A Wish To Respond

How might I take back the reactive nature of fear

when while calling out my motives were clear

yet so early in the day she had spoken of time

asking that the overwhelming nature too sublime

if I might recall my every word, the passionate plea

would it have any matter, would our lives feel free

Oh to know the real nature of understanding you

so that this my catalogue of days have been so blue

last touch, your kiss the sensuality in your eyes

should then have left my heart to be more wise

Oh to know surely the way to touch your heart again

so this awkward departure our lives apart could end

A Quiet Solace

For it is that might

a setting silent

allow some sweet repair

this our symbolic

innocence.

 

Aged in the eyes

always watching

yet in a glance

only ours

this moment

in silent reckoning.

 

Would when then

give each, us a solace

a peace of mind

love does live

always here …

 

a silent breeze

lets love float nearby

Writing Love Stories

I’m a romantic. I love a good story of passion between two people, from the scintillating nature of their sensuality, to the quiet elegance of touch in an intimate moment that reflects what eyes will search upon. I love the notion of heart and soul obsession with one another, a constant of the desire and wishful nature of finding one another imagining the beauty of whom they are, they might be,  together. I do so enjoy being able to create a wonderful love story in poetry, one that causes arousal in the reader, a sort of take me away fantasy that leaves them grateful for the adventure.

I have found myself struggling in recent months because I have this seemingly fraudulent experience with love, and so I began writing about first loves, long ago loves, times in my life where I recognized love to be something that took away all of my loneliness, so completely I couldn’t feel anything except the beauty of sweet delight inside the mystique of love. The word fraudulent is a powerful assessment I can only attribute to my being alone with my feelings. Oh that wasn’t always the case, but it is today. The reasons are not negative, they are more based upon preservation.

Personally, I’m willing to take risk for the love I feel; however, in order for it to be real, then both parties have to feel the same. One cannot outdo the other’s focus upon finding peace with themselves. One can only support the efforts of another. That to me is love. There exists the confusion of love as well, because one might still believe what the other has convinced themselves as otherwise.

There exists again my struggle, so now my love stories have trepidation. They contain unknowns because only I am writing them, and I haven’t clue their reception. I only know there continues to be in my heart the beauty of woman, the muse, the loveliness of a person whom holds my heart and soul, and gathers the energy that allows me on occasion to find the words necessary to continue the next chapter of my love story.

What Measure Is Love

Who determines,

inside a dream we fly,

yet so quickly the descent

if once begun.

there finds no true answer

why.

 

Oh there is promise

the look in one’s eyes

to suggest this,

what a moment might

contain

could forever be in our

sky.

 

Clouds appear

we brush them aside,

for it is now,

not later,

the overcast nature

of indecision

will hurry past our lives

will eventually answer

nigh

 

There was this time,

once,

when she might show me

a tear,

it was love,

some kind of sensibility,

until that day,

when she turned away,

my words

she no longer

understood,

though she could

let me go,

knowing I might,

safely

cry.

His Hero

Little man,

a sweet smile

inside a beautiful

mind,

drawn by the

quiet love

of his personal

hero.

 

She would go

to the ends of the world

to find inspiration,

keep honing

the sparkle,

sweet glint in his eye

that would suggest

beauty is all I

see when you are with me.

 

Please,

allow her to know

she is elegance

the delight

in his soul

when finding

inspiration,

will she give him

her love,

yes,

always will his

life be the wonder

of her personal dreams

to give him

swift confidence,

sweet innocence,

 

For her love in his eyes

will his wonder live wise.

 

When There in the Moment

cafe

At first glance

I knew immediately

how could one not

recognize whom we grow to love

when confronted

by their reality.

 

She was looking forward,

I felt safe

if only, sheltered,

let my hand rest on a chair

nearby,

we could hear one another breathe

if she knew I was there.

 

I imagined to myself,

if this is real,

she will know I’m here

turn around

smile or walk away,

I let a dream happen in my mind

years ago the same

occurred.

 

Yet today is

was

different

her confidence in posture

seemed unreachable

seemed meant

for someone else’s touch,

their arms, lips, eyes,

I was afraid to move.

 

I then stepped backward,

quiet,

the silence was a weight

I could not overcome,

I felt the emotion

of taking risks,

of looking in one another’s eyes

and knowing

we could not

though desperate in our passion

we could.

 

Moments later,

a stroll down the cobblestone,

I found a new cafe,

settled in outside

still she was in my mind.

I took one sip of a

fashionable latte,

then,

I looked away.


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

for Zelda with love

 

photo – Pinterest

Substituting Drugs

Finding that balance

a combination

what’s right for the mind,

the music,

atmosphere,

has to be a reason

to wonder,

or is it wander

where do we want to go,

a little flute music

can take a crying man

quite a distant

before he might be found

listening to

‘spa tribe’ with no idea

why, just

some way he feels,

he might,

he could

he wants to and yet

deep inside the reservoir

once fed his ego

a barren landscape

no longer is there the bounty

of love and compassion,

his oxygen,

a being,

instead she is near,

he can feel her and he knows,

and yet

that’s the hurting moment,

for it seems likely

seems forever

tonight,

that hypothermia

might be his

greatest achievement.