I would like to be a writer. I began this site with amorous intentions, and over the course of time, I hope to have evolved as a male in an ever changing society that is today, recognizing the true beauty and elegance of woman. I am also into writing poetry. Come along for the ride.

writing

Frozen Upon A Moral Compass


Seems readily apparent,

the look in eyes,

we are all wondering

standing next to one another

when and where

why and what matters now

how do we understand,

care, wish, respect.

 

One life taken,

another ruined,

and thousands beyond,

curious what outcome

lay ahead, lay upon,

‘lay across my big brass bed’

and we’ll all recall the bothersome

reality that onus upon man,

that,

‘quite frankly, I don’t give a damn,’

won’t grant you shit anymore.

In fact, in opinion, in speculation,

we’re all riding the pendulum together,

so it seems,

so we wonder,

so what.

So, actually, the truth still matters.

 

See you on the other side,

said the blind man,

who chose to wonder

rather than feel the tension

round and round

the merry-go-round …

 

… and the beat goes on.


When Walking Alone


There is a difference in tone,

a solitary figure in a moonlit backdrop,

the sky is a canvas capable of new horizons,

if only for a moment the character

might stand completely still.

 

Completely still inside a memory,

holding onto the silence,

a wishful recall

a sweet response to time

is all the solitary figure might choose.

 

Might choose offers certain doubt,

when realizing how time plays a role

in knowing love,

he does want to stand there forever,

in the hope that stillness might be a blessing.

 

She is that fond imagination,

the caress of somber spirituality,

the sort that energy

speaks of out loud

without any reservation, ever.

 

I once recall a story of a man,

caught inside a cycle of quiet remind,

always pushing, forever angling,

imagining the final stride would

accentuate his peak, yet the fall …

 

There is a breaking point in sanity,

when beyond the notion of real,

the body might sacrifice comfort,

instead a forever lust toward peace,

will always compel a forgiveness ahead.

 

When walking alone hopeful by design,

I would the eternal march quiet resign.


When Last Night Whispers


In the reality of my dreams,

I watched her go about her world,

a spectator

I could stand nearby

notice and wonder,

watch the being of her energy

carry a room,

cause purpose in the eyes of an onlooker.

 

This is the certain radiance,

when woman in elegance,

allows only the shine,

the reverence belongs inside a dream

where reality can never sway

the delight of an innocent eye.

 

I stood near the doorway,

wondering about exits,

clearly concerned

the outside world,

where everyone is on their own,

I contemplated the next moment,

would she always stand nearby.

 

Turning toward the room,

I let my dream take me away,

forever bound by the delight of time,

she would, will, can she really, well, yes,

always dance inside a dream

my dream,

the setting

would I rather remain,

an eternal reminder.

 

When love does call out,

we can all remind ourselves,

there is beauty in time,

an elegance in

a silent utterance.


Finding Reason


While we might pretend a reality,

the world exists beyond a norm,

there are the pitfalls,

the errors

in judgment,

yet even then,

a person might want to question,

authority.

 

There is often found a reasonable ideal

suggests the beauty of love,

beyond the possibility,

self contained,

cautioned beyond a passion,

and instead lost in the ambivalence,

inherent in error.

 

Though then the albatross be revealed,

we must love the knowing glance well fed.


If She Might Listen


If only,

in that moment,

when I might know,

advances were of an innocent nature,

she cried inside,

not letting me ever see her pain,

yet I was the bewildered one,

now with a stain,

a lasting impression,

I would carry with me forever.

 

I suppose it is that patriarchal significance,

always knowing,

self-assured and callous,

anticipating the world to be our measure

of decency,

yet in that quiet memory,

I do recall her laughter,

it did,

bring us to the top of the mountain,

just the ledge,

the ledge that kept testing balance,

would never have held us both.

 

In lasting memory,

I always do replay the moments,

when somehow,

I hesitated,

and she would later,

have a confusion,

I can only hope would someday

turn a smile.


if she were real


his life,

he imagined,

alone,

yet when walking the halls,

her appearance,

always alluring,

only when at first he wondered,

about another anomaly,

the forgotten ones,

the two or three or five

perhaps hundreds,

walking nearby,

having a soul,

having desire and passion and verve,

that energy is a mystique,

he never realized

when.