Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 18
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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

Jazz _____________________________________________

                                The Rotunda

                                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
                                   We dreamed
                      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

                           LEA DIAZ