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Maurice Whyte Poems
It is not something we can help; We have met, And, virtually Together we are virtually apart;
Rachel, The Colder
My pale blue fingers cannot grasp The coolness of my soul Or hold the gut feeling I have For you. They cannot trace
Last Supper, First Slaughter
In the gloaming, I am the shaven Man, misboarded and trammeled At my Lord's High Table; I am His, a renounceful creature,
An unrepentant Pagan symbol echoing In our memory.
The Choice - For Sj.
I choose love. Not the burn bright like a
Like a toad dissatisfaction sits; A lad, only good with words; Not a man, hands dirty With mechanical bits.
How did you not wake when the razor touched your head, And the warm oil, as your seven locks were shed? Was it so purposeful, the sleep that you slept
My Cat Of Many Layers
Attuned to purpose In you soft padding to your prey, Dangerous in your electric moves,
In The Drabness Of Beauty
There is a dampness in town, God's merciful water In a wide arcing frown.
Fields of blue; The considered champaign Of the farmer; The beautiful profit.
An Allegory For Granville
I disallow the root of shame; He is not worthy when he comes home. The chattering starlings are there
Nothing much was done In the growing time. Our dissatisfaction loomed.
Antler-headed Cernunnus, A fleeted glimpse In hedgerow. Earth-bound still,
There is blood on your thigh And all our dreams Are in a drowning flood In their flowing by.
Comments about Maurice Whyte
It is not something we can help;
We have met,
Together we are virtually apart;
We wander the aether,
Its symbiotic whole;
The bars crackle.
We are spirits,
Caught in a caged passion.
The current passes through us
As you electrify.