ADRIAN SLONAKER - POEMS

Adrian Slonaker lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, working as a copywriter and copy editor, with interests that include vegetarian cooking, Slavic languages, Victorian horror fiction, wrestling, and 1960s pop music. Adrian's work has appeared in Better Than Starbucks, CC&D, Dodging the Rain, Amaryllis, Ginosko Literary Journal and Three Line Poetry. 

                         “Post-Burrito Confession”
 
Why does it matter so much
that your words awaken
new ways of wondering?
Why do I want to feel your hand
holding mine, gripping my fingers,
letting me lead you on our path?
Yes, our path,
a path I'd pave,
busily battling brush and clearing away obstacles
so that we might proceed peacefully.
You're a melancholy mystery,
a vial of vitriol and of tears,
but your laughter leaps into my ears,
satisfying unprecedented urges.
As I contemplate the ivory whites of your eyes,
your sly smile,
I affirm that I can carry you
through your secret storms,
nurturing you at your neediest,
and, as the moonlight illuminates you,
against the backdrop of dreary autumn,
I have a weird, weird desire
To kiss your lips
 
 
                                  “Windchimes”
 
I spied you in my thoughts
I heard you in the kitchen.
I tasted you in a kiss.
I felt you in my soul.
I missed you in a memory.
 
 
                                            “Oswald”
 
Our hero
leans nonchalantly
against the cold, concrete wall
Where daylight’s dimmest glimmers
are only a shadowy hope.
Does his mind linger on the last time
he savored the dawn with his beloved?
 
The world has drifted
from technicolor into lackluster gray,
the satisfying smile of a life in love
replaced by neutral, sterile sojourns in nothingness,
and mere memories of moments spent speeding
through sleepy suburbs,
banishing loneliness to the realm of impossibility-
or so it seemed.
 
Our friend takes a final pleading drag,
inhaling the smoke
to compensate for lost camaraderie.
He turns on his booted heel and strides out the door,
hit with the chilly blast of his future,
strolling trough well-trod cobblestone alleys
shielding unhearing interiors.
 
 
Heading home,
a life of routine punctuated by a hiccup of uncommon bliss,
back to the work pail and the bills,
and recollections of a romance,
of the only man he could ever adore.
 

                                    “The Fairground”
 
As violets streaked into blues
as a creamy moon rose over the fairground
your smile flashed in my eyes
illuminated by the cheerful glow of the carousel,
screams competing with calliope melodies
and feet crushing peanuts and popcorn off putrid pavement.
Your hand gripped mine,
causing my stomach to clench with more thrills
than I'd felt when flying and lurching on the roller coaster.
your surreptitious breath behind the fortune teller's tent
tasted of caramel and mischief,
your hug the perfect accompaniment
to an audience of stars sparkling like drops of water on a contact lens
upon the deepening night sky, which I joked was God's black velvet cape.
You looked at me with
such unconditional, protective love, but a car
backfiring rudely through the tranquility
jolted me into jejune reality.
I mourned the loss of my dream
but not you,
for I never had you to begin with.
 
 
                               “Ron's Anniversary”
 
You've just spent five years
with the coolest, sexiest guy ever,
or so you claim. 
“Life is good,”
you proclaim from your address on cloud nine.
Congratulations and well-wishes
including mine
flood you today
as they should.
We've been given the same
oft-misunderstood longing in life,
yet led down starkly forked paths.
You follow your muse,
surrounded by companions,
deeply in love
deeply loved.
I follow my whims
surrounded by accomplishments
and cherish them as my offspring.
Five years from now,
you'll joyfully announce
another milestone in a shared life,
and from my content home for one
under faraway skies,
I'll again extend my sincere wishes,
completely unable to relate to you.