Silvia

O Silvia, my Silvia…where in this lonesome hour

Can my heart with sweet abandon find you there?

If chance upon the wind, you do float as lotus flower

Would on my earthen bed you gladly fare?

 

I am your silent lover…though cloaked in gentile guise

With lips, mine own affection would I treat you

And in the twilight’s gloaming your embrace there would I prize

If fate would look away while there I greet you.

 

O suitors, I commend thy will to win dear Silvia’s hand

While exile finds me close enough to see

Yet mark this, would be lovers, her hand there you may find

But her gentle heart was offered first to me.

 

~Christopher Britt

 

Once More

I see your name here and there

Suddenly, I can’t get you off my mind

 

I catch your fragrance on the air

Remembering when I held your lips to mine

 

I feel your presence all around

In the night and in the sunshine, warm

 

I would give all, and all again

To hold you once more in my arms

`Christopher Britt

Letters

Silvia,

 

I know of what you speak.  The water is wide and to chance swimming o’er may lead to an unsavory end.  You speak of love stories and tragedy?  It’s amazing how often the two are intertwined.

 

Love is a bitter-sweet arrow that carries a joyful pain, a welcome poison that spreads to every extremity and causes mastery of the heart over the mind.  I fear that I am so afflicted. 

 

But I welcome this pain, it let’s me know that I am alive; for life is not just time to spend until our inevitable demise, but the very pulse, the heart beat carrying hope and vitality to these arms that have longed to hold you...to these hands that long to touch you…and these lips that yearn for the chance to truly know you.

 

I speak boldly with words I should never utter and feelings I am not supposed to have.  I cannot tell you how many such letters I’ve written you and then disposed of without sending for fear of being an unwelcome fool.

 

But, if I am a fool, then an honest fool am I, leaving my heart pray open to live, to love and soon be broken.  I am alive and will e’er remain.

 

~Will

I love you I love you I love you.

You are the most beautiful sunrise.
You are the moon shimmering on a lake.
You are a field of yellow and blue wildflowers.
You are a walk through a forest of autumn leaves.
You are a dragonfly lighting on a reed.
You are triumph.
You are exaltation.
You are discovery.
You are an out-of-body experience.
You are a dolphin leaping in the blue waters.
You are Saturn through a telescope.
You are the white blue of water over a rock.
You are a grace note.
You are a red satin sheet with a white feather in the top right corner.
You are the first gasp after holding breath for two minutes.
You are toffee ice cream.
You are cherry pie.
You are the shimmer on summer asphalt.
You are the drop of water running down the outside of a pitcher of iced tea.
You are the shiver after eating a spoonful of orange sherbet.
You are opalescence.
You are the eyes of a deer.
You are the finding of a new planet.

You are the jam on my biscuit.  I could go on all night.
That's because I love you, love to think about you, love to be loved by you.
Love love love love love.
That's what our lives together will be:
love love love love.




David Flynn

Siren's Song

I long for the open sea while gentle waves call to me in my sleep

Dreams of fresh air and a boundless horizon

Though no words ride the clean night air, I hear her song and know her voice.

 

Stand I here at waters' edge while the moon bids her rise to greet me

To embrace her as she beckons me to follow

To become one with her, or perish in the striving

 

Grounded, here I stand in the dry shifting sand

Afraid to plunge into the depths, I am rooted…captive

Denying myself passage to that distant horizon

 

O happy tide, would that I were as free as thee

 

~ Christopher Thor Britt

Fair Memory

   I see you fair in memory’s sweet abode

   ‘tis truly there with you I long to be

   To touch again ‘fore daydream walls erode

   Thy lips of red, o passion, mine to thee

 

   In passion do I feel the tempest rise

   Rise to meet the moonlight’s sweet caress

   To see myself in love there in your eyes

   And in thy garden dare to find me rest

 

   O damn the world that holds this body bound

   N’er content, my spirit yearns to search the wind

   ‘tis there in sweet repose my love is found

   And there I long to be with you again

 

   For in fair memory’s eye no care there be

   And to thy heart, mine own, I’d give to thee

 

 

                                      Christopher Thor Britt

Dreams Unseen

The waking world does leave me ne’r content

My love if there’s no place for you and I

To find ourselves to love and ne’r repent

To live, to love, to dream, and then to die

Beneath the sky above this dreamful sleep

I’ll find you there in hope or passions eye

And pray you seek me well and find me deep

Your heart content to love one such as I

But if you find me not in slumbers womb

And passions flame has not the chance to light

Forget me not or to my early tomb

This heart will surely break and rend the night.

Yet, sleep you well, my love my timeless muse

And wait anon ’til morrow’s dreams pursue

 

                                                                            ~ Christopher Thor Britt,

 

The New Physics of Love

Fire between the living and the bed rooms,
yet we are not metal.  Love is metal if
it embraces time.  Our love never owned
a watch. 

Soul is
your lips, your eyebrows, your blue eyes, your skin,
white as purity, hair red as the sweatof sex.
  Soul is a knot of atoms
in the web of the universe that I,
a second knot, love. 

Love builds the fire in the fireplace; it pours
the red wine into your glass, the white wine
into my glass.  Love embraces.   Your shape
fits my shape, and warms my flesh with your flesh.
We are human because we have the names
of humans truly.

The rest is physics.

Fire between the living and the bed rooms.
We rush the mattress.  Subatomic, I
want only the tube of you, the sliding
song, and the vagueness of our ecstasy.

Which is not quantum, but old fashioned skein.

With You

Without you I would want to be dead.
You are the light of the day when we eat strawberries.
I run my fingers through your long, red, tangled hair,
and love life for another five seconds.
When you walk through the door after a dark day of work,
I animate.  I rise from the grave.  I focus enough to see.
Seeing your blue eyes, blood lips means I can talk again.
Hearing your bell of voice means I can listen.

This is love, because if it is not there is no love.
Without you I would want to be dead.

David Flynn

Jennifer is Blue Water

You were blue water, Pacific deep yet 
clear.  You turned the typhoon world azure and
my sight grew calm because of you.  Between
dawn and sleep, you kept the noise of business
deep blue jazz.  Alone was death; you were life,
afloat on a sea transparent with love.

Our first minute past the knifing of love,
when I spoke that word at you, we held, yet
my thoughts stared at your eyes.  Blue eyes, iris and
lash, blue planets that imagined between
us the future.  We dived deep, the business
of arranging our furniture for life.

Then two islands of separation.  Life
stopped, as did our heart beats, our breaths, while love
swept the seas with its winds.  We wept salt, yet
four months without blue sight we loved surge and
current the more.  With half Earth's curve between
us, we talked and typed, a season's business

forgotten in our throe.  Daily business,
ho hum, and civil war.  While bombs took life
in Macedonia, I walked in love
down death streets of Skopje.  Percussion, yet
I pictured your oceanic eyes, and
willed you flown to destroy the distance between.

Amsterdam!  Your red spilling hair.  Between
us waves of white skin.  For two months business
delayed while we knew the planet, learning life
might be a Ferris wheel in Paris; love
might be a beggar in New Delhi. Yet
even Earth--Mt. Everest--proved music and

lighting behind your mind.  On a lake and
one knee, gasping with my divorce, between
"Will you," and "marry me?" I thought, Business
be drowned.  Jennifer has touched me to life.
On that white marble palace built for love
by a maharajah, you saved me yet.

"Will I!" you gasped, and at sunset business
became tides between husband and wife, life
a blue sea, soft yet powerful as love.

David Flynn

Her Hair

Her Hair

If a woman could be all hair, she would be all hair.
Red veil falling in waves,
like a cataract of blood,
to the middle of her back,
covering her blue eyes,
like holes in the ceiling on a summer day,
when she leans forward to touch my face.

But hair is some remnant of a million years ago,
useless now except for love,
and she
is a million things:
warm hand on my cheek,
a sigh after a long day's work,
a laugh like shattered glass,
views:  economy, deity, society,
vast planetary systems of feeling:  love and love and more love.

She feels for the whole human race.
I don't have time to write a poem about her;
no one does.
This is just a start:  hair.

David Flynn