I live with my wife in a northern exurb of Westchester. My poems derive from human nature and my mind has been shaped by years of pop culture: countless hours of music, films, television, news, and more. Through teaching, I get to share my love of literature and the importance of responsible journalism. My poems and short stories have been published in numerous journals. My first collection, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press), can be found on Amazon.com. A chapbook, Memory Marries Desire, will be out momentarily. It can be ordered at FinishingLinePress.com.
Editor's Note: When I asked Gary to tell me something about his inspiration for this superb poem, he wrote: The challenge always is to avoid cliches when writing love poems. My task here was to unearth a concentrated study of relationships, new and old, as if discovering archaeology, the artifacts of love. The first part trades in nautical terminology (relation – ships), the second focuses on small details that can build or destroy relationships, the third spotlights the excitement of new history being forged, a legacy for the ages yet to come. As hearts and mind race toward that next stirring chapter, the hope is that love (and poetry) stands the test of time.
I put myself in danger when treading the depths
of your friendship. You are quite deep; I am unskilled.
This is the end for which I was destined:
a beautiful drowning, gasping air
in gossamer dreams, your silken ways
drawing me closer, surrounded by
irresistibly sensual ambrosia.
My kingdom for a boat,
a means by which to circumnavigate
these rocky shoals and emotions.
Your eyes hold secrets your lips never tell.
I wrestle tides, the pull and sway
of heartstrings secured by nautical knots.
I flounder in waves of this bedroom,
the undertow of lusty midnight,
unthinking currents of heady affection.
Swallowing gulps of hard disbelief,
I pray to see next morning.
You say you love this, you say you love that.
Your vernacular plays fast and loose with the term
and it loses all meaning.
Morning rain, afternoon sun,
the shape of the moon, the way your head tilts
in that ever-inquisitive pose.
Love love love love.
Each time the word appears,
its symbolism further fades.
This garden was here when your grandparents
traded cultural references now lost to the ages.
You recall slicing strawberries with a paring knife,
helping someone with a summer recipe.
Your sweetness, your innocence, renews the world.
Even more so than the shock of that nail polish color
and electric kisses stolen behind the red shed.
This is a fresh dawn of time,
a molten reawakening,
where new land is forming
to bridge the gaps between us,
a torrid continent that may never cool.
From here on, it’s about survival.
First published in West Trade Review
©2016 Gary Glauber