David Steinberg, American poet, born 1944.
DEN MAI CHA
David Steinberg
Steeping in you,
pungent leaves
soaking to soft
in the warm wet brew
that melts out of us
when we mix,
I take you in
watch, feel myself change
you change
slowly
and not slowly,
softer, softer,
crusts dissolving,
dances within dances.
The intricacy pleases me,
intrigues me.
We are only so slightly
beginning.
Good to take time to breathe open
the heavy rosewood doors
that lie in the dark
under years of silt,
down in the watery depths
where light is long forgotten
and fish have no eyes.
So much unknown and unknowable,
but this I know for sure:
you will be as surprised as me
to see where this path is taking you
me
us.
Is there anything better
than this trembling place of not knowing,
waiting expectant
to see what brew this will become,
sitting quietly
and not so quietly
day after day
on the shelf of the south window,
welcoming the hot
hot sun?
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LET ME BRUSH AWAY PROTESR WITH YOIR HAIR
David Steinberg
Let me brush away protest with your hair,
unbutton passion with your blouse,
stroke red blood into your pale lips,
make of you a river of wriggling, squirming life.
You are so clean and orderly.
I want to play to the secret smiles
that dance over your lips.
I want to disarrange the perfection
of your careful control.
Afterwards you can tie together again
your vagabond hair,
hide your scented body under stylish clothes,
stuff joy back into the corners of your eyes.
No one will ever know
that you carry laughter between your thighs
except me,
and I know already.
LOVE POEM
David Steinberg
There are times
when all glory is dead,
when magnificence sits shriveled in the corner
whimpering sad laments,
when Would Be
and Could Be
and Should Be
disappear suddenly into the great Are Not,
and I am left all alone
with just plain me.
It’s like evening
when the brilliant sunset loses its shine,
when all color drains out of the sky
leaving the sky gray,
the trees gray,
the birds gray,
the soul a pile of ashes
caught again by surprise,
unprepared.
Everyone loves a good sunset.
But with you I can sit still
and let my gray evening eyes
meander slowly home.
My most self-loving voice
speaks from your face
standing gently in the doorway:
Come in from the cold evening,
it’s time to be home.
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PURPLE IS THE COLOR OF LONGING
David S. Steinberg
Purple is the color of the longing
tucked into the folds of pulpy organs
soft and vulnerable.
A finger could pierce like a bullet
this swollen pulse,
an uncaring touch would tear to pieces
the soft fiber of its nest.
Defenseless it hides
in the soft warm dark
safe and alone
and dreams silently
of the most gentle hands,
hands that part the flesh with trembling care
inching open the egg,
hands that breathe, warm and moist
attentive to the quietest heartbeats,
slow, patient hands that touch
with no shadow of demand,
fingers that explore hinted textures
radiant wonder and discovery,
bridges delicate enough to join
one time
under the noise of aching lives
the being of one
with the presence of another.
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SLOWLY, SLOWLY
David Steinberg
Slowly, slowly
we grow together,
skin across the wound
of our separateness.