Guest Poetry of Jon Bohrn
simile
an ocean, you said,
is like sadness:
waves gathering
restlessly rushing its shores
the sand weeps its presence
it leaves for a time
yet always returns --
So should the taste
of the tear
on your face when I kissed you
surprise me?
© Jon Bohrn (1998)
late August
Let me enjoy
this late-summer day of my heart
while the leaves are still green
and I won't look so close
as to see that first tint
of pale yellow slowly creep in.
I will stop endless running
and then look to the sky
ask the sun to embrace me
and then hope she won't tell
of tomorrows less long than today.
Let me spend just this time
in the slow-cooling glow
of warm afternoon light
and I'd think
I will still have the strength
for just one more
last fling of my heart.
© Jon Bohrn (1998)
melancholy
she wears her melancholy well
if fits her like a twilight satin dress
that, clinging to her spirit in a tight embrace
would vulnerably leave
her soul exposed and bare for all to see
she's stunning seen in little more
than nightfall shadows blue on midnight black
her dusky hair arranged in gentle disarray
she looks on life's account
with eyes that mirror darkgray autumn skies
she's learned to move in graceful steps
upon the dancefloor of her life's abyss
in fluent wariness her feet seek stable ground
her shoulders draped in shade
she'll meet your gaze: this dance is hers alone
©Jon Bohrn (1998)
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café noir
she reminds of black coffee:
a little too bitter,
not much of a smile
to add sweetness
to daily encounters.
a taste that's acquired
it changes too quickly:
encounter, to habit, addiction;
enjoy her with measure,
too much of her presence
could rob you of sleep,
a study in darkness,
light won't defile her
she's much too opaque
to be seen through;
drink deep from her surface
then taste what's beneath
without warning.
©Jon Bohrn (1999)
days of passage
In the days of the strong
you and I
were still tensile flesh
cast in confident gold;
our voyage - dreams we would name;
Raising our confident sails,
tacking the wind at the world's edge
we cried laughter, lived echoes,
promised forever,
and named Future our offspring.
In the time of the journey
you and I'd
proudly measure
our wingspans as one,
taking turns in each other's sharp shadows,
staked our maps with the ends of the earth,
dreamed odysseys, wilderness, solitude,
scorned messengers,
practiced monologues and soliloquies
and raised Strife to troubled adulthood.
In the season of passing
we kept
contempt's company,
clawed to die daily;
Our worlds hungry for sacrifice
we'd thirst to oblige with each other,
cloak words in sharp symbols,
hide hands secretly washed,
and buried Hope's last soft breath
in the shadows of separate alibis.
© Jon Bohrn (2000)
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