Flesh And Blood Poetry by Terry S. Presgrove

Flesh And Blood Poetry

by Terry Presgrove

copyright©2002-2007
All Rights Reserved

*Your Father's Son*

He came to me in seventy four,
some eight pounds plus, fat and
with just a tinge of red tint above his
ears, short legs, and a strong cry.

By four, he was hyper, bursting with
energy and beyond a father's ability to
cope. At six, he was already a state
champion and, oh, how proud was he,
gifted from heaven with incredible skills,
and the little toot always busted his butt
to please his ornery dad.

His heart was bigger than most any I've seen,
his smile would melt the angriest dad in town,
he had the lip of Ali and a matching wit to trap,
those little girls never had a chance when he
cracked that smile.

Then came those teen age years, ouch!
Suddenly, old dad became quite the crouch.
The lad got a little wiry, somewhere between
that initial hormone rush and his early twenties, had to learn some hard lessons like most do.

But he made it through high school - whew!
Howbeit, by the skin of his teeth and became
an All American, Of Course, he always was
from the start.

The Lord and a little blond got a hold of
him around the twenty five mark and the boy
has definitely grew up into much of a man.
I couldn't be prouder of any son that came as
a gift from above and now that little squirt's
father is your father's son.

~The Missing Love ~

Is she not there, or simply imaginary dust?
He aches to find her, to be only with her.
Is the search in vain, declaring him insane?
There's much want to give, but so little time
to bestow upon her more touch than she
can ever feel. He searches and waits, but
where can she be found? Is there no one
left in the world who can reciprocate love
in like fashion? With passion to share be-
yond the normal span, yet she is not there.

Much has been learned concerning what
she needs, and how to intimately hold her:
Touching gently at first, then moving slow-
ly to that crescendo, the ecstatic climatic
chorus of the two, who have become one;
giving themselves, all that they have, merg-
ed together, with no secrets, totally reveal-
ing who they are, fully loving, caring, enter-
ing into that most sacred covenant; placing
the companion's self interest ahead of their
own. With no ulterior motives, interlacing
hearts cheer as the two beats fuse into one.
If destiny's desire would simply choose to
reproduce the echo, atlas arriving apropos;
joy could break out: saluting quid pro quo!

Rubbing her feet, caressing her silky hair,
holding her, without the fear of entering her,
is his dare: just to let her know how much
he cares. The joy of watching her laugh,
wake up in the morning, brush her teeth,
comb her hair, the little things that he alone
can know brings her happiness, serenity,
and a smile that she would swear is embla-
zoned on his heart. If she 'only' knew the
flood of attention and showering treasures
of love-making, he would crown her with,
if the warmth of his life was really there!

He would take her to that place in the soul
that, only, lovers know: where music notes
prance in the air with dance, and the breath
of bouquet's soaring romance, charms the
quantum senses in a trance, if fate would
not betray. He shouts from highest moun-
tain, and walks through the longest valley;
crawling through the pig pens; sleeping in
the briars; asking everyone - everywhere,
"have they seen her, is she there?" But she
is not there, and, time, the arch enemy of
the mortal man, is wasting away the gifts,
and knowledge that belong, solely, to her.
IF his Love could, atlas, Taste it, Hear it,
See it, Feel it, Believe it, for He is HERE!

Home My Journey

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* Quality of Life *

Everyone born on the same day
At the same time,
And who die on the same day
At the same time,
Don't have the same lifetime.

~ The Harley Ride ~

The wind is blowing a glorious gale,
Goose bumps are dancing and drinking strong ale,
Happiness is smiling an awesome mile wide,
The heart is pole vaulting with ecstatic pride,
Laughter is echoing from deep down inside,
The reflection of a friend, securely, near by,
And always the roaring of the engine's reply.

Touching the artistic expression of God's creation:
Diving into the strokes on the canvas of the nation,
A sight seeing, majestic, Three-D animation;
The orange globe setting, entices fascination,
A bright full moon draws an eerie - infatuation;
Up and down the mountains and valleys,
From east to west, coast to coast rallies.

Bouquets of flowers, become a treasure trove
Of puppy breath mornings, inhaled through the nose.
Hours of riding make an aching butt scold,
But soft sensual pillowing never gets old,
As sweet thing, inclining, takes a tight hold,
And heart pounding accelerating,
Declares the adventurous soul bold.

Mother nature is boasting exhilarating forces.
Cavalry prances in formation as warrior horses,
Snorting in preparation for the colossal attack,
Absolutely no contemplation of a fall back;
The senses amplified in an adrenalin flood,
Envisioning 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'
On this magnificent, mighty - lunging, stud.

Letter to Dad