Ghetto Lions
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Her lover man, drunk on romance,
is led by her down skid row.
He is a sad-eyed prophet of gloom
who topples imaginary kingdoms
in his game of emotional chess.
He never quite captures the king.
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He hugs her, his angel of midnight dreams.
His circus gaze gleams with madness
wherein mirrored truths
reflect in operatic illusion.
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He is a gambler on love who found his touch
in smoky dreams of his queen of hearts.
His lucky streak is reborn
in a whiskey flat apartment
with his slum Madonna.
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He breathes the scent of her perfume
as she sashays beside him
in her thrift store high heels.
The tenement kids parade by
like Mardi Gras in Christmas.
Their wobbly feet carry them along
with beer cans in hand.Â
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Her voice beckons him with prophetic urgencyÂ
to take her hand.
He trashed his idealism
somewhere in the ninth ward.Â
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She is the apple of his eye,
arrayed in a red dress fantasy.
Her cherubic cheeks blush pink
as she says, “We live in a production
on the Off-Broadway of life so good that even the
critics cannot touch it.”
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He strides across Elysian Fields Avenue
while gazing up at the stars she grabs his arm
to steer him away from pot holes.
She is his messianic mistress who holds his hand.Â
They dodge traffic in street crossings.
Night enfolds them like Jesus’ tomb.
She is his lady luck wild card
in life’s madhouse poker game.
They promenade on streets paved
with old playing cards and broken whiskey bottles
and jaywalk into sidewalk salvation.
They arrive
at their down and out apartment bluesÂ
where he is filled
with a hearty burgundy passion for her.
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The harvest moon is plump as a Creole tomato
As she bares her tattoos like a Bengal tigress
But her inked in musical notes instead of striped
Until she sits on the barstool
That they got on sale from the secondhand store
He kneels behind her
And kneads the knots in her back
As he feels her muscle tension melt
And hears the mantra of her moans
When her eyes are rosebuds
Of a Raphaelite angel in reverie. Â
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She leads him by the hand to their warm bed.
Her lover woman arms enfold him
in a spiritualist embrace.
She touches stars into his skin
to nestle them deep in his aching need.
She feels his body sing to her trance beat.
Her almond eyes sparkle of love
as fathomless as the Pi
reflected in the circles of her irises.
He dreams of Waltzing Matilda in her embrace
for the rest of his days. Â
Her tug pulls him into her Eden.
She peers into his eyes with dignity which says,
“Hey don’t look away. I am your salvation.
Seek none other than me.”
And with her lilt she tells him
“I have been into the pit of hell and survived.
You can too. Follow me.”
And so she knows the bare truth of his sad eyes.Â
She will take him into the heart of her sufferingÂ
and lead him out stronger.
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They kiss like lions who roam the ghetto.
Poverty is their feast in a slum lord heaven.
They lie together like Cupid and Psyche
on a bed soaked with tears.
But ambulance sirens howl in the wind
while mercy is a police car headed into the night.
Intriguing write, John. This piece has layers and lots of depth my friend. Amazing imagery and storytelling. Appreciate you.
Damian
Damian, I am most grateful for your seeing into the layers within this piece. And also very grateful for your appreciation of the imagery and storytelling in my poem. I appreciate you too, very much.
John
Tremendous work. Powerful and vivid. Excellent.
Thank you so much Thomas. Very much appreciated your observations on my poem. Very grateful.
John
This is so worth reading. The grittiness and inner searching, as well as a lonely desire dresses this up nice. I get a real California children of the night feel to this. So well done. Great poem.
Did you mean as he combs her golden tresses?
Thank you so much Tim. You did see into the heart of my poem with a keen insight into its meaning. Love your words here. You have brought joy into my night. And yes I did indeed meaning he combs. Thank you so much for pointing that out. You really helped a lot with that. Have a great night.
John