DOWNSTREAM

by Steven Gulvezan

Old broken crone
How the young men
Swooned
Under your window
On the hot
August nights
Of your youth
Time has a way
Of passing
But maybe not
Remember
How sweet the ice cream
Tasted
Strolling along the boulevard
Twilight falling
Your hand in the hand
Of that certain someone
Who flavored your fancy
That summer night
So long ago
Memories have drifted
Downstream
Dip your hand into the water
Close your eyes
Remember
Biting into the cone
The frozen confection
Deliciously
Cold
The feel of his arm
Brushing on yours
A cool breeze
Stirring
Your white cotton gown
Did you stop?
Did you kiss?
Hot tongues flicking
In each other’s mouths
Time has a way of passing
No more

ANOTHER KIND OF HUNGER

by Steven Gulvezan

When does the clock stop?
The angry mob storms the palace
Screaming, “Bread!”
The soldiers level their guns and fire
And much blood is spilled…
I see my true love’s fingernail polish
Red upon her nails—
Her delicate white hand reaching up to me…
She wishes me to save her
But I cannot…
Though she is far removed from famine
She is dying
Of another kind of hunger
Alone, though I sit by her side
Aching with desire
To purchase
A loaf of her bread

LOVE OF A WELL-HUNG CURTAIN

by Steven Gulvezan

Susan paused upon the portico
To gaze upon the draper's assistant
Hanging curtains in her chamber
His face so waxen white
She wondered if he had dipped
Into the alabaster cream
Hidden in the top drawer
Of her dressing table
But when he turned his head
And their visions locked
His blazing coal-black eyes
Instantly transfixed her
And, flushed and slightly panting,
She inquired huskily of this lad
If he might desire to step down
From his ladder and join her
In her boudoir to eat his fill
Of her sweet morning muffin

OTHERWISE SUNNY AFTERNOON

by Steven Gulvezan

You are not at their mercy
Ignore them
Reports of their power
Over you
Are misleading
They send
Airships of misinformation
Floating into
Your mantra
Watch them as they float
Past
And out the other side…
Or perhaps you might
Send sparrows
With flaming twigs
Held in their tiny beaks
Flying up
To intercept
The airships…
Hydrogen and fire
Ignite and
Pop!
Oh the humanity!
You laugh…
Only bald liars
Would steal
Your serenity
And attempt to encase you
In gloom

THE BLASTED HOUR

by Steven Gulvezan

Four in the morning I arise without
Warning to confront the ghosts and
Demons the angels the small bizarre
Things that appear only after three
O’clock and before five o’clock
Feeling perhaps with justification
That this is their righteous time and
Not mine—
Still I arise and offer them
A convivial hello and perhaps a small
Piece of my life to chew over—
My demons nod, accepting my token
Payment and quietly observe me from
The far corner of my room…