When you open a book, you open my life

When you open a book,
you open a pop- up of my life
or at least my breath
which seems to be lifting
my lungs up and back
in their timeless sea rhythm,
and I must be reacting
more obviously, breathing
a little too hard. Maybe
the sound of my breath
is catching yours or maybe
it's my chest moving more
apparently,

but I can't get the feeling
under control because
your voice is shaping words
in quiet rumbles with soft
precise authority
such that each syllable
vibrates your baritone
a little, and I almost feel
the mattress shake ever
so slightly, but it could
be that I just trembled
and a tiny quiver escaped
at the way your lips move,
open then shut and how
you hold the book
in your hands.

In any case you noticed
because you laugh gently
and skim the pages on me,
flicking them over my tummy
in a shuffle, covering me
with poetry and then
with you and a smiling
question

Oh you like being read
to, do you?

It's like striking a match,
and we press the words
between us like flowers

Pure Unadulterated Rapture by the Bard of Bat Yam , Poet Laureate of Zion Stephen Darori

Against my will
I was brought here. 
Kidnapped from my 
home;
my freedom,
my autonomy is no longer
my own,
but now it belongs to another.
To me he has become all things:
master,
commander,
dictator,
lover.
To his will I must adhere
for disobedience will result 
in a smack to my rear.
He likes to hold me down,
the strength of his wrists 
keep me good and bound.
One look into my eyes and 
I know what he means,
there isn't any need for so 
much as a sound. 
His kiss leads me to a state
of bliss,
his touch leaves me wanting
more,
all that he gives me is never 
enough.
He can be simultaneously
gentle and rough,
sweet and gruff.
He is both yin and yang,
wild and tame.
He takes me to levels where
I feel as though I can fly,
the way he makes me feel I 
could never, ever deny.
What started out as my 
capture has now become my 
pure, unadulterated rapture.

Summer Southern Comfort by the Bard of Bat Yam , Poet Laureate of Zion, Stephen Darori

Summer should not 
be ripe for sadness not
when trees toss their hair
like casual schoolgirls 
but stand otherwise still, 
cool in blind assurance
like feckless flowers 
or fruit waiting to fall
from the vine.

The world overflows 
with secrets but crows 
jeer no matter the season. 
I hear them laughing 
in the mornings knowing 
they will be fat 
as plums on the snow 
when our ground is frozen, 
our branches whip thin. 

I toss my hair and flutter 
my fingers but otherwise 
am still at the window. 
I can't pretend sovereignty 
over trees or plums but here
stories in squirrels, pines, 
dragonflies, nothing 
like people but animate 
them to feel something, 
to glimpse an uncle 
in the forsythia brush,
a grandfather shadow 
in slanting afternoon.

I've been meaning to tell you
that the sky is closer 
to the earth here. It's brighter, 
the clouds have more 
dimension. I've been meaning 
to tell you but I don't 
know who you are, 
just that you are fleeting 
as a butterfly wing 
or dandelion fluff.

When the moon rises 
I quicken the stars, beg
them to whisper my name,
gather tears in the palm 
of my hand and pretend 
they are mother's, sister's.
I fly into the night to comfort 
the moon and tell it we are
some kind of family.

The Rain Begins to Fall by the Bard of Bat Yam, Poet Laureate of Zion, Stephen Darori

As the two of us undress in 
front of smoky, gray skies I 
feel such a warm anticipation 
tingling between my thighs. 
She takes a hold of my hand 
and leads me into the lush, 
green wood, 
then she pulls me so close 
to him just like I knew she would. 
She gazes deeply into 
my eyes as she caresses the side 
of my face so gently.
I can see her love for 
me reflected in her eyes 
so clearly. 
The rain begins to fall 
down in a soft mist. 
She places her lips on 
mine and we start to 
kiss. 
I feel her fingertips trailing 
down my bare skin, 
the sensation lights my fires 
of passion deep within. 
The rain begins to fall down 
more heavily, 
drops slither down our 
bodies more steadily. 
Her  fingers tangle in 
my et hair. 
Oh, is this fantasy 
or is this real? 
She takes me down; 
to the ground. 
As our bodies intermesh 
I feel soft, moist blades 
of grass caress my bare flesh. 
Our lips meet in a 
passionate, luscious kiss, 
in this present moment 
I feel such exhilarating bliss.

A Loving Heart is the Truest Wisedom by Stephen Darori, Bard of Bat Yam, Poet Laureate of Zion

The Wisdom of the Heart
sits to my left not right,
perhaps inappropriately, 
but Henry Miller is sinistral
here though not unwise.

My wisdom is sitting nowhere
uncentered, snowflake swirled 
or ground fallen. 
Perhaps it will peek 
up again crocus-like 

when spring breaks
somewhat later in this town,
April being not a cruel month;
just days knitting my unravelled petals
back together, 

looking for a green bench,
momentarily empty,
but with enough slanted sunlight
to bloom.

Dawn Day Break by the Bard of Bat Yam, Poet Laureate of Zion ,Stephen Darori

The day broke over your eyes, fluttered near
thick lashed, the iris leaf circled in bark.
I smiled upon your mouth full laughing, dear,
kissing the blood of lips against the spark
of dawn. This is how we wake, and thus begin
anew the path leading away from then
and how it was and what will be to win
nothing from her or him but start again,
believe that something pure can be exchanged
within the breath of hope awakened now
in battered souls that here are rearranged
from what once was, reshaped by questions. How
love do we know which way to go or be?
It matters not; our world is rich. Wait. See.

Refreshing Rain by the Bard of Bat Yam, Poet Laureate of Zion ,Stephen Darori

Freshly showered 
raindrops tears 
wax wane unfading
my inner landscape 
merging cloudy two-seater miles
to a man in a hat and smiles
walking through aisles
automatic seatbelts click 
encircled in goodbye snap 
hello stairs Pad Thai 
kisses 

Now two regrets
rain small voices
wax wane unfading
the distant landscape
lifting clarity northeast
while my heart's two lobes
tangle in this dichotomy
of loss
of love

Summer by The Bard Of Bat Yam (#BardOfBatYam) , Poet Laureate of Zion (#PoetLaureateOfZion) Stephen Darori

Summer should not 
be ripe for sadness not
when trees toss their hair
like casual schoolgirls 
but stand otherwise still, 
cool in blind assurance
like feckless flowers 
or fruit waiting to fall
from the vine.

The world overflows 
with secrets but crows 
jeer no matter the season. 
I hear them laughing 
in the mornings knowing 
they will be fat 
as plums on the snow 
when our ground is frozen, 
our branches whip thin. 

I toss my hair and flutter 
my fingers but otherwise 
am still at the window. 
I can't pretend sovereignty 
over trees or plums but here
stories in squirrels, pines, 
dragonflies, nothing 
like people but animate 
them to feel something, 
to glimpse an uncle 
in the forsythia brush,
a grandfather shadow 
in slanting afternoon.

I've been meaning to tell you
that the sky is closer 
to the earth here. It's brighter, 
the clouds have more 
dimension. I've been meaning 
to tell you but I don't 
know who you are, 
just that you are fleeting 
as a butterfly wing 
or dandelion fluff.

When the moon rises 
I quicken the stars, beg
them to whisper my name,
gather tears in the palm 
of my hand and pretend 
they are mother's, sister's.
I fly into the night to comfort 
the moon and tell it we are
some kind of family.

A woman closes a door.by the Bard of Bat Yam , Poet Laureate Of Zion , Stephen Darori

A woman closes a door.
You can’t see 
what’s behind it, maybe
a room or an ocean 
of chaos, pages, leaves
torn from books thrown. 
A woman

closes
a door and opens
a window. The Sun shines,
leaves have collided green
whispers the afternoon 
has passed 
a woman 

closes a book, distant 
traffic nearly 
tells the time she hears 
and looks down to the ticking 
leaves the room, 
a woman closes a door.

Let not Our errant cries by the Bat of Bat Yam, Poet Laureate Of Zion, Stephen Darori

Let not
Our errant cries,
Vain moments in this night,
Erase tomorrow’s clarity
(Regret).

There's an old house.by the Bard of Bat Yam (#BardOfBatYam) , Poet Laureate Of Zion (#PoetLaureateOfZion) , Stephen Darori (#StephenDrus,#StephenDarori)

There's an old house. 
If you turn right from Jaffa Road, 
528 is smaller than memory. 
Bricks belong to strangers now 
and the dogwood a spindly shiver, 
bare brittle as my secrets buried 
beneath concrete, my foundation 
where 528 sets gray in brown. 
If you dig deep you might find 
the Indian penny I hid once 
upon a shiny day. 

Change greens with age. 
My initials are eroded in a web 
of cracked patio. Somewhere 
in winter wind you'll hear whispers. 
Grind of roller skates, flap of sheets, 
a careless singsong of girls disappearing through a screen door.

The atoms' screams in quiet air

How did she survive the empty chair
the noons that inch to eventide
the atoms' screams in quiet air

a roommate's sighs the aides who stare
but none who knew her at her side
how did she survive the empty chair

while wondering at who might care
the flat smile of a photo bride
the atoms' screams in quiet air

the cards balloons the proxy fare
of not enough and will collide
how did she survive the empty chair

callous time will even wear
a stone away thus we've eroded cried
the atoms' screams in quiet air

in rooms where no one hears your prayer
yet pull you slowly with the tide
how did she survive the empty chair
the atoms' screams in quiet air

Outing a Morning by the Bard of Bat Yam (#BardOfBatYam) Poet Laureate Of Zion (#PoetLaureateOfZion) Stephen Darori (#Stephen Darori, #StephenDrus)

I.
Percolated up from wild color dreams,
Jacked on fresh ground cafe,
A string of errands on easy street.

We walk down rickety stairs under nip in air morning,
All smiles code talking syllables do just fine,
Off we go--me driving head north into town
Pharmacy first, she heads in while I finish smoking over paper,
Soon reading mags--Rolling Stone 40th anniversary issue, great interview with Dylan, Perry Farrell, Rage Against the Machine, talking summer festivals.

She buys Shampoo, nail polish in bright reds and pinks, until Scripts ready and we amble out 80 bucks lighter, slide along the roiling river swelled by snowmelt and nor’easter remnants, next stop Thrifway market for broccoli, another pack of smokes.

Churn south around the riverbend, town coffee hub, a stop for bagels and muffins, back on Main street ending the circle, she says "I know you love me, but you like me too, don’t ya." I smile and nod with one eye on her and the other on the road, non verbal knowing with a full tank of realization.
As we slide past the Country Club, all snow now gone, and hang a left into the driveway.

Up the rickety stairs, provisions in hand, I let her go first and she calls me a gentleman. 

I toast my garlic bagel, sprinkle cayenne pepper on cream cheese, soaks up coffee quite nicely.

A day in the life, a moment in time, these days of first spring are of heaven born,
Me out in shorts and long-sleeved t-shirt,

Its music time, and I’m leaning toward something symphonic, Copeland it is--"Fanfare for the Common Man" with so much of the day still before us and we are glad for the time together evermore.

So it goes on the freedom trail...with a prank in mind to go kiss her with cayenne lips, and our tongues turn to talks brushing ever so sweetly, and yes hotly from the red ochre spice, but she's tough and feigns not knowing, and I wonder if her nipple would be so resilient against my heat.

Ravel's "Pavane for a Dead Princess" comes next, textured with aural color and we wash it all out in Debussy's "La Mer," the Sea boils up on battleship gray rocks.

A snippet of morning light and life, undercoated by joy and abandon, as the buds on many trees swell in violet and lilac and deeper lavenders.

Beauty in so many forms, gifts we exchange effortlessly, May is my month and I am lucky to find her so welcoming of my idiosyncratic vision, the way the cool air lays down upon my flesh, enough air to float the universe....across the connected sky.


II.
It's my month, too, 
I have to remind him. He grabs the front
end of May, a tiger wrestling crocus buds and pussy willow into being, but I snap 
with the tail of May's whip end, 
slide us into June, snap with the snapdragons, digging the bee drone, 
I dream coconut suntan lotion
served up with my birthday cake. 

May spreads out before us, possibilities clear and limitless as a cornflower Maine sky bright with golden trompe l’oeil clouds painted on the horizon. We peer out the door, then thunder down the wood steps, and I never drive when he's around. "Just give him the wheel and he's happy" a friend of mine used to say and, my God, it's true. And I the equally happy navigator, the carryall for directions, cigarettes, lighters, sunglasses, diet coke babble as we bounce down Main Street, "we should get a bed with a bookcase headboard, don't you think? And a futon for the guest room I don't know what we'll do if the kids all come at the same time." 

He's smiling, one eye on me rubbing his leg, 
telling him the skin is too dry, he must
use the patchouli lotion I bought him. 
His other eye studies the road, his ear 
tuned to WZON, which is steadily trashing Terril Owen. 
A brief lecture ensues: 
football etiquette and Terril’s utter disregard for it. 

The day proceeds. 

We smooch goodbye even though he's just going next door 
to buy a paper and smokes. He tells me not to buy green nail polish, and I threaten 
to paint HIS toes L'Oreal Leprechaun No. 1, 
but when I find him in the magazine aisle 
I have only purple and pink for spring toes, 
and he's lost in the latest Sports Illustrated. 

It's true, we're in love,
we're in like. The best of both worlds! 
The kissing heats and cools,
heats and cools, but the conversation 
is endless and endlessly fascinating, 
these plans and details mark our days, 
each outing another brick in the home we build in our hearts, rock solid and decorated 
with kindnesses; he opens doors for me, 
I make him coffee. May stretches out before us in a line of promises we’ll keep, some solemn, some frivolous but all snuggled, treasured
in our joined warmth, a world that has grown from these words on a page, to voices, to bodies and now our oneness, joined at the soul. 
Now us, and still the lilacs waiting to bloom.

When in Life there comes tears by the Bard of Bat Yam (#BardOfBatYam), Poet Laureate Of Zion (#POetLaureateOfZion) , Stephen Darori (#StephenDarori, #StephenDrus)

When in Life there comes tears
With heart of sorrow and night
bitter rain
When in darkness of soul, or
shadowy realms of dream
you and I shall in hand
face all of life's trials and
every challenge answered.
Shall that gentle night come
swift then let shadow's quake
with the dawn shall all dark 
mirrors grow bright save one.
In my heart I shall never know
the light that brightens your
life in a glow so dazzling
as to enshroud my eyes in
death's own shadow. Without
the light you cast upon my
heart to a cold stone shall
all have become.
Why cries the night such 
Bitter tears.

Drink deep my love from my soul by the Bard of Bat Yam ( #BardOfBatYam), Poet Laureate of Zion (#PoetLaureateOfZion) Stephen Darori( #stephendarori, #StephenDarori)

I shall search for you
I shall find you
I shall lift the Cup 
of Eternal Life.
Drink deep my love
from my soul.
Shrink back not if
the taste should be bitter
or too sweet
or too cold.

A Thousand Questions by the Bard of Bat Yam (#BardOfBatYam), Poet Laureate of Zion(PoetLaureateOf Zion) Stephen Darori (@stephendarori, #StephenDarori)

What is life
What is illusion
What is death
What is reality
A thousand questions
held by a million times
a million souls.
Yet why is no answer
given back to the 
Fold.

In the mirror of your
Eyes I see my world
as it is.
Beyond light there is
Dark and beyond dark 
there is Light.
Life is a shadow game 
of gray and white.
Played by pawns with
dreams of what they 
could be once they reach
The other side.

The Misplaced English Garden in Bat Yam by the Bard of Bat Yam ( #BardOfBatYam) , Poet Laureate Of Zion (#PoetLaureateOfZion) , Stephen Darori( (@StephenDarori,#StephenDarori)

In Bat Yam is English country garden,
With flowers sweet and smells rare,
Where honey bees hum merrily
And butterflies and daddylonglegs are there.

It is misplaced Limmy Poppmy country garden
It’s near to god ( is it a woman?) they say
Where I can ponder for a while,
At the end of hot and humid Israeli day

It is the disrranged Zion country garden,
where the 32 varieties of Geraniums grow,
And the hoop oebirds are always singing
From dawn til evenings windless blew

My misplaced garden just a glimpse of heaven,
Beneath a sky of Poet Laureate ;s Zion blue,
It’s only a Garden of Eden country garden,
My sweated , grim and grimmed garden just for you