Amour

Our pilgrimage is over.

Behold the lapping rain upon the clover,

Which paints the gray of our castle’s tower

With water from the colossal bay,

Among the garden bower.

Our spirits converge anew.

I kiss you

As you lay.

Let our kisses speak of the morning dew,

Let them softly allay

Our last ecstatic rapture of blue

As the clouds cover the eaves.

There are carmine leaves

Which speak of only you

In the forest where the linden grieves

With sobs of felicities

Pondering you.

I shall take your delicious head in my hand

As the showers grace the square,

And the blond horizon of the dappled land.

We shall inhale every wine which flows

From the rain which glows in the autumn air.

And I shall kiss your lips forevermore.

Let our love rattle thunder upon the oceans’ floor.

Let the diamond heights

Of our nuptial night

Pace like ghosts who only speak of their love

To one another, upon the dales of grass,

All clothed with dew.

We have achieved the pinnacle of heaven, no less!

And when the night does pass

I shall truly confess-

Everything and all of beauty is in you.

- John Zwerenz

Golden Shores

I beckon you, dear reader, to arrive
Upon these golden shores,
More beautiful than Aphrodite;
That Cyprian queen has been exalted
Here where the angles sing.
O, Death, where is thy sting?-
Behold- Ariadne was but shadow and shade
Upon the Grecian moors.
Now she sleeps in rosy grottos which thrive
By the emerald glade.
Leda is wreathed with waterflowers,
And Theseus has ascended with the glorious Athenian bowers.
Endymion plays in a whirlpool of gleaming wells.
And Venus, dreaming,
Makes love to the chime of cathedral bells.
And all of mankind’s citadels
Have been transformed to higher realms.
All the gold of America, Europe and Asia
Have been painted anew upon the sky.
Not that I
Praise the myths of Greece and Rome.
Nor do I laud
The wine-clad brow of Dionysus,
Neither do I wreath with laurel
The lofty head of Egypt’s Osiris;
Rather to aspire to Olympus
In the minds of feeble men
Is but a reflection
Of their desire not to die.
Every poor, afflicted peasant shall wear a princely ring.
Hence The Parthenon has been realized
In the cloisters of The King!

- John Lars Zwerenz
(From Eternal Verse; To Be Published Soon)Collapse this post

Add a comment...

Thursday, January 31, 2013

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Sunday, January 27, 2013

The night is veiled in purple.

My lady walks with her long, black mane

Upon the dew-clad reeds, tall, smooth and supple,

To the gazebo in the moonlit rain.

She smiles at the grass

As the soft, sweet zephyrs gently pass

The greenery by the gondola where she longs for a kiss.

Such is of the night, and only this.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

My lady lives up high,

In a castle by the sea.

She is well-acquainted with majesty,

And she dreams of fair love with a longing sigh.

There is a river that does run

Through her rose garden below

Her balcony and her window

At one with the summer sun.

She likes to pine in long, white dresses,

And in soporific trances

She ascends to lofty reveries

As symphonies

Gleam like ethereal dances

In her mind and in her tresses

Of azure blues and ebonies.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Your Wake

You walk as an angel in the soft, summer air

Wearing a pearl-white braid

Which clasps a raven tress

In your long, black hair.

And with each step that is laid

Upon the trail, with your naked feet, below your dress,

A delicious scent is found in your wake

Meant only for my soul to take.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013