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Open Poetry #47
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The Prisoners
| Open Poetry #47 |
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The Prisoners |
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JerryPat Senior Member
since 2010-10-30
Posts 1991Louisiana/America 
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a passerby and usurper of life's fortitude sits in a cell in some dark hole dreaming arcanum thoughts of fleshy bodies , , , not so different from the poet's hole both live and perish within the mysteries of life love and all things considered raw and tempting skyscraper thoughts and dungeon despair gentle wind to cool hallucinating brows seekers of moonlit meadows and pine straw beds where love is consumed for the first time the poet remembers and pens passionate sonnets each line caresses love's desperate wanting taste those sweet, sweet lips gods nectar has with it dizzying effect swallows it all with one deep thrust . . . eyes wide open looking at the dank, dark cell trying to remember how it used to be at tables for two, candles perfumed and erotic kneeses under the table, eyes consuming all gypsy fiddlers playing her favorite dirge smoked caviar under glass, sockeye salmon appropriate wine, decadent chocolate mousse a night for lovers and love is what they do best entwined around the other, one body consuming wrong name called out in uninhibited ecstasy blood and blood and lots of blood the dark hole has come alive with blood as the prisoner relives it over and over and . . . so the poet pursues the Muse of the nighttime evermore to dip pen in the inkwell of life giving of his soul for the poems he must write selling his soul for the one perfect word bringing back the pine straw bed and first love first love, consuming love, his heart and her heart beat as one that day and days thereafter then she was gone away laughing gaily toward a stranger who could treat her like a lady fancy restaurants, roving violinists at her table serenading her with music, her cheeks flushed at the trial, at the trial, her murderer admitted guilt she called me another man's name in my arms she called me . . . the poet cleaned his quill of ink he had dipped when the quill was clean he touched it to the tears he had wept thinking of the name his darling had uttered ~ Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die. ~ |
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| © Copyright 2011 Jerry Pat Bolton - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Lori Grosser Rhoden Member Patricius
since 2009-10-10
Posts 10202Fair to middlin' of nowhere |
Jerry- Good morning! This is great. The way you explore the power of passion's double edged sword is amazing. great write. Lori |
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JerryPat Senior Member
since 2010-10-30
Posts 1991Louisiana/America |
Thank you, Lori, and good morning to you. Passions double edge sword has been the damnation of many a lost soul. And we never learn. ~ Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die. ~ |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
I am glad you are only a fictional murderer! Giggles. Enjoyed the poem and its narrative. Owl |
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JerryPat Senior Member
since 2010-10-30
Posts 1991Louisiana/America |
That's me, a murderer in sheep's clothing . . . er . . . Something like that. Thank you, Owl, for stopping by, it is appreciated. ~ Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die. ~ |
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faithmairee Senior Member
since 2011-01-05
Posts 1441Poe Haven, USA |
this is a true masterpiece...accept my full admiration! There must be a poem in here somewhere. |
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JerryPat Senior Member
since 2010-10-30
Posts 1991Louisiana/America |
I thank you kindly, Faith. I am happy you liked it. ~ Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die. ~ |
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ethome Member Patricius
since 2000-05-14
Posts 11858New Brunswick Canada |
Might not be the murder but methinks you might be guilty of the name frame. Absolute superb writing Jerry. Eric |
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JerryPat Senior Member
since 2010-10-30
Posts 1991Louisiana/America |
Thank you much, Eric. Your kindness is overwhelming. ~ Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die. ~ |
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