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The Happy Prey Sonnet #214
IN water of a stream, we laughed and splashed
all afternoon beneath the shining sun,
but when I saw you holding mud, I dashed
away, for that was not my kind of fun!
You sprang then like a creature in pursuit
of me, your feline prey. I ran and squealed.
But you were strong and fast and resolute;
I knew it was fate that I would yield.
You captured me with hands stained brown; I let
you smear my body. Breathing hard and spent,
we fell into each other warm and wet.
And never was a quarry more content. . .
for as the shadows fell and June's breeze blew,
the night would find me purring next to you.
Andrea Dietrich/ Feb. 9, 2005
That NIght Rondeau #9
That night we kissed, my heart became a butterfly.
It sprouted wings and danced across the velvet sky,
then leapt across the mulititude of stars there strewn
along its happy way to touch the crescent moon.
You held me close, but did you know my heart could fly?
And in its pounding, did you hear it testify
that you, and you alone, could ever satisfy
the woman that emerged from her secure cocoon
that night we kissed?
It onward soared with constellations yet to try. . .
my yearning heart, once captive, was no longer shy.
HOw can hearts set free be ever more immune
to sweet caresses in a night that all too soon
must have an end? I couldn't bear to say goodbye
that night we kissed.
Andrea Dietrich/ April 13, 2004
Oh, Funny Owl
Oh, funny owl, I sure relate
to you. I also stay up late!
My eyes, like yours, are mellow green
and staring too, but at a screen.
I stare at E-mails and TV
until I know that finally
I must retire myself to bed
and rest my weary night owl head.
I feel so rotten when I wake
I have to do a double take.
I see the clock. It's eight a.m.
I sit up grumbling, "Damn, oh, Damn."
Then brimming with new morning cheer,
I drag myself before the mirror.
And what I see upon my face
are awful lines I can't erase.
Oh, funny owl, we're not so wise,
with circles underneath our eyes.
And now I get to look like hell
because I love the night so well.
Andrea Dietrich/ April 21(1:00 a.m.) 2005
Comes a Wind (swap quatrains)
Thirsting, thirsting. . . shriveled earth
suffocates in summer's dearth,
yearns for rain clouds forthwith bursting.
Shriveled earth. . . thirsting, thirsting.
Browning, browning in their beds,
flowers parched hang low their heads.
Doffodils once bright are frowning
in their beds, browning, browning.
Dying, dying - every field,
withering, to fate must yield.
All the world is sadly crying.
Every field - dying, dying.
Whirling, whirling, comes a wind
arid and undisciplined,
stagnate heat, pent-up - unfurling.
Comes a wind, whirling, whirling.
Whipping, whipping through each plain
(while ignored go prayers for rain),
final blows come swiftly ripping
through each plain, whipping, whipping.
Burning, burning. . . August lust
leaves us nothing but the dust,
and soon to dust we'll be returning.
August lust - burning, burning.
Andrea Dietrich/ July 30, 2004
Before the blast in April's darkened sky,
before the electrifying surge of insurgency. . .
when trucks and tanks were used to block the roads,
when men and even boys were sought
to aid in one malicious purpose. . .
before the rampant slaughter. . .
the raining of machetes down on flesh and bones
and the cornucopia of corpses left like
butchered carcasses on highways,
nearby houses and in churches. . .
before the plundering, the rapes and mutilations
and the exodus of thousands
to death-infested camps. . .
there were whisperings, insidious,
portentous to the ears of the wisely suspicious
and a voice on the airwaves spewing hate;
before it all, there was . . . a brewing of resentment
of a people with a history of poverty,
of transitory freedom and capricious politics.
And through it all, with such grave consternation,
governments debated. . .
waited. . . . . . . and waited,
playing with semantics,
while thousands dead became
the hundred thousand.
And three long months unrivaled for its
number of atrocities came to its
Seemingly, peace has been restored
and punishment stingily doled out.
Time moves on except for half a million
for whom compassion by the world
Andrea Dietrich/ May 8, 2005
Desert Love/sonnet 198
Hot. . . white hot Sahara sun am I.
Turning, ever turning, how I burn
white. . . hot white below the desert sky;
in search of sweet relief, for you I yearn.
Shifting, ever shifting, I'm a dune;
each particle of me is filled with heat.
I roll beneath the sun of afternoon,
ever passion-parched though time be fleet.
I'm drifting to the brink of mad desire,
Cool. . . blue cool, sweet pool that I pursue,
mirages that appear quench not my fire.
Blue. . . cool blue, my remedy is you.
I'm half a continent; my love is vast.
Reveal yourself, Oasis, at long last!
Andrea Dietrich/ Sept. 1, 2004
The Magic Hourglass
April's come; the grains of time
have started sifting down.
Dew is on the roses.
Days of linking daisies have begun.
Transparent skies of night show constellations
when the fire-breathing dragon comes
and freckles school-sprung children,
who, baring skin, run gleefully through sprinklers.
Soon enough they're tumbling in the leaves
fallen from the trees of their back yards.
And following bright Autumn time's demise,
the filtering of seasons' sand then quickens
till every grain of it has drifted like the snow,
burying another bygone year.
April's on her way. . . again the story.
The hourglass, like magic, has turned over.
Andrea Dietrich/ April 18, 2005
Parsley and Beyond
LIke a connoisseur of art who,
having made a pilgrimage to see the Louvre,
now stands in contemplation,
reverencing his favorite Renoir,
I stand across this room entranced
"Bellissimo" falls softly from my lips.
And then you see me too.
Cowed, I look away, but not before
the kindest smile plays across your face.
I store this memory and walk away.
A kitten given whiff of her first catnip,
I've been smitten.
Every night this week I have a dream.
My feral side's unleashed;
a cat, obstreperous,
I'm feeling heat. I call for you, and
suddenly you're here by me
with lingering caresses and that grin,
the one that took me in.
But always then I wake!
And like a sprig of parsley on an empty plate,
the dream is not enough to dull my ache.
Daily I keep going to my Mecca.
Finally. . . I glimpse you once again.
Recognition lights your eyes. You smile!
And silently I beg cooperation of my stars.
The planets have aligned themselves for me,
for now you're walking toward me.
Trembling with excitement,
I have a hopeful feeling
I won't be waking hungry any more. . .
and garnish could adorn a plate that's full.
Andrea Dietrich/ Jan. 17, 2005
Though I Be Unwelcome
Yearly - for a spell - I come calling,
But there are times my travel may be slow.
On those rare occasions I am late,
you'll look and see the mountains' crowns
and in the valley, meadow grasses
dance with gentle breezes,
reveling in verdancy prolonged.
But other times, I roll across the prairie
Assassin of startled vegetation,
I carry a force God-given,
changing clime and scenery along my path.
Even flat terrain, where soil is sand,
may feel the touch of my icy hand.
Though I be unwelcome,
I'm certain there are moments
you look out on a pristine field
where I have softly laid my eider down
or to a street now silenced
that strangely gleams in peaceful white.
Or maybe you gaze up at stately mountains'
and in such tranquil moments,
you are awed.
Andrea Dietrich/ Dec. 20, 2004
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