By Todd Mikosh
Conjured images cry that words should try--
Translate, if they can--tell of all my plan.
Written right, storms will pass the bleak crevasse.
My feelings--not to ban--enjoin the van
And travel to defy words to belie.
I rough it out en masse, skirting impasse.
Hastens death throes.
We can dream, yes, and we can play with words,
As long as our ascriptions be not false.
But if we live the lie, mix oats with curds,
We won't with Polonaise be dancing Waltz.
Yet cattle cows we always find in herds.
Sleep with your love
Until you wake.
Mangle the dove
For not your sake.
The bed is sheets.
Rose pillow reeks.
Do not tell me to suppress my emotion!
It flows out of me like a swollen river.
All I can do is express my devotion
To you, that I am smitten, that I shiver.
In your presence, I feel intoxication--
Speak children's lies, words I mutter awry.
In your absence, I fear denunciation--
Weeping empty skies where I shudder and cry.
Oh, for the time my arms behold you,
Yet, from the time my eyes depart you,