Our Pasts Prevail

If we could but change
who and what we are,
where we've come from,
and what we've been,
maybe then, we could be
what we chose not to pursue
for the sake of our sanities,
but alas, our pasts prevail.

A Night of Musing

It was a game they had played at for what felt like ages. The tug and pull of wills. It had been a night of challenge, of desires hidden and deprived fed full with flesh lit only by starlight during the long, dark night.

It occurred to him as the morning light dawned then bleached into daylight, she did not stir. Restless as she was awake so was she in sleep, yet this day of all days she lay still upon his bed.

Her arms lay above her, reaching to cross at the wrists where they still lay bound with the red silken ribbons he had brought back across the borders. He must have fallen asleep right off. He mentally chastised himself for such inconsideration.

Small bruises colored her skin, his brands to reveal the chain links that bound their souls, one unto the other, to show the world she was his match. He smiled to himself as he swaggered across the room to examine the night’s handiwork. She had always teased of leaving her mark on him but his body had risen was unscathed that morning while she retained the badges of her office.

He traces the peaks and valleys of her figure expected some tickled response to awaken her from slumber. One thing the restlessness assured him of, her nightmares had not returned that night. That night she was his alone.

He sighed contentedly upon her neck, smelling what little was left of the earthy oil she wore. It reminded him of fresh mint in iced tea, a throw back memory to the gentlemanly days of southern princes, perhaps. He lay down next to her, smoothed his hands along her arms and untied the delicate hands that had written the words that had first caught his attention.

A poet is nothing without his muse nor a poetess, for that matter, and they had found within each other that immortal essence of inspiration, the ambrosia which granted one to clothe themselves in eternity with the wisdom of timelessness.

She neither moved nor spoke… still. He thought to provoke her from sleep with kisses, but found her stubbornly unyielding. It was another match to the game they had played out the night before. He enjoyed the coquette in her, sought it out, demanded from it those desires she kept hidden beneath her oddly naïve veneer. He had taken everything from the coquette that night, and had left them both breathless in the effort.

He pulled away to watch her eyes upon him, watch them burn with the same fire as the night before, but they held fast, fixed towards the window. It was then he noticed the tracks lining the sides of her face where tears had trailed down into her hair.

Shocked, he spoke to her, apologized, and finally began to plead as her gaze remained locked with a look focused upon a distance he couldn’t reach. She was cold to him, cold to the touch. He reached for her tiny wrist, just in case, but when no pulse was found he looked up to refine his fingers placement, noticing for the first time the abrasions under his touch.

He touched his head to her breasts, dying for a heartbeat, for while his color drained from his face it fed to the chaos overtaking him. He took her face in his hands, and leaned in close, listening for the soft rush, waiting for the touch of breath upon his cheek.

He threw her down, like he had done so many times the night before, but this time he backed away. Falling back upon the floor for support, he gazed up at the body he’d dreamt of for so long and noticed she neither warm nor loving as she was now, her breast no longer moved with her heartbeat.

The muse had left him in the night, driven back to eternity by the one who used her for its influence. He slowly realized, perhaps it had not been a game that time…

As his tears slid down his face, he bade goodbye to his deepest muse.

Oubliette

I have myself my own absinthe
which I somewhat wish to forget
so within my mirrored labyrinth
I’ve placed his oubliette:

To forget how his calluses
caught in my curly tresses
and gently undid my dresses,
seduced me with caresses,
and explored my mental crevices.

In the dark night he distresses…
with smooth, wordiness confesses
I was honored of poetesses
as one of the poet’s mistresses
and thereby useful to his successes.

So, I suppose, it is not
a dungeon for him alone,
more so am I the one who’s caught
within these beating walls of stone.

The Ring I Wear

It is not gold,
it is not grand,
it is of stone
upon my hand.

Given by no man
it is of the earth
that which began
held in its girth

Akin to steel
dark and guarding
as I'm held to heal
within its warding

A barrier to
the next in line
to approve, so few,
and so many decline.

But until such a time
as that should arrive
it would truly be a crime
a courtship to contrive.

Your Touch

I’m tortured
tonight
by the rememory
of your touch:
the way
you held my neck
as we kissed,
colored by
artificial lights
blinking and swirling
about our
blended minds,
our melding worlds,
our synchronized
souls.
It is the drug
of preference,
the drink
of the night,
the lullaby
that sings me
to sleep
filled
with dreams
and nightmares
alike.
It’s what drives
me both away
and to
the place my mind
suddenly resides.

A Thing I Don’t Know

There’s something
I’ll never master,
a technique
that eludes my grasp,
a skill I cannot
cultivate.

Closure is akin,
though even that
eludes,
and closing the door
is the second place
holder in the game.

An embrace
is probably closest
except, perhaps,
for a kiss,
but good byes, you see,
are a thing I don’t know.

Living Like a Soldier

How would you feel if every time you came home from work, home had been utterly revamped? How would you feel, if the neighborhood you left in the morning was no longer a nice, quiet, well kept, set of homes but rundown shacks filled with cursing and gun fire? How would you feel if the family you slaved for decided they couldn’t wait for you to come home, and moved on without you? How would you feel, if you were a living the life of a soldier?

The Sneaking Way of Seasons

It’s early September and the grey evening air smells like October harvests. There is wood fire layered with cider upon the breeze. Fuzzy lined jackets don the casual couple out walking in the impending night air. The chill of the coming winter is not yet strong enough to warrant the tightly wrapped scarves that sit now snuggled in the sock draws of Washingtonians.

Winter is on her way, her frosty perfume precedes the snowflake sized footsteps that gradually bring her, unannounced and suddenly upon our doorsteps. I watch as the leaves turn then pirouette themselves down to lay in colorful decay upon the earth, a funeral gown of reds, golds, browns, and oranges.

The world is turning into a day of change from a night of memories. Cycling through and about that which is life.

Wild Doves

Would a painted dove
be called a pigeon?
From innocence
to pestilence,
the variation
of outside
judgment.

Imbalance

Augment
inspiration
in an empty
world
bereft
of meaning,
of love,
of passion,
of identity.

Can that world
withstand
the expansion
of universes
upon its surface
or will it tip
on its side
and roll away
into oblivion?

Will infinity
sag beneath
their weight,
break open to
spill upon them,
or expand
itself
in correlation
to their existence?

If those
universes should
augment
themselves,
feed one off of the other
in cyclical form,
how long before
they expand
beyond themselves?

Of Wolves and Doves

It is the growl in the dark
the menace, the guard,
with glowing eyes of age
of ways unknown
fierce and wild.

It is the flash of white
the messenger, the blessed
given to the flight of the moment
for naivety and fear
delicate and innocent.

It is the paradox of nature,
the polarity of lovers,
to draw out, to seek within
the other what they lack,
it is the cycle of balance.

Chameleon by Design

Her nature
does not change
but she blends,
of necessity,
to mold and match
her surroundings,
her influences,
for her safety,
and her pleasure.

It is how
she was made.

She reflects
deepest nights
to hide
amid the stars
and calm oceans
to augment
the ebb and flow
of communication
and inspiration.

She is…

The whore
on the corner,
the shy girl
in the choir loft,
a muse misplaced
within her own humanity,
the writer awake
into the wee hours of morn,
the artist vanguard--
wretched amid a myriad of media,
the climber pirouetting
between drop off and earth.
She is the tomboy
playing football in the mud,
and the princess
delicate, imposing and pristine.

She is a woman:
chameleon by design.

What We Are

We are the sounds
of a late summer night.

We are the sunrise
glowing softly into day.

We are the calm
after the end of the world.

We are the adventure
of lives beginning again.

We are pictures
of a lifetime's journey.

We are indescribable
beyond words imaginable.

If My Life Were A Book Part 4

Also Available: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3

Alien Construction
Introduction
Finding myself pregnant was a huge surprise. Given the miscarriage I’d had my first year of college to say I was apprehensive to the point of denial might as well go unsaid. My first symptoms arose after having been working the evening shift at the gas station and working full time during the week. I was also pulling 24 hour Fridays as I went from the office job to the night shift at the gas station for the weekends. I came home and fell into a deep sleep upon my leather couch during a record heat wave. I started feeling sick to my stomach and vomiting uncontrollably from that day on. I thought I had sun poisoning or heat stroke.
Closing
It was with the influence of my employer and his wife I decided to keep my son instead of putting him up for adoption as his father and I had decided. The manipulation of my most intimate fears was key in my agreement on the subject, and every day my child grew inside me, I felt I died just a little more because it meant our good bye was so much closer. Breaking the news of my alteration to our plans was a predictable disaster, but I was at peace knowing my babe would be in my arms instead of a stranger’s.

1 of, and or, 2
Introduction
Full bellied with babe, or at least so I felt, showing though I was I looked like the average overweight young American adult instead of my skinny self. I remember very little of the conversation my son’s father and I had, quite honestly. I had expected him to be unhappy, which he was, I expected him to be manipulative, which he also was, but I did not expect him to be making demands of me. He said to me “it’s either me or the baby” to which I replied, slowly and tearfully, “then it’s the baby”.
Closing
My son’s father and I were not on the best of terms after that weekend. My choice to keep Alexander and going directly against his “orders” and driving 200 miles with a friend to inform his parents they had a grandson on the way and his “request” that I find him the necessary paperwork to sign away any sort of fatherly rights he might have which would make him responsible for child support going unmet did not leave us on speaking terms.

Finally Alive
Introduction
The pregnancy was a scary and surreal experience; the turmoil of my relationship with my son’s father undoubtedly took a great toll on my mind and body during that time. About 2:30 one morning after a particularly bad argument with my son’s biological donor, my water broke. I tried calling my son’s father, no answer. I jumped in the shower, rinsed off, threw on some clothes and walked out of my room just as my roommate and very good friend walked into the apartment. “My water just broke” I told her, she simply did a 180 turn and held the door open for me.
Closing
My son became the joy of my life from the moment I held him in my arms on. Honestly, the first time I felt him move inside it felt like I was being tickled, and it made me laugh out loud. Even though life was dream like from pregnancy on, I had never felt so alive.

Joyously Sleepless
Introduction
My sleeping patterns have always been pretty chaotic at best, nonexistent at worst. Having my boy to keep on schedule helped, working helped, being exhausted beyond my ability to remain conscious at the end of the day helped, and the overwhelming joy was seductive. I had my son, life was hard, but I had my son.
Closing
As he grows, so do my hours of uninterrupted sleep, at least in theory. The joy has not ebbed, despite the illnesses, despite the circumstance, despite all else: the joy my son brings is all inclusive. There are still days when I feel like he is the only reason I get up in the morning, but those times fade as I gaze upon this beautiful little creature born of my body and soul.

One Last Try
Introduction
My son’s father and I tried counseling after he decided he would indeed be a part of Alexander’s life. He went from wanting nothing to do with either of us, to wanting to be a father to Alexander, to “please take me back” in a relatively short period of time. Counseling was required for that last and final chance. We worked on things for about a year before we got back together but he always was a yo-yo.
Closing
So, after our engagement and we entered into premarital counseling, during which I confronted him about the online chick he was begging to get to come out and see him. He swore up and down to me and the counselor there was nothing going on. Then I informed him I had read the IM’s and knew exactly what was going on. He was floored I would invade his privacy. When Asked if he was willing to put aside the “other women” and work on things with me he straight up answered no. I moved to Washington within a month from that day.

Love's Choice

Is there structure in chaos
or does structure contain chaos?
Is there stability in passion
or passion in stability?
How is it the two equations,
with identical variations,
equal such very different
out comes?
Is a lifetime in a moment
or a moment in the lifetime?
How do we decide
whether to fall
or rather fly?

To One Night

Dear Friend,

You will happen upon this,
when I do not know,
and undoubtedly
your first thoughts will contain
the idea that I am fickle.
Then, in what may take moments
or may take years,
you will realize that I am not
as heartless
as once perceived.

You and I…
was a miraculous thing.
We breathed new life into creatures
struggling just to survive.
We gave each other,
in one night,
everything we needed.
Every desire
that had gone unmet and wanting
overflowed between us.
One night.

I cannot say
I have met someone,
for we have been close a great while,
but I am avowing myself to him,
more and more so every day.
We are rough, and fit
our odd curves and corners
together in unexpected ways.
Every day.

You of all people
understand
the power of words
to bind and bond,
to betray and betroth
one soul unto another.
So it is with full knowledge
of harm and help
I write this in hopes
you shall read it,
know I care for your,
but must bid you the same
personal
farewell
you demanded of me
in time gone by.

What you and I shared was
one of a kind and
will never be nor will be sought
to be duplicated anywhere else.

The past is precious,
but it is also gone from us.

I must move from the one night
into the every day
for it is what shall grant me
health and happiness
in the time to come.
I choose the path forward
and hope the same for you.

Still Read

- A Dedication to Words Passed -

I still read,
upon occasion,
the words we shared;
the poems un-rhymed
and prose poetic,
sent to no one
in particular,
yet aimed ever
so carefully.
We cannot
ever take
our words
back.
They're still
read...
and we're still
reading.

The Nightly Marauder

Who was it that flowed
into my room last night
who kissed me upon my head
as dreams played within?

Who hid from my sleepy sight
when startled awake I was
for who would kiss me when
I spent this night alone?

And who upon my falling
back into obscure dreams
whispered my name upon
my cheek and left me then again?

If My Life Were A Book Part 3

One Stage to Another

Introduction

When I moved out of my mother’s house, I spent the first three months or so homeless. I had some very compassionate girlfriends in the girl’s dorm of a certain college who would allow me to stay to allotted three day guest visitation allowance. I’d also sneak around the guys’ side of the dorms to spend nights with my boyfriend on occasion as well. He was a big part of why I didn’t move with my mother, after all. It was during this time I decided I wanted to write a book entitled “Being a Girl in the Guy’s Dorm” but the title reads as ChicLit which I do not enjoy reading, much less writing. It was the beginning of the best years of my life.

Closing

My hurried and short lived life as a Shakespearean actress was much loved and is much missed. There is a drug like, gypsy type mentality and focus we performers shared. We lived those parts over those short four weeks I was part of the cast. I’m sure going through so many actresses for Celia (As You Like It) was stressful, but I was so glad to have stumbled into the rehearsal and thrown into the program. No longer was I playing who my mother wanted me to be, I was myself, and I found a good deal of myself through the playing of other characters, such as my beloved Celia.

Living Literature

Introduction

While I was homeless, I began blogging on a more regular basis and began truly finding my voice as a writer through discussions with other bloggers on subjects of life and writing. I actually wrote a half baked piece entitled “Living Literature” on my Xanga which was the actuating of some mechanism in my mind that has yet to shut down even now. The idea of that piece is that there are three parts to literature: what the writer intended, what is on the page, and what the reader gets out of it. It was the birth of a whole different mindset in regards to my writing.

Closing

After my work started developing in a more… inner… direction, once I started truly stripping down my mind and body in front of my readers, I noticed a drastic change not only in the responses I received but the massive shift of the audience. I lost a great many readers and I gained a great many readers. I went from a genre to a more universal type of writer; it would seem from the statistics of my audience. It baffled me at first, and then I came to a place of acceptance and humility. I do not control my readers. They do not control me. We have a mutually exclusive relationship. And so we will continue.

Honorary Honor Student

Introduction

Even after moving into my own apartment, I still spent the majority of my free time at the Honor’s Dorm of my boyfriend’s university. I became known as an “Honorary Honors Student” because of the massive amounts of time I spent there, my involvement with the goings on within the Honor’s dorm and the network of close friendships I had, all living in the Honor’s dorm.

Closing

It was a short lived phase of female companionship as we all spread out and continued on our separate ways, but I still keep in contact with a fair amount of them on occasion. We were crazy little wenches who had a blast going out being crazy. I never joined in any of the drunken girl-on-girl make out sessions, not my thing, but we had a blast acting what society seems to think is acceptable for early-twenty females.

Sanctuary

Introduction

I never slept well at home, ever; night terrors as a child on up through late teens, on top of the environmental influences. Late night arguments between parents, anger driven siblings and the like were not conducive to good sleeping habits. I did my best thinking and felt the most like me walking the house and streets beneath the stars and moons of peaceful nights and mornings after everyone else had finally gone to bed. Having an apartment of my own, I found myself in the odd circumstance of feeling safe no matter what time of day it happened to be.

Closing

Needless to say, a whole new aspect of my personality began unfurling; carried by the winds of change my colors began bleeding into what had once been a very turbulent sky. Given a calm sea and fair sailing, my journey into self sped along its introspective way.

Never Flinch Again

You've known me
since before I knew
some men never care
take what they want:
innocence and purity.
Corrupt desires spread
a taint across children.

You were there as I grew
from shaking to trembling
to mere flinching
as men walked by and turned
their heads and I tried
to blend into the shadows.

Then you were gone,
off living your life
making your way as I
kept stumbling through
my own life, flinching,
at every door,
every decision,
every touch upon my face.

Back again, a lifetime passed,
so different from who we were
yet so new and changed as well.
And you reached out to me,
afraid I'd still still flinch,
but instead I leaned into you,
and accepted what I'd always
turned away, pushed back.
I refuse to flinch any longer.

Scars

Above my eye
you'll notice
a small, slivered
indentation
from where
I fell
infantile
upon a
sorting toy.

there's the one
that slides across
from hip in
the first time
the doctors
cut me open
and saved my life

Up and down
from toes
to thighs
the average
scrapes
of childhood
you might see
for ages ago
they faded.

The crescent
on my arm
is from an
altercation
between my mom
and I almost
seven years past.

Stretched
across my chest
are the
proofs of
motherhood
but profound
of all for this
is the one
no one can see.

My scars
are proof
of living
and of mercy.
They map from
where I've been
to who I am today.

Remember the Towers

Seven years ago,
today,
New York
was washed in ash,
gore fell like rain;
loved ones poured
down from the sky.
I was a child
watching people fall--
choosing between
the fire and the air,
which way to go
how to better end
what might have been
happy lives:
family men,
working wives,
single parents...
so few left, alive.
As the tears fell
from my eyes
that morning,
getting set for school,
so did they,
in one form
or another,
from buildings
set afire by:
hatred,
insecurity,
misguided
manipulation,
greed,
and
pride.
Do you recall
the emergency
that revived
our faith,
our prayers,
our community,
from the
inspiration
of
evil acts
when the Towers
were attacked.

Train Tracks

I'm walking the tracks,
not on one side or another,
bereft of a friend
for fear's hold on him.
I mispoke, mistepped,
brought to light a hurt
not yet ready to heal
as it is still
tearing him apart,
eating him alive.
I'm sorry, my friend,
for what I said,
the question I asked
was not out of self,
to play the odds.
I am one of possibilities,
as any who know me
can tell you.
So, I walk the tracks
through the countryside
walking in the rain
watching lighting dance
wishing you'd let me say
I'm sorry.

Broken Bubbles

Caught with you watching me,
and another besides,
in a room walled
with one-way mirrors.
The world revolves
around me,
unseen by my eyes
as I'm forced to see
all aspects of myself
till I fall, dizzy,
upon the floor.
I stare at a sky
made of my eyes
blinking back at me;
twinkling with tears,
with mischief, with glee,
with every part of who
I am and who I'll be.
Then she pulls back
and sends the
the bubble spinning
only to reach back in
for my hand and pull me,
disoriented, from
the broken glass
and scaffolding
of past self.

Adorable

How you dote on my words
and worry they're for you
and worry if they're not.
I put you through
such trouble...
I really should feel bad
but I'm happy to say,
all in all anyways,
it makes you adorable.

A Mused Weapon

Words carved of ebony,
washed in moonlight,
stained with tears--
the blood of souls
sheathe bound by
music's chords.

Retrace with me
the paths the moon
has travelled
in her time;
moon up, moon down,
begin again.

The nymphs are dancing
in our yards and dreams
singing sultry lullabies,
seducing from us troubling
worries of our days.

Beware a writer's blade
and worse their seeing eyes,
for in darkness theirs
are powers glorified
in clarity imbibed
from muses felt not seen.

Between Us

Why am I kept
at arms distance
when there is such
greater geography
between us?

Why am I told
good bye forever
when infinity
was already felt
between us?

Why am I still
asking myself this
still thinking on
what may have been
between us?

Why am I here
writing once again
to myself and air
when past has passed
between us?

Why am I gone
from the place
we created still
looking back across
the expanse that lies
between us?

Why am I not
waving as I leave,
or crying or smiling
empty yet missing what was
between us?

Placed Pieces

Can you feel the puzzle
pieces etched into my skin
from the places they had fallen
over time as we moved through them.

Do you hear the music
playing softly from afar
lyrics we both know by heart
beats that fell in time with ours.

Whisper again to me
you breath upon my neck
when I can't hear you at all
because the world has split apart.

No chess to move about
or checkers to jump over
no manipulation or conjecture
merely pieces coming into place.

Puzzled Methods

How do you place the pieces
of a puzzle back together?
Do you start with the border
or place colors together?
Which system is correct
and Which one is right?
Does one get the job done
and the other one does not?
Which pieces do we choose
to put into place,
to let fall over time
where they could have been
if forced out of impatience?
The problem with refusing
to let a piece lie
is that in passion the edges
are bent and begin to fray
and then do not fit even
where they're made to go.

Fences

Spying through the peepholes
provided by digital termites
in fences built around the soul
of a writer amidst her mind.

All is laid bare before
an anonymous audience
for the interpretation of
friends' and foes' alike.

But the writer keeps on
for words are like air
within the fences where from
she spins wordy webs, naked.

Bonfire

Deep in the woods...
with blood sucking insects
and swampland leeches.
We sat camped in a grove,
some firm ground
to hold us that night.
As we lay touching
finger tips to toes,
encircling the fire...
staring at stars
supposedly...
instead of catching
quick glimpses
of the other
through the flames
and telling tales
of childhood dreams,
adventures and schemes.
What we think
of the universe beyond
and the ones within,
what we make
of what we have
and what we are.

Within

what does it mean
when it frightens me
to hear my words
falling from your lips,
read by your eyes,
understood by your mind?
What is it I'm afraid
I hide beneath my words?
What monsters do I fear
still lurk beneath my skin?
What am I to myself
and those trying to get in?
What have my lost eyes
blinded from myself,
kept in shadows
and blurred beyond clarity?
What am I within
that I must protect
those without?

Tickle Me

Sleepy birds are ruslting
between peeping sunny spots.
As sunrise fades to morning
I disentangle my sheets knots.
The sudden brisk air awakes
my bedmate from dreaming sleep.
His sleepy smiles is all it takes
to have me out of bed to creep
unless he snuggles in tight and close
I don't want to move but stay in bed
he'll wiggle up till we're nose to nose
wrap his arms around me and knock my head.
Why this is so addictive to me
in the early morning hours
is when he says "Mom, tickle me!"
then the giggle monster he empowers.

Late Into The Night

Can you feel how much I miss you
this empty cold autumn night?
Can you feel my soul reaching
to reconnect with yours
across whatever distance,
and through whatever walls,
up and down steps of the dungeons
we’ve built about ourselves?
Do you still read my words,
do they matter any more,
or have I surpassed myself
and left you beyond the gates
we wove with words and actions
considered with such ambiguity?
Is there black and white to love?
Is any part of it clear cut?
Or is it clear and we the muddled
as we squirm about in comfort zones
afraid to take the sentries down
and dismantle the guard posts
of ourselves to let someone in
and show them around?
What is the grandeur
of well woven tapestries,
intricately laced dances,
or lazy summer days
when hidden from all
for fear of acknowledgment?
So here I sit alone
amid my own tapestries,
no audience to dance for.
Just the candlelight and I;
my mind emptied upon the page,
my soul stretched through time,
from memories into the present.
I’m thinking too much again
and the candle is burning down.

From

If we could speak,
without confusion over-bearing
and drama scripted
by our pasts
what would become of us?

Were I but welcome,
I would write a world to you.

Were I sought
perhaps this time, I’d stay.

Were we ourselves,
how would things change?

Sleep Full of Secrets

Early from bed
And late to return
to protect the open gates
that guard what lies within.

Should you awake
and watch from beside
you'll see me smile,
hear me laugh and cry.

I live other lives
within those gates,
dreams and nightmares both
I traverse through the night.

Names of lovers gone
and friends long dead,
of choices made in haste
or missed for too much thought.

If you ask me
while I sleep
what I see
beyond my lids...

You may get an answer
that makes some sense
but you may get one
of ridiculousness.

I am not myself
when I sleep,
yet never truer
to me either.

What do I dream?
Who do I see?
Of universes and stories.
Multitudes and I.

A Muse Alone

If mermaids turn to sea foam
and faeries melt to dew
and gods turn mortal
Then what of a muse?

Are we but sparks
stars in the night
for others to use
and burn out?

If we are soulless as well.
but fire burning in a body
to shed light to those
blinded by complexity...

Do muses fall in love
or are we heartless
as the gods of old
living through mankind?

Are the words we whisper
in nights of whimsy
are etched upon paper
are all we leave?

How can one inspire
humanity from within
when one's own existence
is lost in inner space.

If... one should
encounter another...
what would transpire
in those communiqués?

Would they survive
as before
when parted ways
then ensue?

If all mysticism
were spent between
what would be left
of emptied muses dreams?

Caught

Caught amidst the spiderwebs
in the hallways of my mind
looking at fading portraits
pulling curtains back and aside.

Time travels so sporadically
when confined by swarming thoughts
sometimes slow and sometimes fast
snails and lightning both.

I'm feeling a little queasy
all this spinning going round
stop and go, speed up then slow
I want off this crazy ride.

But even if it stopped
long enough for me to jump off
I'm not one for living vicariously
I'd be begging to jump back on again.

Of Mixture

A mixing, contaminating and convoluting.
Seven years gone long by.
And I’m stuck in the murk remembering
everything I’ve tried to hide.

Built for Distance

To run

from:
Commitment
Familiarity
Potential
for:
Fear
Hurt
Frustration

To Reach

from:
Chaos
Emptiness
Loneliness
for:
Meaning
Purpose
Order

To Love:

from:
Afar
Up-Close
Beside
for:
Self
You
Us

Again

Pace me.
Drive me.
Challenge me.
Into greatness.
Augment our nature,
Minimize our wordy hubris.
Collaborate with me
One more work:
the finale,
our end,
and begin,
again.
Life.

Be

Speak.
If you want me to hear you.

Touch.
If you want to be felt.

Hush.
If you wish to hear.

Grasp.
To hold on.

Look.
To see.

Be.

"Share"

Heartbeat.

Movement.

Breath.

Body.

Soul.

Acquiesce
to the moment.

Allow
for the past.

Accept
what is offered.

Acknowledged
is your request.

"Share."

Forgive Me My Letters

It's a cold fall morning
up in northern swamplands
but you're still blistering,
I'm sure, in the wastelands.
You still cross my mind
every once in a while,
enter my dreams saying
"I'm sorry" once more.
It's my turn to apologize
you see, my friend,
we both tried but alas
we have both failed
and so goodbyes are
our only safe recourse
so forgive me, please,
my silly letters
left forever
unread.

To Hide Her

How can you expect
to hide the moon
from the eyes
beneath?

Dare strive to cover
from fellow stars
that which they
follow.

Honestly expect to dull
the shine she pours
onto her lover,
Earth.

Silly creatures, men are,
to strive for the moon
only to hold her back.

They secret her in night
when what they seek
is her light.

Treasure Maps

Trace upon terrain unknown,
inch per inch traverse the scars
laid upon the colored skin;
the marks of trials
and pathways grim.

Follow the trails
of treasure lost
to find once again
what leaves men besot.

But first!
The entryway to find.
So follow the map
if still she'll stay.

As I Am Or Not At All

Don't confine me
in your white picket fences
Don't expect me to stay
in a kitchen with the kids
don't expect this wild cat
to domesticate for the sake
of your dreams alone.
I"m still gonna prowl
through ordinary grass
finding the jungle
on the map of my mind.
I'm not your traditional
type of homemaker
not the cupcake baking
school board mom.
I'm the one out playing
in the sprinklers, the mud,
getting into trouble and all,
being a kid with my kid.
You want some apron toting
continuously pregnant
quiet voiced blond
leave this ass-kicking,
soccer playing, high-fiving
kid of a mom alone.
If you want to take me
it's as I am
or not at all.

Dance With Me?

Will you dance with me
upon the stage we made,
the foundations of the lives
we built beneath our feet
as we spin out and spin in
and move amidst each other
with intimacy born of camaraderie;
linked in movement beyond
the simple bond of lovers
but that of rivals and friends.

Are We Forgetful?

There's an emptiness in the storm tonight
as I stand wondering where you've gone,
what you're doing, who you're with,
if you ever remember or think on us.

It's a cold autumn rain falling
upon my burdened shoulders.
I can't recall at all anymore
what it felt like in your arms.

This storm feels all my own,
no trace of you amidst it,
perhaps that's why the rain is cold
and the wind cuts so harshly.

Where are the fireflies of late
and nights spent by the fire?
Why am I still entertaining
such calms within my storm?

I wonder if you still recall
what the storm's washed away...
am I the only one forgetful
or can you still remember me?

Touch of the Moon

She lays upon what she may
revealed within the moonlight
fair and insubstantial,
still as the quiet night's air.

‘Tis with the breath of lovers
she lifts her breasts to life,
the touch of stoked desires
she wakes and stirs restlessly.

She searches for her match
draped with the cloak of night;
Endymon, her legend says,
was the mortal man she took.

If perchance your eyes
should fall upon her own,
she'll take you in and love you…
leave your mind lost at night's end.

Invite the touch of muses
but of goddesses beware!
For once in their eyes you've fallen
you'll be trapped under their spell

Such romances are doomed
by nature and by pattern.
It will break the hearts of all involved
but the goddess must live on forever.

She'll keep on searching
for the prince that she lost,
leaving his nightly stand ins
mad - touched by moonlight

A Musing Muse Alone

Enter into me
with your great
philosophy
and stir up the sensation,
my mind and body's
inspiration.

Knowing full well
the mind's distance to traverse
before climbing up from hell
to escape our realities
and entertain for moments
a decade's worth of fantasies.

Then back again to day by day
lonely trials fought to
hold heartbreak at bay.

We'll sit remembering
time together now apart
waking alone… and musing.

A Mortal Muse

Revive within me
my forgotten humanity.
Draw out of reluctance
the price paid for penance.
Lay down in patch worked light
ceremonial promises to make things right.
Bathe with me in the significance
of our last encounter's remembrance.
A mortal muse of simplicity
who knows and accepts my humanity.

Of Friends and Lovers

Throw me down to earth
only to build me back up to heaven
draw from my lips the sounds
that praise you, wanted so

posture and knead me
into the forms you desire
you have given me what I need
so allow me to return the favor

Her Bed of Roses

What lays upon the petals soft
in dying sunlight's gentle kiss
but a maiden fair and virtuous
upon the crimson bed of roses.

Pale and still she slumbers there,
as moonlight begins to glow
and glisten does the dewy flowers
that dress this bed of roses.

It is not until one reaches
to join her in that decor
they realize tis the bite of thorns
tucking her into the bed of roses.

upon snatching away one's hand
to escape the harsh thorns' grasp,
next they know tis blood that paints
the petals of the bed of roses.

Will They For Us

Will they for us,
pore over letters,
scour every poem,
dissect every book?

Will they for us,
wonder were these
written to the other?
Were they perhaps
lovers, friends or rivals?

Will they for us,
seek meaning in a comma,
ask why this certain word
and not some similar other?

Will they for us,
study for college courses,
test on human nature as
revealed in our verses?

Empty Mirrors

I’ve damned myself
with dreams of you;
tortured by our memories,
haunted by our words
of care, concern and passion.

I am plain in my meaning,
simple by original design,
a mosaic pieced back together
after the bumps and breaks of time,
set upon a mantel for display alone.

What good is a mirror
to a man who has left it behind
or to a woman who sees through inner eyes?
What point is reflection
without a subject to define?

We are each other’s mirrors
as seen in duality
but when we have parted ways,
lost to each other via responsibility,
we are but empty mirrors.