Traveling The World – # 3

This one I took rather hard. I remember the first day I dropped her off from a double date – not sure why we were doubling, I think it was because neither of us drove a car. Anyway, she had these jeans, there is something about a woman and well fitting jeans, and I remember walking her to her door, sort of following behind and imagining we could do something together, she turned to me, and I gave a quick kiss and said good night. She smiled, I was in love. I went back to my friend’s car and the two of them were giggling. They knew.

Our lives together transformed me. We traveled to Europe and though the trip was fascinating we were feeling the end of things, though we were still good friends, perhaps no longer in love, well she wasn’t. However that’s the end of the story, let’s go back.

We became that couple that finished each other’s sentences, we played memory games with lines from movies, we had an intimacy that was beyond anything I knew. I loved every aspect of her, and I told her that often. We decided to move in together, I remember her saying, ‘seems the right thing to do.’ In my own naivete I believed at that point we would likely marry. However, something occurred that would later set a precedent in the remainder of our time together.

I met her parents – we drove out to South Dakota, her dad was a professor of philosophy, this rather tiny charming man, in a leather coat and jeans met us outside his office and we went to dinner. Her mom struck as reserved, but a polite enough woman. It was our return from that travel that struck me. She told me she couldn’t stand her parents, and that because of the way she and her sister were raised, she would never have children. Of course, I wanted kids, so this became one of those not talked about elephants the remainder of our time together.

There was still this happiness though, this incredible passion with one another. We both went back to school to pursue teaching degrees, and we are both still with our respective profession decades later. One day while sitting near a lake’s edge, we got on the subject of loneliness. I said to her for the first time in my life, I feel completely happy, and there is nowhere in my heart where I feel any pangs to bring me anywhere else. I was consumed by my love for her. But then she quietly spoke and words tore a small slice in my heart. She said, ‘there will be a part of me I will never share with anyone, you just have to accept that.’ I laughed and disagreed, but she gave me a look that told me it was true.

We talked for hours then, the whole time she had this twig in her hand from which she gradually removed all the bark. Before we left that afternoon, she gave me the now naked twig. I held onto it for many years, in fact I believe it is still in a box somewhere in my memories of our travels, our time together. That naked twig inspired one of my first published poems. My heart and soul wrote the words.

Sadly, after traveling Europe we returned and something was different. In the coming months we split and my heart was broken. I swore to myself I would never ever give myself so completely to anyone ever again in my life. I held true to that feeling, that testament, even in my marriage, which has no irony, only truth.

With this love, I had discovered the true meaning in all of its highs and lows. I could never imagine again being so much in love with a person that I would give anything in my life to have her back in my arms again. I was committed to keeping my guard.

Turns out years later, many years, I would be mistaken.

To Where I Go

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I remember a time when words would reach and respond, a time of sweet expression. I remember there was no effort in being blessed with a reach, a selective hello, a wonder of a passionate plea. I could become anything I wanted to be, and still an acceptance always occurred, a sort of light that would lead me to new places, newer imagined horizons, a peaceful sojourn shared with that certainty of love.

I come here now because there is an energy, a reminder, some sweet redemption for the pain that has drawn our hearts to distant paths, perhaps no longer walking in a similar direction, but I always try hard to let my evaluation of this time fade away so hope and desire might always remain.

I hold on to love as it is all I may ever have, it gives me strength and helps me realize that it did once exist, and no matter such societal expectations that drove a stake in between our lives, I’ll always know there was a time …

I sit inside a dream, a wonderment that lets me breathe rather than swallow me into becoming nothing at all with my world, my imagination, my creative soul. I know that time and life offer only a partial glimpse into what our lives may become, we have to live out the rest. There have been recent days when I no longer felt I had the same resilience for continuing forward I once had, but my strength is returning.

Inside that transformation contains a stolen heart waiting to be found … someday.

Until then, I drink my coffee, knowing whom it is I care and hold close to my sweet rendering of memory; she is a muse, yet un-mistakenly real, her mystique always with me.

Always here …

Two Letters

I have two letters I want to write tonight. One is for the morning, and the other for another day. I don’t want them both to represent the same because they will be when finished completely different. However, they will say, both, the same thing. It is just naturally up to the reader to determine intent or reason, I suppose.

Tomorrow is a token day, Valentine’s Day. Some people go off the charts with their celebration, and for some, it is simply a day of the week. For others it is more difficult day, especially those that are struggling with the reality of being alone on such an over-celebrated day.

For many years, my significant other and I have gone out to dinner, posted the event on Facebook, or social media, and applauded the seeming passion of our relationship. Today, as I write this, I know we are both not feeling this, and though there is some apparent sadness, there is also security. We are good friends and we care about each other enough to want one another’s happiness. At least that is our conveyance.

Yet tonight I struggle because my affections are in a different place. They are a memory, a nostalgic recall of grace and beauty that in the truth of a mystique, do center squarely upon the love of my, shall we call in order to secure preservation, my muse. I’ve had many muses over a lifetime, as I have indicated in many previous writings, but today I stand alone and I imagine one person who does hold my heart.

This reality in my life gives me pause, and allows me to second guess the real purpose of sending these letters at all. I do have a genuine motive by all accounts; however, there are feelings attached to everything I do, and right now those feelings are more separated from my heart than I have perhaps ever experienced in my life.

So I will write my two letters, and they will both contain the romantic musings they are meant to convey, yet, my heart will feel a certain detachment, that as I close this passage wonder what its purpose really is in my life today. Is detachment meant to engage more meaning or less. I will go with the former, as I have all my life, the romantic, the part of me that allows pain to be a certain factor in giving me strength inside the wonder of whatever faith it is I seem to cling upon.

I have two letters, I need to write them both.

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.

On Eyes

If you have looked in eyes,

beauty is there,

the chance of a moment to reflect

in each other’s soul

exists

when two lovers do allow time

to fall into the ocean of their eyes.

 

Time will move to forever

rather now

strings of shelter slip away

so beauty inside the passionate

nature of love

can explode like that sparkle

the glint, the sensuality

we might feel when we allow

the real of a moment

when relying only upon

the eyes.

 

I stand alone,

a person walks by,

we announce one another,

continue on our way,

and I know today,

there will be no one in my life

whose moment

I can count upon

to rest my weary heart

on eyes.

 

Oh to be inside the presence

of such is the lovely chance.

A Shifting Sunrise

There are days when it can be felt

a morning solace, peace of mind

a sort of reason to be able to thrive.

 

We count on those hours with hope,

not like planning the night before –

oh tomorrow will be that day.

 

We just feel it in our pores

we know the rains will come steady

as will a basking sunlight of freedom.

 

We just don’t know when we might

be asked, handle both in the same hour.

~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

for Zelda

A Contemplative State of Mind

I wish it could be happy,

wish I might show you a picture,

wish every day would be the same,

but I discovered it isn’t that way.

 

I’m told tonight it never was,

all of the imagined fantasy,

the moments of unbridled passion,

were simply a facade, hypocrisy.

 

I’m standing alone tonight,

afraid of everyone around me.

I let myself take a journey,

and found the bitter end.

 

Oh to know the magic of happiness

to be able to shed delight

upon every soul our lives encounter

rather the wrath of personal woe.

 

The expression I carry tonight,

this one, you are imagining,

it is the truth,

my own realization of what once …

 

what is, what was, what could

forever be this final dignity.


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~