Two Faces Are Better Than One
She carefully took off her face
which she then delicately placed
in a row with her other ones
and she sought a new shinier mask
with which to face the Gathering Night..
She plucked from her Personality Box
a perky, flirty model,
changeable first cold
and then blowing sexy hot
adding to this a mysterious air
from her mood selection repertoire.
These were plied on with make-up
and sweet pouty expressions;
eyes glinting aqua green
from new aqua-marine contact lenses;
she draped her hips with satin and velveteen
daring the full length mirror
to deny her as the prettiest one
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Equilibrium
I wanted those lips
but she was unaware;
I wanted her hips
which moved in small circles
so easily
child-bearing hips
belly-dancing hips
undulating hips,
but she was unaware.
The eyes were at once shy and bold
because she would look shyly
but then drink me in transfixed, innocently
I wanted her hands upon me
gentle hands, hesitantly
which invited my own touch-
my urgent desire
to seize.
because seizing
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Contours
She invited her self into his dark
her out side wanting to absorb his inside part
his potential potential
his mysterious
cool heart
which she sensed needed nurturing.
She would enter his cave of cringing shyness
his cave of inarticulateness
bringing him to its mouth
showing him what light was.
She sensed that being
outside the cave
was an alien world to him;
she could be his guide
even as she partook
of his dark flesh
his dark longings
his darkened powers
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Angel Flight
The Angels gather in their millions
perhaps billions,
before the Altar.
They fly in
blanketing the sky
with soaring wings,
land softly
and move
toward the Altar
with quiet resolve.
Some exhausted,
Some crippled,
Some dying.
She stood before them
hands aloft
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Reality
If today in your feeling tone I am Saint
then tomorrow if your feelings change
I can then be transformed into Satan.
If I am steady most and not either
then clearly then Reality for me is the same
and your feelings about me must be in disconnect
and not rooted in who I really am.
If Mind changes its stripes
and truth today can become tomorrow false
how then is Mind rooted in Reality, which we agree
undergoes no change.
If spirit too can vacillate from exaltation to low depression
what is then steady most in our universe?
If all of the elements in our periodic table are in constant flux
losing and gaining electrons
and existing one minute but not the next
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Gardenias Bloom-2
Your hair by the sea blew
gardenia-scented
drawing from me sudden breath
in light
summer-hued.
Images replay;
I am shuddering;
Chalk-board mind screeching,
soul freezing
cacophonies waving mid-air.
I am grainy sand
sifting.
My memories then engulfted me
I was again
a petal in the gardenia bloom
you wore that day; 'adieu.'
We planned to have sailed together
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Language Scrum
It was a gathering of the Metaphors
who likened all things
to all other things
never identifying Essences;
leaving nothing as the core..
Similes arrived stating triumphantly that
they were superior to the merely metaphoric
and especially to the Gerunds.
The Nouns were enraged
claiming that they were the origins of things named
and all that could be named.
They all held the Dangling Participle in contempt
whose cohorts hung at the end of the table
speaking in sentences fragmenting.
The Pluperfect laid claim to wedding the Past
and Present
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A You Who
If there is a little man
that lives on my shoulder
and tells me 'no' when
I am tempted,
then why sometimes
I don't hear from him
when I need him most?
If there is a angel bright
who leads me at all times
to the light
then pray tell
how did I end up here
in the dark?
If I am the observer of all this
then why do I not convene on this
a conference between the two?
And lets include the Devil too
for he surely has a role here too.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Gerunds
'We are no fragile poets, ' he said
sipping panaceas;
no,
we bleed in these bloody times.'
Our descriptors screech-
show calluses.
Our gerunds
are heavy-laden,
participled
and unrelieved.
In our time
we've had sex
with the dark and delicious.
Our tiny lusts are autographed
on our eyelids.
We have ridden the night bull
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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My Young Girl Twenties
"It's not love, "
I said
"it's my Young Girl
caught in the glare of his attentions
basking, unable to look away,
held in the Grip of his Intensities
He's my Adventure
something which crashes into my need
to experience
beyond thought and feeling
larger than even
rationality."
"Have you asked him about his feelings"
she said, "about you? "
"I asked him" she said
"he didn't answer
couldn't articulate
Shrugging the Shrug
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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