BEAUTIFUL CONTRAST

Beautiful Contrast

“The challenge, isn’t always just the difference in hours of the day—
Owing to the physical distance between,” she said softly.
“But nefarious mindsets, places and things;
That do act a part, and play their parts sincerely so well.
But it’s only hurt and fear, that wants to spread itself;
That wish nothing greater than to segregate hearts,
That are truly integrated, by bridging worlds,
That once stood firmly rooted apart,” she considered.
“But let’s never worry, and let there be no discourage;
For this is how it surely is:
As I lay each night, just as now:
Wishing that you were near,
To hold onto so tight, making everything right,” she smiled at the thought.
“The beauty of the contrast of our skins,
Shimmering so near, in dark and light,
Sends shivers up and down of every conceivable delight.
I wish you were here, just now, my dear—
Though I know it will be soon, in just two weeks more;
So I could look into your eyes,
As you look back into mine,
So that I might tell you,
How truly happy I am,” she said softly, drifting into slumber.

The Fragrance of Lilacs

Do you remember that Sunday long ago. . .?
It was Easter.
And you came over with lilacs,
They were purple, and fresh-cut,
From the lilac bush outside your bedroom window;
You found a vase and arranged them—
And on the dresser, of my bedroom, you set the vase,
Proudly,
Then you shut the door: leaving the lilacs there.
And after our dinner feast,
We walked along the shore, our gestures playful:
Budding and coquettish, still innocent they were,
Mindful all the while of those flower still there.
At last with anticipation high, we came home,
And now with few words spoken, we entered the room,
Greeted by the fragrance of lilacs—there, hypnotically strong.
Then, after swoons of bliss that carried us away,
Transported we lay: mute and complete,
Under the spell of the fragrance of the lilacs, there.

T. M. Boughnou was drawn to the writers and thinkers of the ninetieth and early twentieth centuries. After years of a dedicated reading and writing regimen and journal-keeping of his thoughts and observations of his daily routines and personal travels, he began to write. He splits his living-time between Davenport, Iowa and Boston, Massachusetts.