GRIEVING, a poem

          Real men don’t cry

          tell that to my eyes

          filling with tears

          when I speak her name

          I loved her so much

          Fire consumed the shell

          that contained her spirit

          Mix my ashes with hers

          around the rock and path

          I loved her so much

          Perhaps soulmates

          are earthly fantasies

          that disappear in death

          There is this certainty

          I loved her so much

         

           ====

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MOURNING, a poem

          I should have mourned her

          when she fell into the abyss

          three torturous years ago

          leaving only forlorn cries

          for a life that once was hers

          I want to go home

          Why am I like this

          Did I do something wrong

          Nobody likes me

          Don’t kill me

          Don’t leave me

          Her sad pleas are silenced

          my heart forever torn

          the time has come to mourn

          she remains in my mind

          lovely, caring, refined

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BEN CONNOLLY in the PARIS COMMUNE

BEN CONNOLLY in the PARIS COMMUNE by Kenneth C. Crowe, will be available for free downloads from Kindle for the next five days, from Saturday (Nov. 2, 2019) through Wednesday (Nov. 6, 2019).

The novel was inspired by the exploits of war correspondent Januarius MacGahan, during the uprising by the Parisian working class, led by left wing intellectuals, in the spring of 1871.

Gen. Jaroslaw Dombrowski and Louise Michel are major figures in the novel, as in real life.

AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN, a poem

An independent woman

willing to experiment

wading into the lake without me

to skinny dip with another

feeling his slippery skin

sensuously magic

unforgettable forever

Then before her lips

turn blue wading ashore

where I doze in the sun

alone no longer

she with me

her memories with her

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FLESH to ASHES

         The photos of the woman

          I loved and still do

          are arrayed on a table

          by the bed we shared

          Her flesh has turned to ashes

          Her flesh in that bed

          was a silky warmth

          addictively wonderful

          nightly available until

          her flesh was turned to ashes

          My memory of her in life

          is welded in my consciousness

          Her talk, her touch, her presence

          living with me still, although

          her flesh has turned to ashes

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LASTING LOVE, a poem

          Infatuation is easy

          like whipped cream

          a sweet taste of love

          a joy to the senses

          a passing sensation

         

          Lust evolves into love

          a mysterious change

          a touch of magic

          making the ephemeral 

          an enduring connection

          Unless often nourished

          by sexual delight

          the flame of true love

          fades into a staid

          dull companionship  

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DANCING BLISS, a poem

She danced

on ice skates

on wooden floors

all smiles

all laughter

She was a vision

of graceful movement

the music was

her inspiration

to joyfully dance

On the stage

of her life

her performances

were a pleasure

to behold

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