Love Poems from the Lost............

I was looking through old files, and found poems, poems from people whose names I have lost, poems from people who left me their beautiful moments in poetry of one shape or another, and then were somehow lost, like footprints disappearing along a beach, in the time stream. I have lost their names, I am sorry to say, they have become unamed, even un-faced, in my own particular stream - but here they are, their moments remaining, like touchstones.  Some of these poems, on old typewritten paper or even the lined pages of a notebook, just have a first name.  Most, not even that.  Should I be ashamed to share here what was so generously given thus?   So I felt like dedicating this post to those  poems from the Lost.  And if the names thereby surface again, by any chance, that would be good indeed.  I am sorry I have lost your names, but with age, it seems the names go out of things. 

 Perhaps, it is time to un-name things anyway, and find new names closer to the fragrance of who we are or were.  Thank you once again for the pentimentos  that remain.

Anenomes

At this shoreline

there is no visible 

bridge to cross

the anemones of love

are opening, closing

opening, closing

half-visible

in waters below

you must take the leap

....?

It was only

three strands of hair

falling across an eye half closed

a flash of green light

a  curtain of eyelash

a snapshot

in my memory book

where you  still live,  the moment

unlost,

expanding,

weightless 

.....Darren

Losing Her Way Back Home

I want to still be that girl with

Cottonwood leaves caught in

The damp rope of her undeniably

Red hair while she dances so hard

The whole day stops –it just stops-

To stand brilliant and razor-edged

Around her long brown body

Writhing so close to the ground that

Her hands and hair caress the earth

She is holding onto lust, life and fire

Even as it all sifts and spills

Through her wide open fingers.

Down here in the riverbed,

A dry heat is burning my skin

To parchment and clay. I chain-

Smoke stolen cigarettes and

Mumble the words to a song I

Once heard on your pickup truck

Radio when it was tuned to only static

Except for that beat: the pound

Of dirty feet against the dust

That was rolling up in clouds

Around us, the sudden vision

Of human bodies urging the

Earth towards orgasm. The

Spirits of animals walking

Towards the dancers with

The intention of union,

Singing a song with the sound

Of wind-filled bones and

Skin drums: heartbeat/

Bodybeat in the lucidity

Of a circle filled with light.

You wearing golden feathers

And calling out to me until

I gave life to the dance and matched

The rhythm struggling to emerge

From those half-busted speakers

And I sang words as bright

And hard as the desert we drove

Across at not-so-high

Speeds taking in the stars

Like a drink, like something

We could become drunk upon

Exploded into something

Less than fragmented

Until we were lit up

And glowing volcano-

Red in the August night.

But tonight, the world is

Darker and much less alive; you

Are long since gone and the dance

Circle is nowhere in sight. I am

Just a girl with crow feathers

In her red hair, crouching in the

Remnants of a dried up river

Alone and aching for a song,

A drink, a dance partner

And the sound of a hundred

Barefooted bodies still making

Insatiable love to the ground.

.....?

The Game

The big bang was a sigh,

God wistful for a playmate,

bored of being and looking

for action.

I remember God as chubby

from eons lounging

on the ein sofa, a bit mad

from an infinity

of doing nothing.

He made me just after finger painting

a binary star; this forever colored me

in shades of two, as if being One

wasn't hard enough.

I divided: One half hurtling

to frontier reaches, the other

curling into a universe

no bigger than dust.

The game was to find

each other across the vastness,

space and time

our playground.

When we met

in the billionth year,

we traded discoveries

and tales, gifts

of blue feathers, a red stone,

arrowhead and a chain

of stars.

The real prize: In your arms

In my arms,  Home. 

....Lori

If I were to write a poem for you

I can tell you what it would not be

I would not include flowers

too sweet with immanent decay

no forevers, or  deadly promises, 

or worse plans for

Where We Go From Here.

I would say just this:

your fire ran across my thigh

it burns there still.

You have left your mark.

For a moment,

we took that  flame

in our mouths,

and passed it, one to another:

and we were warmed by this,

made bright.

If I were to write a poem for you

I might say this was more

than enough,

without having to give it a name

or a position in the Zodiac.

.....Steven