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The Blog Bog
The Mag Rack
Our parts of which we speak...
I enjoy the way your verbs
taste, stroke and titillate
my hut of flesh and its resident soul.
I endure the way your adjectives
desire to describe the details of beauty.
Adjectives are paintings of dawn:
they strike sulphur,
but they do not emblazon my vision with brilliance.
I revere the nouns that name
the person, place and thing that you are.
Every appellation I use provides
another reference to the benevolence of you.
I hate the pronouns assigned to design ourselves,
for enwrapping yourself in pink
won't disguise the cries of your mannish side
and my anima is pregnant with a passion to reproduce.
I appreciate the conjunction that you have grown to be.
You are the “And” that facilitates my spirit's state
By using the adhesion of compassion.
I adore you for the prepositions that grant these facts:
I am on a bed of beatitude with you.
We do what we want for joy's geysers,
experiencing satisfaction after the flow.
Our parts of which we speak...cont
I titter at the interjections
we use as illustrations of our jubilation.
The exclamations are sillier
than children chortling on a carousel.
I assert adverbially,
both you and I have become
rather pledged to the notion
of cherishing an emotion
without using its word.
Soundlessly appreciating that thoughtful space,
waiting for language to transport the topic,
our best sentiments on commitment are expressed.
Bob McNeil 2013
In a bucolic rotunda
We admired the distant mountains crowded with pines,
Dark-green spots, minuscule figures
In the fine silver thread between God and humanity.
In a solitary rotunda
We talked, we laughed,
Soft, loving echoes tapped the ancient wood
One dream, the same dream.
The rustic bench we were sitting on
Would be covered with a mantle of spring flowers
After our company.
Creepers would climb the idyllic gallery
As our mellow presence cured its nostalgia.
The sun so warm, rewarding,
Irradiated auras of something pure.
I leaned my head on your shoulder, the eyes closed
Your voice filled with peaceful notes the quiet morning
I need the Beauty', I whispered
Words from the heart carrying desires for unknown bliss
Inside, you wanted and longed for that rare plenitude
There are tracks in the snow
Precise and neat
We walk hand by hand along imaginary paths
White paths towards rotunda universes
Constellations of pristine Beauty grow in our souls