutionize him without a fight

Consider comrade

Let us unite

Tonight.

 

Failing her only college class

She calls him “Trotsky” by mistake

His real name is unknown

She would rather not be alone

He grabs a fag

She hands him a flame

He swallows smoke

Blowing out some rings

Eye to eye they align

Politicos without spine

Then he turns

Another page

Magnificent Manifesto

Sensually Sublime.

 

His eyes are black

Hers are green

He thinks,

He pretends

He schemes

While within his private thoughts

He starts to wander

To here and there –

Oh dear waitress,

Not quite bourgeoisie

How you plainly need to be free

So repressed in your polyester dress

He can feel

This is real

She lives to serve –

More coffee Miss

Have you guessed?

A revolution can begin

With just one kiss.

 

Now this is true,

When all was said and done

Few came to Marx’s wake

Every college student knows

He’s only good

For picking up dates

In coffee houses

Late at night

When the air is calm

When hope alights.

 

Now this is his secret,

Kerouac is his real Saint

As he lives to be

Complicated

So deep

He really is

Completely “beat”

Beautific dreams

Free Love

The faux Marxist preaches

From his naugahyde seat.

 

Later –

She giggles as he tickles her feet

Without much effort,

He’s become her slave

While, good Old Marx is turning in his grave

But Kerouac is forever flying free

Forever riding down the streets

Eagerly crawling between the sheets

On the Road – or

Some place neat

Daddy-O, Daddy-O, Daddy-Go.

 

(c) Susan Morgan Bosler, May 20, 2012 All Rights Reserved

2012

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