Monday, June 13, 2011

Susan Morgan Bosler - Two Poems

The Unequal Union

The words flow unto the page
not by mouth but by touch
radiate pools of fiery wisdom
perceived but never enveloped
within the waves of flames of true conviction
wallowing alone in artful blindness.

The temptress or the muse
the writer knows not which
sometimes the spirit of generosity
often the withholder of pseudo-bliss
waiting, always waiting, for a thought
to cross the mind, a deeper lake in which to swim
as she who brings the silver pitcher of clear water
dances elusively, the christening cup held fairly out of reach.

Suffering in the throngs of literary poverty
wanting only to find the drop of truth
within the words that fill the paper
bleeding through the fingers,
thoughts onto the page, either by a trickle or else a hemorrhage.
Which it is, does not matter, only that blood must be shed
before the writer may hope to find, a tiny bit of modest release
a thirst hardly quenched when in a drought of inspiration.


Down-town but not out
Hear the roar of the street cleaners
It’s nearly six a.m.
The sun’s come up
There's a hazy glow
Cracking through the
Of the glass on stone buildings
Feels like a thousand hours
Have rushed by
But the old clock in the midtown parish
Stopped one day around nine

We no longer set our daily schedule by that clock
We follow the sunrises and the setting suns
Even the moon keeps our tick-tocks
Intact - when it’s dark
Somehow we found our way back to nature
No one remembers how to fix the cogs and the shiny springs
We know about liquor, be it booze or bliss
We know about drugs, snorted or smoked
It’s all sex, sex, sex – but no one knows why
Touch any part but the heart of the one
You go home with
Dare not attach yourself
Too much
To any-body

I found a solution to this dizzy drain
As a steady pounding reverberates through me
By way of the blood’s fury
“Kiss Me Red”
As it travels about my streaming estuaries
Reminding me that the Natives are restless
My brain can’t be made
Not to time or clocks without a heavy infusion
Of extra-strength aspirin chewed to
White bitters
Swallowed in a paste
It’s the goo that renews life
Come morning-time
Waking up, I remember yesterday
But never think about tomorrow
Rustle up some left over sin
Before I powder my nose
The sun’s come up
Or the clock’s right again
It’s time to pound, pound, pound the pavement
Prowl around the steaming streets
To shake hands with this or that devil
Aren’t we all just trying to get by? While

Susan Morgan Bosler is a poet, writer and colomunist. She has had works published over the years in several anthologies, has been the publisher and editor of Spirithunter Ezine and is currently hard at work on her first Romantic/Horror Novel.

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