- Three Poems by Lamont Palmer

Three Poems by Lamont Palmer

Reflections on Possible Waywardness

Her kisses hold less danger
than the danger of years ago,
like rabbits, soft, harmless: kisses
are no kisses, disappearing and few perceptions to miss.

To the epicenter of the kiss, the come home kiss
that lives no more, or exists in a puckered time,
puckering for a, nearly, extinguished man.

Breaths portend the kiss.
Breaths are the life of it, beating its airy blood.
The afternoon, the nights,
the indolent mornings,
the arrivals, the departures,
from within all of these testaments,
lies the vanished kiss--where it resides
is a fleeting place. Where it is, is not a golden home.


A Tilghman Island Tale

How admirable is it to settle comfortably on the inside of things
like a beach house, remarkably, facing imaginative seas?

If not the wind then where the damage goes,
musical stricture of each one,

as time whimsically changes into more time,
the way of the thought, is the way of monologue.

To grieve, if its possible here, is to come down from the tree of conscience,
standing, instead, where your own world stands.

But knowing the blue fangled vision, knowing its texture,
elongates any road stretching pass an inner yard.

As the yard itself becomes something of a soul,
no longer eternal; existing just the same.

The fishes hear what may be a lonely timbre,
as the lighthouse illuminates a delapidated trailer.


We sit outside. We are akin to each breeze.
Dancing, swirling, around and around,
you'd think the breeze would get dizzy,
stagger to a corner, fall down, rest its windy eyes.
The breeze is maniacal, never staying still.

We sit under a delighted sun.
Our meal is tempting to us and the sun.
Our love is as hot as an individual ray,
we are instrumental in the afternoon beauty.

The elements are performers, we become an audience.
How much depends on union of body and air?
Passing out food, we are partaking of life;
smiling is as simplistic as breathing. We are outside.


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