Greg Frohring
First time
Between the white unturned
sheets slides
startled
panting
first-time readers
With inked fingers
brushing lightly
each line and timid
playing eyes
following brightly every
touching tracing
motion Noiseless moving
lips breathless
with discovery
mouthing
new words in slow slow
motion
while
tongues move
in hidden consent
of unspoken ideas
Gaining passion
in understanding
learning words and concentrating
Wisps of
hair pulled back
in sweat
Gasping
out expressions amidst the echoes of
dimmed late night library lights Captured
completely and
taken willingly
beneath the bookshelves
Scattered Moonlight
Dancing in the scattered moonlight.
Moving lightly: barefoot through the scattered salty spray,
feet sinking slightly into the soft golden beach.
Running!
Laughing!
Wondering.
The moonlit darkness.
The sand grinding gently beneath the relentless waves;
adding its own timbre to the curling crashing water that noisily
and steadily drums out the rhythm of our souls.
i wonder: powerless.
We chase each other, splashing.
No words: no verbose interludes sound across the seashore to slow us down.
You turn abruptly, pulling me to you.
The kiss: steady, firm, and thorough as the thrum of the ocean.
The kiss!
Our lives are unexpectedly caught in the reflected moon, playing and
twirling in your open eyes.
Let the tide skip in and out.
Let the water cover up our swollen footsteps.
Let our names be forgotten with the cool night breeze.
Let this moment:
the fire of your passionate lips,
the whisper of hair across your hot cheek,
your eyes ablaze with desire
focused so entirely;
let this moment still the past,
let this moment halt the future,
make this moment exist forever.
Embraced, we fall delicately, deliberately, into the chaotic mixture of sand and sea
Entangled hearts in the scattered moonlight
Tag
scream -- hush colored bright hues
emblushens your cheeks
flowers
twisting breathless
opens like a tiffany lamp until
daylight has sheathed his pastel streams
gently deep within your consenting belly
like laughter
i dreamed of you last night
the flow of honey from these evening streetlights
(or rocks that come from trees)
wind tickling the edges
of skirted breeze
whispering into the moonwash
soft monochrome memories
a dream of you in black and white
stills this picture in charcoal silhouettes
flowers
crying out with pleasure in dark paired oubliettes
her slowest rhythm patiently explodes with the dawn
gasp drenched
we found gold four
days past
the ides of march
in the wildflowers
©2006 by Greg Frohring
