©Jason I. Stutz 2008
Can we sing?
Darlin’
come up stairs
and let’s make love a while.
“Oh, baby,
can we sing?
Can we sing as we make love?”
Oh, darlin’, yes
we can sing
we can sing
we can sing as we make love!
~
Lover, come naked
The lonely,
they come to me-
like dried leaves falling from distant trees
for, I am the patron saint of the lonely.
and they discover me
when through a thicket of shadows
a soft light glows before them
and a sound enters their chest filled with sobbing.
Do not think to find me until then,
when the hurt of that hunger scratches your bones.
But only then,
when you could die of sorrow
having already searched beneath the feet of every friend for common love
and found only the sole of their shoes to turn you away
even them, those who knew you
skulk into the cave of their comfortable thoughts, away from you-
you, who they didn’t want to see.
Do not come to me
until the hunger eats your bones
and you are pressing your hands to the inside of your heart
weeping as on walls that are closing in.
Only then, notice the glowing light that appears
where before you could not perceive it-
as my heart calls to yours,
“Lover, come near
and I will wash your bones of fear.”
Under one gingko tree
Under one gingko tree in New York
a woman leans with her head down, demure
smiling half to her self
and half to the Universe
A bird circles near her playfully
A sun shines through branches to touch her
to wash her with the rays of his body.
Tammy
I feel this image-
Me clapping my hands at you
clap! clap!
and, at least for the time the sound reaches your ears
you rouse from your romantic isolations.
But, you fall at the end of each clap! heard
In, again, resistlessly
As into a heavy sleep that draws you deeply down
into your lungs
“Come!” (clap! clap!)
If I could keep that sound in your ear
you would meet me in life where our connection is.
Come! Let me massage you to the surface
where intimacy is!
stay! like this!
your body afloat here
on the meniscus of love awakening.
Naked Spanish Woman on the Subway
Her breasts dare to reach toward her waist as she sits-
every inch of her a testamony of her sensuality
each fold of flesh, a nose of passion
inhaling pleasure, promising pleasure
She reads her paper and fondles a book,
but this is not her calling.
In a negligee, crouching on the bed
let her beckon her lover with fingers fanning him forth
she directs him to her theatre of sex, her eyes a burning wet greatness
Let her laugh about her power there, unquestionable, the power she loves
as she opens his fly and blows upon him
words that make his mind
crease blissfully into the folds of her laughing flesh.
Stutz's Fairy Tales and Poems 