Thorn of the Rose

by Fegger

Contentment, then, should I be granted;

  Was true to love, not disenchanted;

  And full I am of all you planted.

  What fullness, in my retire!

  Resume, now, in my shadowed space;

  Where once eloped to touch your face;

  And now retreat to lucid place;

  But I have touched the fire!

  Palpitations I expelled,

  Of longing, I’d no hope to quell;

  Nor testimony I’d retell,

  As this would serve me, only.

  Bathe in respite anonymity;

  Or the pangs of passion’s futility:

  No us, or you, or trace of me……

  Imbibing on the lonely.

  Perfect Picture

  You have such small,

  Gentle hands.

  The softest of touch;

  As you trace invisible lines

  Across my temples

  And relaxed brow.

  You stare into me,

  I’d left windows open

  Secretly hoping

  That you’d brave

  My weak defenses

  And seek me out.

  Inside, you comfort me

  More than the fire

  I had waiting for you.

  You incise my soul

  Drawing no blood,

  Caressing open nerve.

  Your skill of navigation

  Within me:

  I sense that you have been

  Here—before.

  Perhaps in a Time

  When Dreams lived, flourished.

  So petite in size—

  Yet my own passion

  Enwraps you and

  I feel and breathe

  Your every selfless,

  Deliberate move.

  My eyes, weary

  And guilty of your entrance.

  They complied when

  Words failed to shield

  From an intruder

  Of Need and Desire.

  I shall keep you

  Safe, here.

  Should you peer out my chest

  You will see

  The palm of my hand,

  Guarding you in.

  So fitting you are.

  I am intoxicated and

  Delirious with the liquids

  We are now sharing.

  I feel our flesh grafting,

  As it always belonged.

  I close my eyes,

  While you settle in

  Your forever home.

  I will sleep now, dream

  That you someday may be,

  More than a photograph.

  Perfect Picture 2

  She enters,

  Softly inflowing

  Through veils of

  Pure white mist.

  Her eyes,

  Dark and deep—

  Desires, Attentions

  As endless as time.

  They close,

  As if accepting this

  --as Dream or

  Needing it to be so.

  Which one is real?

  I, who has summoned,

  Or you who

  Has arrived?

  I watch, wait—

  Expecting indiscriminate

  Wind to cast you

  Away—again.

  You approach,

  And I see reflections

  Of my own soul

  In your pools.

  One hand touches

  Cool on my face,

  While the other-

  Warm on my chest.

  I look down,

  See that your wrist

  Is only visible.

  I am breathless.

  I feel your hand

  Squeeze with each pulse;

  As it is you who

  Sustains my life now.

  Helpless yet

  Profoundly comforted.

  I trust my life

  To you.

  I feel the pressure

  Of your lips, parted

  Pressing loyal

  Against my own.

  Hand clenched,

  Heart stopped.

  Filling my lungs with

  The warmest air.

  The spasm strikes,

  You retreat at

  My first inhale,

  Unabated beat.

  “Why did you come--

  To me?”

  “My love, you asked

  For life.”

  She melted,

  Into a flowing wall,

  Of raven hair against

  White purity.

  This Door that Stands

  This door that stands in front of me:

  A symbol of complacency;

  Or passage to tranquility,

  Should I make such choice.

  Barricading worlds unknown,

  Where once a sun had brightly shone,

  Temporary terms I own,

  From diluted voice.

  Shoulders braced against the firm,

  This foe, whose task is not discerned,

  Dividing dreams from what I’ve learned;

  And trusted, not to chide.

  Fatigued, sheltered become my lot,

  Fearing that, in time, I’ll rot.

  Sequestered lone, lest I forgot,

  It opens from the inside.

  Black Widow

  She paces ‘bout the circled net,

  No corners there she tends;

  Fibers spun of wicked spat,

  Skill’fl’y ties the ends;

  For tidy is her discipline,

  And one she’ll not resign;

  Rejoicing in her acumen,

  Of partner yet defined.

  Prance and preen in slippers’ creep,

  With trophies on display;

  Wrapped in linens in the keep,

  For other hungers’ day.

  With such she may invite to dine,

  A suitor, unaware;

  Who’ll posture with this maiden fine,

  Obscure to temptress’ lair.

  A heavy step sets quivering,

  The field of play set here;

  Excitement sends her shivering,

  As she scents that he is near.

  He saunters as if chosen,

  And this is destiny;

  With confidence he goes in,

  With unsuspecting glee.

  She flatters him in increments,

  So he’ll not scare away;

  Offers food with condiments—

  Satisfied, he’ll stay.

  With the echoes of unborn,

  Resounding in the air,

  Strikes the terminal accord,

  Conceding to the share.

  In terror I awaken,

  To look to prism-ed eyes,

  A stare so stark, unshaken,

  Awaiting my demise.

  Breathless by deception,

  Encompassed whole in fear,

  Content of yield, conception,

  I receive the poisoned spear.

  Withdraws then, spiteful vixen,

  Rescinds her sultry voice;

  Rubs her waiting abdomen,

  This widow’s lowly choice.

  With Trust, True Love Remembers

  To fill one’s cup with vapors,

  In vain to quench such thirst;

  That’s weak to stave the parching,

  Of hearts so swelled, to burst.

  While lips extend toward falling tears,

  In hopes to moisten fears;

  And blur the visions testified

  As lonely image mirrors.

  Delusions, dreams of fuller wells,

  Of purity, exist.

  Should sun and moon expose the swells

  Tho’ never have been kissed.

  Release with expectations clear,

  The fervent lover’s need;

  In shallow wishes’ turbulence,

  Succumb to lonely’s greed.

  Fragile then, the reed that
draws,

  From tendril’s frantic seeking;

  Yet understands the terms set forth,

  Survival conveys weak’ning.

  To bask in second’s warming glow,

  If never spurn a fire;

  Does satisfy the chill’s dispel,

  Shrouds mirrors with desire.

  To hold, then only respite heal,

  Dispelling thoughts of worth;

  Such values lie in desperate time,

  Yet resurrect in verse.

  For here, in enigmatic course,

  Confessions may be chambered;

  And paths may show obscurity,

  With trust ‘true love’ remembers.

  Quest or Conquest

  The donkey brayed, the donkey squealed,

  The donkey bucked and moaned;

  And woke the tired farmer who

  Was sleeping in his home!

  The lights went on while shotgun loaded,

  Then stood startled in the night:

  A man possessed by loyalty,

  Fist-clenched awaiting fight.

  The donkey brayed, the donkey screamed,

  In painful agony;

  As the man did scan horizons,

  So little he could see.

  He sauntered toward the restless beast,

  While hogs and cows reclined;

  Awaiting for the verdict now

  Of why the burro chimed!

  He calmed the burdened animal

  With a touch upon its head;

  Then noticed a small wound abound

  And where the donkey bled.

  T’was a wound no bigger than

  The center of his palm,

  Where skin had been removed, and gone;

  Exposing flesh so raw.

  The farmer screamed on its behalf,

  The donkey now sedate.

  Then pledged to faithful creature,

  That hide he would locate.

  Upon retrieval he would fix,

  The place where hides belong;

  He packed his sack and lantern for,

  A journey to be long.

  For seven years that man did search.

  For seven years he tended,

  To securing that which once was stole,

  Justice he defended.

  Through hill and dale, mountain peaks,

  And wind or rain or hail;

  That man did seek to reclaim lost

  As duty must prevail.

  Returning to his home at last,

  To creatures all neglected.

  Some had stayed in hopefulness,

  While others had defected.

  The donkey grazed upon the hill,

  Unmoved by his return;

  Still bore the mark of nighttime stalk,

  Yet harder to discern.

  The man just stood there, leaned on fence,

  And waged his last exhale.

  As journeys left him too fatigued

  Obsessed, that he had failed.

  One must wonder what it takes to

  Dedicate such time to pass;

  Such energies and focus spent,

  In the search for a piece of ass.

  There Is He, Who Cannot Rest (For Ron Gardner, Poet)

  There is he, who cannot rest,

  In clover, nor in wisps of clouds;

  Churning, malaise of soul’s request,

  Until such soul has spoken loud.

  In voices, tongues of foreign feature,

  Ones he cannot hope to reign;

  Accepts, within, this lonesome creature,

  Such dormancy had lain.

  Whet upon his palate clean,

  The tastes of time surrendered,

  In nibbles, wincing, soured preen,

  His anguish berths distended.

  Whether love or longing pine,

  The sweet of either remarks,

  Plain of wrapper, tan-hemp twine,

  Arrive in light or dark.

  Sequestered to his inner mind,

  As permeating thoughts infuse

  Lessons, mem’ries—some unkind,

  Too precious then, to lose.

  Coffers rich in frames of past,

  Display, enigmatic posing;

  A filling reference of faces dashed,

  Betrayal: scant exposing.

  Inhaling then, the moment caustic,

  With innocence feigned, unguarded,

  Ingesting free the poison’s lick,

  For peace he will then barter.

  Release in silent ecstasy,

  As his soul retracts to heal,

  Birthing words refractory,

  In life, such visions feel.

  Remorse breeds times exhumed,

  As contentment lapses hinder;

  Chants thwart the breaths consumed,

  Residual morsels linger.

  The cryptic frets the untouched stone,

  Before the sense dissolves,

  In corners, there, he weeps alone,

  And clings to his resolve.

  There is he, who cannot rest,

  In clover, nor in wisps of clouds;

  Churning, malaise of soul’s request,

  Until such soul has spoken loud.

  In voices, tongues of foreign feature,

  Ones he cannot hope to reign;

  Accepts, within, this lonesome creature,

  Such dormancy had lain.

  Once Mine

  I often wish I could swallow a mirror,

  The reflection I’d see would be much clearer;

  And traits, cast aside, would then be nearer;

  New paths, then created.

  I then would have visions of memories lost,

  Careless enchantments recklessly tossed,

  Enable the value of worth and of cost;

  Old paths, once debated.

  It’s there that you live, my lover of old,

  Invite you toward fires, release from the cold,

  Where petals of hearts so softly unfold;

  Complete, to myself, once again.

  Yet, what is the song that you long to hear?

  The lyric of ours, penned twice, do you fear?

  Will silence entrap me, again, should you tear?

  Is lonely the feeling you tend?

  The tilt of the glass, ingesting such light,

  Would surely show scars inflicted that night,

  When motives of love, fell victim to spite;

  And set one alone, then to drift.

  Full of self, and devoid, then, of you;

  Embracing such lies, believing them true;

  The ashes of old with the fragrance of new,

  I prayed that time would sift.

  Perhaps in this moment you’d plea my confession

  Bring forth sordid traits that would then yield my lesson

  That transfuses souls, excises obsessions;

  Rendering fertile, such home.

  Once harrowed and turned the inside now seen,

  Denial then falls in the chasm between,

  The lucid encounters of the real and the dream—

  A place where I’d kept you alone.

  Challenge my love to have egos be banned,

  To the loneliest places unknown to the land,

  Where timeless is still…just the trickle of sand;

  Where trust is the consort of merging.

  Invade all the hollows where secrets are kept,

  Self-preserved caverns where you never crept;

  Demons that rose and thrashed while you slept,

  Prepares for this moment of purging.

  Fettered and frightened with thoughts of unveil,

  That led me toward passion’s unchartered trail,

  In hopes that the strength of the dream shall prevail;

  And you will return to my view.

  Refraction of lights, such beacons within,

  Dispel lurid markings of my former sin,

  Drawing fresh marks of where to be
gin,

  Arise, the fulfillment of two.

  If mirror’s inside, I would certainly bleed,

  Expelling the pain and the loss that I need,

  Absence is fonder, on which I will feed;

  And carry me balance of time.

  There and then, a witness you’ll be,

  To testify weaknesses there inside me;

  And somehow this signals your means to be free,

  From the title of being, once mine.

  Epitaph of the Charmer

  Steely eyes:

  No lids to mask

  Your contempt nor

  Fledgling hatred.

  Split tongue,

  Tasting the ghastly air.

  ‘Tis only I,

  Your emancipator;

  Who freed you from

  Dark and unknown.

  Coiled and writhing

  In loneliness, self-pity--

  In chaffing wicker.

  You arose to my song,

  Once.

  Out, aired, you took

  To fertile, fragrant grasses,

  And prospered;

  As your will begat strength

  And wealth among your kind.

  I merely watched, rejoiced

  Enabled your slither.

  You stare,

  Seeking to intimidate.

  You believe I fear death;

  But this will not become

  Your last satisfaction.

  I will not lower my head,

  Accepting the strike;

  But sleep, dream of

  All things good;

  This is when

  My neck will bleed;

  No tears shall be shed

  As venom channels quickly

  To stop my heart.

  Hastily you will seek

  To consume me,

  Eradicating all memory;

  While the vile of my soul

  Poisons you internally.

  I, live in my dreams and

  I am immortal.

  The wicker remains yours

  To cry for my successor.

  Bartholomew

  The lantern sways, as shadows flash,

  Mists draped in night so still;

  Illuminating fleshless arms,

  Creep-out along this hill.

  Such guardians of soul-less mounds,

  Wooden markers of the poor,

  Bow in hallowed reverence

  As sentries evermore.

  Weeping, yet un-frightened,

  She trips between each aisle;

  Casting light against each stone,

  Acknowledge each beguiled.

  Then memory finds her grasping,

  And clenching cold, damp stone

  Denoting ‘neath a vacant plot,