Three steamy poems, by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Three steamy poems excerpted from “Gaytude”:

creamy overcast skies.

creamy overcast skies,
thick as yoghurt,
remind me of
you … and me …
and …
well, you know …

 

ciel couvert, couleur crème.

ciel couvert, couleur crème
épais comme le yaourt,
qui me rappelle
toi … et moi …
et aussi …
tu sais quoi …

 


Tal vez.

¡Fuerza!
El amor.
¡Fuerza!
El sexo.
¡Fuerza!
Las mentiras.
Y tal vez te encuentre
en mis sueños errantes.

 

Peut-être.

Vive
l’amour !
Vive
le sexe !
Vive
le mensonge !
Peut-être t’ai-je rencontré
dans l’errance de mes rêves.

 


blade.

our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a sabre’s cutting edge.

 

lame.

notre danse est un rituel ;
une obsession insensée
entre deux papillons de nuit
jouant avec le feu.
ni chaînes, ni fouet.
juste une attache …
et les douces conséquences
de la lame tranchante d’un sabre.

(by Adam Donaldson Powell, published in my award-winning poetry book entitled “Gaytude”, co-authored with Albert Russo, 2009, Xlibris.)

Nature poems.


@ Green.

Apples, pears, olives,

celery, asparagus,

broccoli, avocados,

forest trees, emeralds,

heart chakra, sexy eyes,

garden snakes, scout uniforms,

environmental politics,

army jackets, money,

greed, jealousy —

green.

bowlofshells

@ Sea lines.

The ebbing of foam and
spray from sea lines
reveals glittering calico
pebbles and shell fragments
upon coastal sands.
During the interim of
drought and abandonment,
the brilliance of this
treasure trove is dulled
by disclosure and dessication.
There they remain,
rather indistinguishable
from the multitudes,
and dream of baptism
by tidal reclamation.

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@ Nighthawk.

Primal ritual cries of reveille
from innumerable cricket tribes,
during the wake of nocturnal
nigrescence, beckon the
Children of Nyx from
crepuscular seclusion.
A momentary hiatus in the
mesmerizing rubbing of wings
divulges the faint slitherings
and slinkings of creepy-crawlers
and creatures of night, in
exodus from nature’s underworld.
And keeping watch over the
order of things in no man’s land
is a vigilant nighthawk,
whose stark eyes piercing
through the darkness stir
horripilation amongst the meek.

great_source_and_center

@ Imagine.

Imagine —
living in a sanctuary
in some far-off exotic land:
an exclusive enclave where
hirsute eremites can escape the
intrusive indiscretions of
the vulgar and the savage.
Mind you —
nothing too extravagant:
a modest one-room flat
with light maid-service,
a spacious view and, of course,
a state-of-the-art security system.
Just imagine —
it would be a simple life
of reflection and leisure:
basking daily in sun and shade
and, when absolutely necessary,
receiving admiring guests
in true courtly fashion.
(sigh) —
What do you suppose I
should call such a place?
Certainly nothing as mundane
As Eden or Elysium.
No, it must be a name as
enchanting as the fantasy itself:
like Gangros .. or Lurana ..
or perhaps just simply Zoo.

@ Fledglings.

Poniard-like buds whisper
innermost secrets of
sporophytes and gametophytes,
while fledgling wrens with
heads pressed close to earth
listen to the sounds of worms
inching through sodden humus.
In time, fimbriated foliage will
scale deciduous boughs in a
symphony of vascular chiaroscuro
greenery, rendering refuge
and perch to the weary and
the daring.
Noting the watchful gaze
of the adolescent feline
in the nearby window,
the mother-wren hurries her
young onward, explaining
nothing more than that
much is to be learned
in a short frame of time.

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