Poems
by John Tustin

 

The Hurricane Marries The Sun

 

Stepping out onto the asphalt

Watching the lonely trees sway at their tops

From the hurricane breeze

In this homely night on the remnants of a swamp.

The rain is hot on my skin,

My heart swaying among those lonely trees,

Myself

Alike in loneliness.

The rain falls about, forming pools, puddles in the street,

Glistening in the darkness.

Remembering a moment long dead,

My face wet streaked,

Standing resolute in the howl of the wind

And the waving of the upper branches.

The dull grayness of the sky reflected in my drunken eyes

Hours before the hurricane drops down

Upon this place where I live

And loathe this life,

This lack of life.

I plan to sleep through the storm

While I dream of you,

The dark eyed hurricane that came into my life unannounced -

Your hair the still perfectly arranged chaos in the storm-eye,

Your own heart filled with rain and damage.

Your hurricane of a heart

Doing me such catastrophe

As I am prostrate,

Agape in wonder

At the beauty of such tenderly uncalculated savagery

That drowns my world in a night

And, upon the first new sun breaking the gray,

Lights like the fire of her hair so black

That becomes threads of spilling fire

When met by the aubade of peaceful morning

Enflaming and sustaining the blood

Pumping through my heart.

My heart

Both broken

And restored.

 

 

 

 

 

Pansies Grow

 

Pansies grow

Rivers flow

Skies they rain

Bottles drain

 

Birds will fly

Hawkers cry

Children born

Garments torn

 

Skies will cloud

Cry out loud

Skies will sun

‘Fore night come

 

Night is here

Shed a tear

Morning comes

For only some

 

 

 

 

 

A Picture With No Frame

 

It was a simple picture –

A youngish couple smiling,

Dressed to go somewhere important,

A bridge and the sunset behind them.

It wasn’t framed very well

And, in my mind,

The woman’s smile was forced.

He had a vacuous Nic Cage smile

But he sure was classically handsome for a twerp.

 

They were both pretty

And I could smell the salt water,

Hear the distant traffic,

Feel the breeze coming off of the bay.

 

That woman, though –

I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Windblown hair, wan smile,

Eyes so dark and melodious.

Her eyes sang to me.

She looked like a prisoner

But she was smiling.

 

I wanted to rescue her from the horror

Of a classically handsome twerp with a Nic Cage smile

But when I looked at her wrists

I saw no shackles

And there did not appear to be a gun in Nic Cage’s hand

So I didn’t do anything

But close my eyes and see that picture in my mind

Until I slept,

Imagining I was making Ms. Windswept Hair smile

With my words and my tender kisses

On her glistening neck

And that the smile on her face

Look like

The genuine article.

 

When I fell asleep I dreamed about her.

I don’t remember it.

 

How can one rescue a damsel not believing

She is in distress?

You can’t.

 

Goodbye, Ms. Windswept Hair.

I hope Nic Cage Smile isn’t as rotten

As he looks.

If you wear chains, my dear,

I assure you

That they are made of paper

And if you want me to remove them for you,

Blink twice.

 

I brought my scissors.

 

 

 

 

 

You Are The Twine

 

You are the wine

And the strongest locks

You are the twine

That upholds the box

 

You are the hope

You are the tether

You are the rope

That holds it together

 

 

 

 

 

You Are The Wine

 

I am the glass

And you are the wine.

You are the hand

And I am the stem.

I am the mouth

And you are the senses.

Pour yourself into me.

Pour yourself into me.

I pour myself into you.

You are the glass

And I am the wine.

I am the hand

And you are the stem.

You are the mouth

And I am senses.

Again, I say –

Pour.

 

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