Love in Abandoned Places

Love in Abandoned Places

by Cam M. Roberts

 

These wind-torn fences
and wrought-iron gates
surround the whole of this
sloven estate —
Several disheveled lawns all-encompass this derelict mansion
where stone-masonry and monoliths have gone to desolation.
Voraciously, I look at you, and give you my rapture:
Those feelings of love as repressed passion
which have burned in me for years on end
are strained through voice, spoken in torrents —
I’ve resorted to packaging my pathos in words.
In silence
we walk three miles
amid an agoraphobic field,
then through foothills within the forest.
We follow along a sinusoidal stream,
until finally you look up and smile at me,
but you warble all over as if on the verge
of a strange and tragic weeping —
A ravenous starling starts to sing of squalor.
In our unkempt garden
we stroll
under a maudlin moon
that moves us closer:
Your head now on my shoulder.
We walk on nocturne air —
The trees take note
and soon turn
their vast canopies
into a tarpaulin overcast
of cumulonimbus clouds.
The temperature drops drastically
as night-storms advance on us.
High winds begin to pick up.
Your darkening chaos of hair is as furious
as the sea inside us both — a tempestuous mane.
An assortment of veils billowing in the bluster:
As nylon ribbons, silk-lace, and black velvet
on my nape gone pale and trembling neck.
This makeshift scarf
coils taut round my throat
and shrouds half my face
like an eye-patch and bandanna.
From the chest up
I could be a buccaneer pirate.
Or, say from the sternum up
I resemble Jolly Roger.
You could be Medusa, but
you’re too damn beautiful.
To myself, I muse:
In this tableau
you could choke
me to death
and I wouldn’t protest.
Then the miracle happens —
You assail me on all sides.
Your breath anoints my skin, absorbs under,
splays me, body and soul, asunder —
running along my collarbone
then near my jawline onward.
And I hear your galvanic voice
in my ear as lifted wings,
your austere whispering:
Nothing else.
No other.
This.

 

© CMR, 2014
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Donation

Donation

by Cam M. Roberts

I have God
so to speak
the way I
have on these
hand-me-downs
from no one
to speak of

 

When I die
I wish to
give my hope
to one who
needs it most
I’ll give you
my whole heart
both my lungs
any and all
of it you
need to live

 

 

© CMR, 2014

Floralia

Floralia

by Cam M. Roberts

 

“As she talks, her lips breathe spring roses:
I was Chloris, who am now called Flora.”
 Ovid, Fasti

 

I.

Willow Poplar Hickory Ash
Elm Oak Sycamore Sassafras

Crape Myrtle Bradford Pear Persimmon
Turtlehead Toadshade Rhododendron

Hydrangea Geranium Hibiscus
Gardenia Hyacinth Eucalyptus

Foxglove Goldenrod Hollyhock Jonquil
Phlox Clover Marigold Shamrock Yaupon

 

II.

Drunken Angelica Aralia Spinosa
Carolina Silverbell Sober Magnolia

 

III.

Burning Bush Bearsfoot Milkweed Yew
Buckeye Tree Squirrel Corn
Red to Yellow Poppy

Bottlebrush Bamboo Sinews of Kudzu
Honeysuckle Bladderwort
Vines of Poison Ivy

Wild Fern Dahoon Spoon Leafed Sundew
Greenbriar Hawthorn
Lily-of-the-Valley

 

© CMR, 2014