by Jo Halliday
I put a finger on my lip, my eyes twinkle.
They say all, all all. They want to talk,
they want to devour you. They want to touch you,
and my eyes will worship you, try to know you.
The bridges those suspended in thin air,
on roaring rivers in my country, in the hills I breathe
the joy of wind in the hair, of sparkling heartbeat
shall my eyes speak of; my hands not in mine,
gesticulating, dancing, like a houri, like a dervish, like god.
The metros I catch, where warm women hurriedly jump out the last stop
with an agenda full of salads to buy, phonecalls to make,
and the armful of office they carry home for late into night; their wafting
will to live, the guts and the charms, all
while I engage your eyes, ask questions, ask answers; because you've the answers.
The fingers and words and songs, a story where a maiden is caged in a tall tower,
a story where a man shuts his ears only to listen to cries and shouts in the tunnel,
the child's prattle and the denuded figures; in your eyes a thousand colors light up
and your lips murmur what my eyes say; and as my eyes learn what they want,
my hands create the dance in the air, as you know yes, for life to bless me.
Posted on 07/20/2010
Copyright © 2021 Jo Halliday
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 07/20/10 at 07:05 PM|
Jo, I'm really impressed with this write. I love your love of life and you have expressed it quite well.
|Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 07/20/10 at 10:42 PM|
Your writing and you highlight my eyes, I look in new places, or I look at old places anew. In this story, envision the eyes of Scheherazade, whom I placed in your engaged eyes, and guess what, Jo! You also have written about her now inside this. And you know my delight with her, (Irish Setter Temper aside ;).
You are beautiful, just like your writing.