Andrew Dabar Poems

Another day
And soon, I'll be on my way
To a job that I hate
But I cannot be late
...

Sometimes it happens like a dream. Their lips had never met until that moment. Drawing her close, he kissed her carefully, thoughtfully, skillfully, his eyes wide open and locked with hers, brown on blue. They stood in the middle of a high meadow, knee-deep in wild flowers, before falling farther to the ground and further in love, their bodies completely hidden and exposed, both. The green grass, crushed by their weight, bled beneath them, staining their skin.

Yes, he remembers. Her hair was fragrant as clover spread all around; her skin salty and damp in the summer heat; her tongue and breath pink and sweet as mimosa; her fingers soft as a breeze before lifting his shirt like the hay wind. His head was buzzing—or maybe it was the bees swarming.
...

Thoughts of you fall silently
like flakes of snow throughout the day.
One by one and one on top of the other
they connect, and they stick, and they cover
...

She was leaving. He followed her with his eyes. But his mind got away: it raced around the corner and blocked the exit just in time. She walked into his outstretched arms—straight through his phantom arms—then disappeared just beyond a heavy door. The closing door. The slamming door. The ugly, gray door. The "I'll see you no more" door.

She never knew he was standing there. Breathless. Close enough to brush her hair and agitate her skirt with static blue sparks.
____________
...

She entered through one door
As he by another
Did cross a crowded floor
Strangers to each other
...

The reality of her re-entered my dreams
Reluctantly, permanently
For reasons of nobility
I dismissed her heart from me
...

This is how it happened:
You entered the room and a gentle breeze
Stirred a place nobody sees
Deep within the wilderness of my heart—
...

Starting with the sun
Count them one by one:
A star for every blessing
A blessing for every star
...

The beauty of Paris Mountain in the day. Viewed from a distance, she is the first blue wave of the Blue Ridge, a silent single line heading north, forming, building, eventually tilting, but never crashing or rushing back, a captivating still frame of swelling beauty, perpetually coming. The tide coming in—or maybe going out—one final breaker heading south, spilling, fizzing, ultimately disappearing into the Piedmont.

If not a wave, she is a work of art. A nubile goddess with an androgynous name. Her sensual body is as long and lithe as Aphrodite of Cnidus but Praxiteles is not responsible. God's Great Flood sculpted her with mathematical precision and placed her belly down, head resting on muscled arms, a sleeping nymph with legs and feet stretching all the way to the city's edge. That's the view from Caesar's Head and any man with eyes to see will find himself staring, maybe even blushing, or perhaps falling in love with this erotic woman.
...

Only minutes remain
In this the final day
With so much left to say
So
...