Thursday, April 23, 2009

A Place to Go


It used to be that I thought
making love was a physical act
But now you are gone;
so far away, a visit is an event
It occurs to me how many
different ways there are to make love

We made love with a silent stare
held over many minutes
Your chestnut eyes imploring
my soul, drinking me in
A kiss about to happen
our breath caught in the moment

We made love with a whisper
a song for your ears only
Words you longed to hear
but were too afraid to ask for
I love you, you’d sigh
with eyes closed in a dream

We made love with our laughter
coming from deep within
A mutual enjoyment of
each others company
Some nights it didn’t stop
until we laughed ourselves to sleep

We made love in those moments
when the rivers broke the levy
Times when all was lost,
except the hope we found in our embrace
Why? I asked, to which you had no reply,
but the strength of your arms

We made love last night with written word
you begging of me that justice was done
A short message with all I have,
all I want to give, if you’ll just let me
A heart put at ease, by another
so full to burst, it ached in my chest

So you see, my love, this distance
is mere miles on a map
Making love to you is a memory
i can recall when I need to
A place to go where you touch my heart
when you cannot touch my hand

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Love Dream Haiku

Arms wrapped around me
The heat, your skin on my back
Remembering you

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

Day 10



Every Monday and Wednesday, I sit out in my front yard and listen to and watch my environment.

Today I watched blades of wheat grass get bullied by the breeze, only to stand tall when the battering was done.

Another look revealed these weeds gesturing in conversation with one another.

And still a different perspective, a dance between earth and wind; the graceful push and pull that is compromise at the least and propagation at its height.

Saturday, April 04, 2009

The Tide

Its queer how a broken heart
can change the rhythm
of the tides of life.
The ebb of sadness and
the flow of happiness
can change with the season
or the moment.
When the tide is in,
the life is sustainable,
when it’s out,
all life is impeded.
Priorities are pooled in small,
limited spaces.
The life giving qualities
would run out
if the tide did not come back in.
Rivers of tears can
temporarily rejuvenate,
but just when the gasping starts
again and life begins to strangle,
the moon releases it’s pull
and and the life-giving water
steadily cascades in,
to include the pools with the ocean.
Things begin to feel normal,
even the out tide can seem
less claustrophobic.
Almost ignorable.
The moon, herself,
may not have been visible,
but her influence is just the same.
There are tumultuous moments
with beautiful lightning displays,
where the sea is illuminated
transitorily,
black turning turquoise.
It foams and froths.
The waves reach higher than wonted
and the sea swirls with intensity,
bringing up oxygen and nutrients
to prepare for the next ebb.

Thus continues this rhythm
until it becomes habitual
and the mind feels nothing
but the customary senses,
until a new cadence has replaced
the former and the broken heart
has all but forgotten the garrote
once wound so tightly,
encircling and suffocating her.
The healing waters of the flow
cleanse and resuscitate
her beat to steady,
she feels life charge into her
and is ready again to share
the ephemeral love that brings
hope of no further ebb.
Though the outflow is ineluctable,
in certain seasons it is shorter
and more tolerable
and like the deep blue
expects and prepares
for this eventuality,
so must I.
The moon that is my beloved
will bring me to my knees,
begging once more
for the release that exclusively
she has the power to proffer.
To be influenced by such control
is out of mine,
but neither can she disengage
from our affaire de coeur;
for when the battle clouds clear
and demons have been slain
and once again her full radiance
shines upon
my still surface hiding fast undercurrents,
our need for each other is
incontrovertible.