Poetry by
Perry Nicholas
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Father’s Toast
In photographs, I touch your granite face, To rub away those times you hurdled home. Straight VO in your hand, with trembling grace, You lifted a mock toast to set the tone
Of strength and shadowy presence of birch. I stare at you, then conjure black and blue, Small soldier on his silent march to church— The way a father teaches, I assumed.
After long nights of roaming districts dark, I used your branch to shield the blinding day And carved a deeper sweetness in the bark, Sought other mentors-- Cummings, Hemingway.
Here’s to you, who taught me “how not to sing”: No more “nada y pues nada”—just everything. |
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The Blue Woman
Eyes, pendant, blouse, all blue cousins. She leans over the table confidently as if conducting a family meeting, red highlights, skin burned pink in between. How could anyone wade into her eyes and stay angry?
No doubt rehearsed to appear impulsive, her turquoise toes just distant relatives, fish for the obligatory compliment.
And if someone in the room becomes bold enough, he may settle on her finger nails, on which she has painted the most provocative blue tales, glittering wavelets gesturing him in. |
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The Visitor
Last evening I was just plain jealous when I thought I saw an angel swoop, too low, kiss your eyes.
He must have whispered enchanting words you were starved to hear, some kind of sultry night language.
I pricked while sweet beams shot out of your pores, empowering even the timid stars:
Is this his last duty on earth, to nourish you into making comparisons?
The morning has settled on the blanket I left lying in the backyard, for us a bed to search the sky; for him
a trampoline to land upon, steal your graces, launch and leave a golden light inside you, rolling questions within me. |
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Copyright 2006 Perry Nicholas
All Rights Reserved
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