Poem Collection by Bob Spencer

The Golden Flower

Many are the books that speak of love.

                 Must love be complex?

Old timers say love is like a beautiful field of
sweet berries--surrounded with thorns.

                 Must love be difficult?

Preachers and philosophers say love is an ancient, bearded male living
somewhere in an unreachable distance, or that it is infinite being
without origin, without end.      

                 Must love be remote?

Yet when I see you, touch you, feel your truth playing silently with
mine, I know that love is
something simple, something easy, close and
obvious--like a flower unfolding to the dawn.

The garden is always near. It is we who are
constantly moving away.

The golden flower is calling. Be quiet now and
listen. She knows us all by name.

Purity of Intent

I'm looking in you, seeing you,
but you think I'm looking at you.
So you keep on the mask, hiding
the light from me and you.

My touch goes further than your flesh,
but you think it is casual so you touch
me back carefully, hesitantly.

I speak to you without guile,
but you hear small bullets, so
you duck the whizzzzz and
my words fall on the ground
like broken games.

Drink! Drink from the waters
O friend. They will not harm
you. The mud has long since
settled to the bottom of the

Eyes of a Woman

In the shadow of memory I love you still.

We were so young, so inexperienced--not
knowing which clues to follow. Bold,
excited words waited in the innocence
wanting to be spoken, unsure exactly how.

Your face was perfect art, never the same,
liquid, changing with my feelings, my every
desire, my every mood. The look of the
mythical princess: sheer elegance and grace
never before defined, with luscious eyes, dark
and inviting, yet private and elusive.

And the look of intelligent woman, a gaze
brimming with the energy of a thousand
female minds. A look which contains all
present and ancient knowledge and depth
which man, as man, cannot know.

Eyes of vulnerability. No man alive could
have stayed you from his arms of comfort
and protection--not the protection of the
child, but a primal need of man to merge
with woman to feel the pain, to share the
weight of tears.

Venus eyes. What man would not willingly
be conquered and bound in that heat?
All the passions of the body unlocked and
lifted to their rightful place. Encircled arms,
wildly beating hearts, ancient, untamed
movements, mixing and merging colors and
sweat of the body human and holy until love
explodes in a million blazing lights of wonder
and tired release.

The look of friendship. The equality of giving
and receiving the common things and occurrences
of life. Sharing private longings and secret
places. Dancing and laughing for no reason at
all. Letting silliness have it's voice, and anger, its noisy,
childish ranting.

In the shadow of memory I love you still.
We were too young then to hold the power,
to contain the mystery. I do not miss you, for
the child that loved you is now the man who holds
your memory in the space of his heart where the
fine wine--the best wine-- is stored.


It isn't really all that deep and doesn't
require lots of words. Sometimes it's a quick
pat on the butt as I pass by you. Other times
it's the look of pain I catch in your eyes when
you see me hurting.

It's that silly eye-squinting-holding-back-that-
laugh-you-know-you-want-to-laugh look when
my eyes go all big when you catch be goofing

How often I was not asleep when you came in
and pulled the covers up on me like I really

Remember when I slipped on the ice and you
screamed louder than I did?

I saw you looking at me with your hand across
your mouth choking back tears while I stared
at the sleeping child and gently kissed him good-

Or the absolute trust I saw when you told me
things it would have killed you to tell your other

You stood firm and stopped your mother cold
when she criticized our decisions in our own

I knew the gift was real because your eyes gave
it long before it left your hands.

No. I won't demand you to tell me you love me.
I know what I see.