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J. Ellsworth Weaver
astroweaver@yahoo.com
Do Not Read These Lines
(for E.M.)
Do not read these lines
silently. Poetry is ear meant
not raiment for dead trees.
And when you read, stand
up and wiggle; don’t mind
the giggles of uneasy fools.
Use all your tools to bear
the message. You got to learn
to massage their organs
of sight and sound. Stroke
their cerebrums with wicked
conundrums, dampened innuendoes,
verbal crescendos and feather-soft
similes. Put on a jazz tune
and work the whole room:
get them to sway and sweat,
Sweetheart. If it ain’t hot as Jesus
at a Macon revival, make it twitch
like Elvis’ lip at the sight of a nubile
Priscilla, Princess. And your hands,
how can they understand the curve
of that pregnant belly or that farm boy’s
butt if you glue those sticky fingers
to your side? Don’t make them hide.
By divine Polyhymnia,
if you can’t trip
their triggers, you aren’t writing
or reading the Stuff!
It’s just the fluff you’d put in
greeting cards. Get them hard
of hearing, leave them God-fearing:
frothed after frenzy or shivering
with Thalia’s thrumming.
You’ll keep them coming
back for more. Out on the floor
with you, poet. They’ll never get
the connection to that Cosmic
Samba if you sigh and mope
in your chair. Breathe out that air
and make your monster
and your audience live!
© J.
Ellsworth Weaver
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My Summer Simmering Love
Do you mind
me taking
a second’s pause,
before we begin?
My deep inhaling
of your fragrance?
Lying there
so ready for me,
my eyes devour
before
my lips can reach.
Some things are too good
to rush.
Don’t you agree?
This July heat
has made you glisten
but my attentions will
make
you
sweat,
my love.
Be patient, patient:
all in good time.
Between those hard
packed balls,
encasing your sweetness,
your arched ivory shaft.
So rigidly it waits
what it must know
is coming.
It is too large
even for my mouth.
Perhaps
just a lick?
No, I cannot bear this;
I must have all of you now!
You must lose your "cherry" –
to only me.
I promise that it will not hurt
even though I sometimes
use
my
teeth.
Your cream
bathes my face:
your juices
coat my laving tongue.
Your nuts
I must devour
voraciously.
Those orbs
once so proud and firm
now dissolve and flow
with desire.
I take all of you,
accepting
every part.
Where once you were cold
I have taught you
the value of
surrender.
Leaning back
on one elbow,
I have time to reflect:
God, how I love
banana splits!
© J.
Ellsworth Weaver
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Vacuum Continuum
That space –
minuscule between
nucleus and electron,
cumulatively majuscule
in extent –
seeps through
the pauses
in our conversation,
our touching,
until all is hollow,
unblinkingly
dry
as a Texas Ranger’s
eye.
© J.
Ellsworth Weaver |
