Poetry Friday

First a contest announcement: click your way over to my buddy, Ms. KM Walton, for a chance to win free, original, personalized, super-creative business cards (or invitations, or what-have-you) from Uniquely Noted. Of course, you'll be competing against me, so, if you can handle that kind of heat -- better bring your A-game.

This contest just happens to perfectly coincide with my first ever crack at 'Poetry Friday', a creative phenomenon that's sweeping the blogosphere like a California brush fire. Thank you, Kelly, for spilling a little gasoline on me, (and then casually discarding a cigarette butt.*) When I figure out where you can find this week's host of Poetry Friday, this here sentence will become an actual link.

A few things you should know:

1. My wonderful little wife has gone out of town for three days
2. I miss her when she's gone.
3. So my first poem is kind of a love thing, which I writed.
4. If you make fun me, I will spam your blog with links to Viagra advertisements.
5. Did I mention my poetry's not all that good?

Disclaimer: It's true. I'm not much of a poet. In fact, I keep all of my poetry hidden. Because of the almost certain death-blow which shall swiftly descend upon my already flagging 'street-cred'.


All right. Enough with the apologetic preambles. Here it is: a love poem from a doofus.

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Waiting to Sleep
by Ray Veen


It is dim and I am waiting
for you to come to bed.
I see you in the bright
brushing, foaming spitting,
hair pulled back strict, looking
at your reflection through thick glasses,
seeing no makeup, seeing a tired face,
seeing what I cherish.

In the bedroom.

You unhook your bra but keep your t-shirt and panties on.
A toned abdomen beneath sagging skin that reminds me
of my treasured ones.

‘Have I told her yet today, how beautiful she is?’

You slip in and press close
as if desperate, but you are simply tired.
There is half a bed beyond you.
And sometimes I complain about that.

Secretly I adore it.

Our bodies welded lengthwise in nothing more spectacular than imminent rest but
we are one in it – as in all things.

I trace your shape.
Like I always do.
Firm and smooth then a bony knob.
A soft dip.
Then, ribs.
And then I stop.
Because I know you hate to be tickled.

I cup you.
Strap you in iron.
I press our minds side-to-side
unwinding, ready to sleep.
Comfort swells
from beneath and beyond and within

and we can sleep.

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*Ms. Polark's tobacco use and/or nicotine addiction can neither be confirmed nor denied.