Crying is Ok

I still do

moments

early morning silence

waves of you.

I check

feel the shudder

my body impaled

lonely is wrath

Listen to the clock

taps of time

In quiet reality

without you.

Becoming familiar

finding absence again

checking sites

the only part you give.

If I allow time to consume

and I do because

I want to always,

you … my cleansing morning

Cry

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

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.

The Romance of a Letter

letters

That sense of wonder

has she, did it reach,

will there be another.

 

Oh to honor the parchment

of love in its antiquity

the eyes we well in a lament.

 

I could wanting my pen

speak in clear word

how is true my love then.

 

In some forever rhythm

the ink is laid

and the imagined him

 

whose blood and soul do

hold favor to her smile,

eyes that might find true.

 

Oh to find the true blessing

in words of a scrawl,

forever binding, always living.

 

When last I spoke I wrote

in a flash pages fill

with all my love so remote

 

yet here swoon in the quiet of a silent

peace fashioned a style not so ancient.


picture – pinterest

To Where I Go

IMG_0824

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.

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.

Would You Then

If in the quiet moonlight,

we danced, our eyes,

suggestive,

would you if my lips

did find a naked shoulder

a nervous gasp …

 

Would you then,

while my hands now

felt liberty

the fabric that might entice

a man to explore further,

while you rose in my palms

my lips now buried in

your neck,

soft to reach your passion

 

might you as I did fingertips

find your buttocks,

the extension of my hand

directed by a movement

drawn in sequence to your own mouth

insistent upon my own,

tongues twirling,

 

Would you then find your center

to come alive for the beauty of such is

a delicious notion

while your eyes

turned to the sea

to allow my own waves of desire

let us drift toward some

long forgotten island of

sweet sensuality …

 

would you imagine while I did begin.

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.