Philosophy in the Kitchen
In my library the fire is dim.
I yearn and long away from him.
To sing sonnets, fancy fiction.
Or philosophy in the kitchen.
To ponder poems, sing him songs.
Not lose myself in city throngs.
To sit and bask as though a cat.
Not catch my coat, hunt my hat.
And as I rhyme these new lines.
I re mine good times, old wines.
I recall his Old World spread.
As a lover I am well fed.
In my library fires absorb.
The room awash in iced white orb.
Awaiting French friction, denim diction.
Or philosophy in the kitchen.
The Italian Bed
In the moonlit room.
That only held the best.
We lay upon your Italian bed.
A time to play, a time to rest.
You spoke in the gloom.
Of visiting Oscar Wilde's tomb.
And your Paris travelogue.
And Ganymedes in youthful bloom.
I was one in a parade.
Drunk from the best of your cellar's wine.
I was your last seduction.
You were the first of mine.
Winter Beds: A Sonnet
Give him my heart and he would place it back.
Sear him my soul and he would merely sneer.
Laughing at me over bottles of Jack.
Crying to me over buckets of beer.
I may gay his stay and never return.
I muse, as I await his with the ice.
In the chill of the kill I feel his burn.
Blithely majestic and not very nice.
No longer our lingering in the sun.
The cold contempt of morn reveals his scorn.
I conquered his body and yet we run.
To loneliness as our lust is born.
Alone today and alone to my bed.
Our iced winter silence could wake the dead.
Book of James*
Poets are best appreciated dead.
As a fine wine mulled, culled from age and time.
In life the lover begs only for bread.
His contentment found in relief and rhyme.
The role of the Muse is as role for stage.
An epic arc of pathos and pure lust.
Requiring depth of range and of rage.
Be the poet’s bones cold, his smile dust.
The bard’s beloved brain boils as he broils.
Through summer solstice, autumnal decay.
His singular smile all his lover’s toil.
Serving celebrity roasts, famed fillet.
Feeding on fame by literary games.
To tender turnings in his Book of James.
* Although I've never written about John Donne, I should. Fantastic poet and inspiration behind Book of James.
Morning in Michigan
His stubbled jaw in the dawn.
His sleepy, knowing smirk.
Empty bottles, echoes of laughter.
Pinnacle and piercing positions.
The sounds of humming vending machines and maids.
Drift down dim hallways.
Outside semis lumber onto I-80/90.
Factory workers and farmers breakfast.
Alone, driving home.
Drive-through coffee and miles to go.
All poems © James Schwartz
