Poetry from Robert Thomas

When She’s Gone


When she’s gone
No more endearing smile to greet my return
or laugh at wry and corny puns.
No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm.
An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments.
When she’s gone
A silence in place of wistful songs of love.
No more care in moments of need.
An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not
there.


When she’s gone
A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong,
and yet its demand required.
A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone.
When she’s gone
No pride of her dance and woven skills.
The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang
lifeless, and towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer
given.


When she’s gone
No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn.
A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned.
Her body still haunting after years of toil and age.

When she’s gone
A lack of anticipation for things to come.
No crazy impulses to thrill the hour.
A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic as waves wash over the
the memories of the water sign that was her.


When she’s gone
A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times.
Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness.
She was best for me in many ways.
Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for
she is gone.

Alas Love

She was complicated—an enigma
Yet, I loved being lost in the labyrinth
of her being
She was a mystery—a contradiction
but, I reveled in the dissonance
of her dance


She was contrary—anti everything
However, I was proud of her taking
her stands.
She was sensual—erotic
And I laid my libido bare for her.


She was mysterious—a riddle
And I willingly followed all of
her clues.

She was magic—a clever trickster
and I foolishly fell under
her spell

She was a vagabond—a wanderer
Abandoned, I now stand alone with only her
story to tell.


Fat Jack


Jack Sprat ate no fat, and I should do the same.
Alas, I lust as lions eye the bearded gnu on plain.
A true carnivore am I. Order rare and fresh at bistro Jeaunty,
Slicing thick or thin, no matter, scales will never haunt me.

I yearn for those crackling chicharrones,
I’d even dice them with macaronis.
Ham for this Christmas? I plead for more,
My Jewish spouse, responds in horror.

No no. she screams, as it is trayf.
Then pastrami, I say, for it is safe.
There’s more to lean than meats the eye.
A dollop of fat in mince meat pie.
No sating my taste for adipose tissue.
to hell with calories, they’re not my issue.
So, here I sit in banquet’s scene,
knives at ready, well honed and keen.

A roast afore me all marbled and mean.
I’m ready to lick that platter clean.

Fica/Fico


Succulent fruit of ebon sheath, more alluring than Eden’s own
temptation.
Plucked when size matters, spewing it’s sticky milk; oozing,
dripping, clinging.

Within it’s dark shroud lay a hidden blush of pink delight. Spread
by gentle fingers, a soft, moist gel of suspended seed ready to
be sampled, licked, sucked.
A taste of strawberry jam, sweet and sticky on the tongue. A tip
slowly lapping up forbidden flesh, sensing it’s texture, viscous,
gelatinous, viscid.

An orgasmic release of gustation, requiring reflection, while
savoring the next moment of oral satisfaction, pleasure,
fulfillment.


Fig, your broad lobed leaf indeed, need cover thy shameful fruit.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *