Happy belated Memorial Day from the (Russell, oft-involved Becky, friends) staff of O Sweet Flowery Roses! Please find more poems from Barry Frauman below. No, we are not hard up for submissions quite yet, but Barry is the first poet signed up for the Super Duper Blowout Chicago Reading (date, time, et. al: TBA)!
Let me know if'n your down to read and I'll put you up on the list!
MEMORIAL DAY
I dreamt of you Tony in morning twilight,
that you were admitted to hospital care
not sick, not well,
that I was your room-mate,
not ill at all.
You wore silk pajamas, white, I think,
your hair thick and dark, a few strands of gray.
Your body flourished, exciting and strong,
I ached to sex you.
Instead we unpacked, each one for the other,
together, happy.
We talked long and warmly about... can’t recall,
more friendship of love than in stormy life-days,
the tension of AIDS.
TWO LOVES
he first of my heart is quiet, certain
and serene as all the Buddhas.
When I err, when for a fraction of a second
I am not quite honest, the motion of his eyes,
their change of light, point back the truth to me
with no less love than in our perfect harmony.
He is my soul.
* * * * *
My other love maintains there is no soul
there is no God
there is no human life
outside the robot masses of our time
stampeding all his words into my brain;
yet deep within, his fury seeks affection:
At a crowded café, not too gay,
he cornered me with a hug;
and then one night, good-bye at his door,
he beamed when I kissed his beautiful face.
* * * * *
The eyes of my soul are in white white skin
under jetblack hair.
He is young-tree slender and elastic,
shoulders open and embracing
even when his arms are down.
The breeze nestles in his thick black thatch,
dreaming of eternal June, and he has
the soul of a tree in young manhood,
sometimes playful, more often stilled
in the half-smile of serene growing.
* * * * *
He calls himself fat, that's a laugh,
short wiry devil-dark mustache,
eyes of gray lightning.
* * * * *
Hello to you! Yes to you!
From all my soul to all my soul I call.
You are the tree in whose branches I nestle,
the lightning will not strike.
Your faults are like a summer shower,
soon to dry away.
* * * * *
Leaping to your feet? still fast asleep?
Thinking of you, wondering how you are,
I wake up late and slowly Sunday morning,
glasses on the table from last evening
stilled into the memories of fun.
Now silent, mostly empty, they'll sit out
the hour or two until I get to them.
Ever think of weekends you were here?
We've showered music breakfast yes or no,
it doesn't matter all that much,
we've had our sexy talky turbulence.
I won’t approach your nakedness now,
tempting though it is,
but will instead anticipate a lingering good-bye.
What are your plans?
* * * * *
The greatest number of people,
whose kin are family-tree,
would not understand my joy in you,
beloved keeper of our light.
I have small knowledge of your prior years,
I did not see the steps you took
to form the inner workings of your life,
a discipline so perfect and serene,
that you should be a beacon to us all..
You grow and thrive around a core of stillness,
a happy silent purity
toward which my restless spirit stretches endlessly..
You never come to me to lay confusion,
but work a trouble through then hail me
to share your joy in hard-won resolution.
* * * * *
Ten A.M. Sunday thunderhissing discoblitz
you shut the door against the din so we can talk
your rage boils up at years of sexual repression
your lightning strikes the wordhouse you have built
as shelter from the storms you generate.
I lash past your downpouring sentences
to bring my love to your intelligence
and turn your storming elements to sunforce.
Burning tired your head falls to my shoulder
still you say you do not feel love
it must be no right now, maybe not forever,
but firmly for this time you back away.
* * * * *
You let me rant about the world's nonsense,
then you embrace me.
* * * * *
Better this way you say in the labyrinth
of bar-and-bath nightmerchant anonymity.
Better this way than learning in the hurt
of amorous friendship somehow gone awry.
* * * * *
Remember the time you stayed during the week?
I’m sure it was December snowy rainy
muddy morning grumbling down to work.
The sidewalks were in slush,
we made the bus-stop walking in the street.
The night before I’d lain down at your side,
though I still mourned the parting of another.
As we were trudging slave-like in the grayness
toward the dreary obligations of the day,
I felt my guilt glide up into my throat.
With gentle indirection you forgave.
Your compassion that sad day gave birth
to the sweet closeness all our own
that keeps us free of all the cushioned traps
the gray Decembering world sets
to ground the flight of those who love.
* * * * *
You say, "I’ve never felt... whatever it is,
but that's alright, I live from day to day.
If somehow I could change, that would be nice,
but I don't count on anyone, OK?"
* * * * *
In front of your house good-night, I’ll call you soon.
Our hug is long and strong,
and always with the imprint of your face,
you touch me in my quiet tender place.
