Robert J Meyer
Biography of Robert J Meyer
Robert J Meyer Poems
Woman Of Poems
She is - mysterious A calf, a thigh, a curve of the belly The silken skin revealing The chestnut hair concealing
Reading Neruda To My Lover
We stood in an old book store That telescoped from room to room, And in a corner, I found a book. Listen, I said -
She enveloped my senses on her arrival - Midnight tresses, the mark of her Olympian precursor Reflecting the hour of our meeting - Beauty born of wisdom,
Like a vibrant blush in the far distance, A touch, just visible, like a spark, An intuition more than a preference Simmers deep within, or an urge to embark
As the sun rises Sparkling From the Cebu Straits, An orchid,
It’s been fun, exhausting. The mellow bunch singing lazily around the bonfire – Sparks spinning upward, reflected in the lake. They begin to move toward tents and sleeping bags,
On Reading Graham Greene's 'The Quiet Am...
Pyle and Fowler So civilized Fighting over Phoung And Vietnam
If paper shattered Like my defenses near you Love notes would snow down
She said... I hope you feel - I hope you -
The Ultimate Incurable Disease
We live in hope, or so we say, As we pass through each dawning day. And yet we shake our heads and curse When obstacles make us reverse.
The memory of wet shoes and grimy windshields and grey days Melts as the first fecund aromas permeate the air, And I sit dumbstruck by the sudden dissolve of the winter haze And the first buds and birds that take the dare
The Christmas when my marriage died and nothing came out right I’d flown into Nebraska, but Althea missed that flight. My parents had her gifts around the Christmas tree alight, But since she was St. Louis bound, it was a silent night.
I came to her in tears. No need for prologue, She knew. I cried and babbled incoherently
What Is Love
What is love? Is it the pulsing passion of two bodies engorged with the heat of the moment? Is it the deep emotional moment when two voices promise before friends assembled to love honor and obey? Is it the moment when a new voice is added, squalling for air and reaching for the breast?
She closes the door and drops her purse on the table.
She removes the veil.
She looks one more time at the photo on the wall by the lamp
Of the one she had just returned from burying
And visibly wilts.
How does one move on?
When will she stop straining to here the squeaking third step as she prepares lunch,