Of A Memory
Love is too young
to know what a conscience is
for, as sure as you told me you loved me
you turned me away
rememberance of a memory
her tears
soft to the touch
I fear now I understand eternity
why wasn't memory enough?
poem by Harlequin Rose
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The Phantom In The Glass
I cannot explain what I heard
in the moan of the suffering
I do not claim to know
why the night covered the day
as if forever
and without hope.
I am without a reason
to explain the aches of history
I simply let it pass
I let mirrors hide my identity
and look deep within to find
the phantom in the glass.
poem by Harlequin Rose
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Prayer To Sappho
Aphrodite is yours
to soak thru with passionate words
the drift of ancient continents
pulls your presence into my world
rogue valiance is consistent with death
so please take note of the cliffs ahead
is it your voice or your victory
that becomes the passion
between my legs
is it the lyric or the longing
that makes you real to me
the day is past the midpoint
the summer solstice makes pulses weak
exchange our mysteries for metaphors
and lay your songs upon my cheek.
poem by Harlequin Rose
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Stand Still
Your shape is like that of other men
and like them
you check the mirror to see where you stand
manufactured sorrow
splits the sky in two
pieces of permanent ruin
one for me
and one for you
you made a meal of my wide-eyed youth
another statistic
another death sentence
another box that this secret was kept in
and yes
when used improperly
your body is a lethal weapon
a lesson in trespassing
on childhood angst
it manufactures sorrow
and splits my sky in two
pieces of permanent ruin
[...] Read more
poem by Harlequin Rose
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Home-Cooked Meal
Most poets will lie to you at some point
they serve up side dishes of lyrical fibs
so rarely do they serve home-cooked meals
of poetry that sticks to your ribs
forgive my honesty
but when it comes to soul food scripture one on one
I take the cake
from under the baker's thumb
most straddle the fence
and avoid their own heart
but trying to convince you to feel every word
and open up old scars
the kitchen seems a little hot for their liking
so, fast is the food of choice
but preservatives eventually wear away
and all that remains is the voice
the meal
the rage
don't let your pen fall asleep
on the page.
poem by Harlequin Rose
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I Write America (Revision)
I write America
in order to form a perfect union
assuming there is a union at all
and not just some Texas mama's boy
standing off to the side
watching it fall
for the strong
for the weak
and for those who refuse to speak
I hurt on their behalf
and for them
I write America.
I write America
the beautiful
conquered from sea to shining sea
known now only for the names
who 'discovered' it
Christopher Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci
who failed to realize
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poem by Harlequin Rose
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