winter

She drinks me whole

her lips dance over mine and

her heartbeat holds me

(delicately)

i think of her often

“can you keep talking please?”

she whispers fearful across distances lengthened by love

i try,

in this moment of fragility

to hold her

(delicately)

for perhaps she deserves it more than

I.

waiting: a poem(song)prayer

i wait for you,

dreaming listlessly, wistfully into the horizon.

the sand slides effortlessly through my outstretched toes.

the sun casts carefully across the near-magenta,
golden taffeta waves as they quiver,

drifting closer and closer to my hand,
separated only by an almost ephemeral layer of pure white sand.

the gold turns to violets, crimson, a deep azure,

the taffeta rips and shreds, a gentle, patient drifting becomes
a restless licking and curling,

the sun wanders away,

slowly and effortlessly replaced by a pale-white sliver of
moonlight and the gentle, calming flickering of limitless stars and



cavernous night-time.



(I wait for You through the gentle passing of waves;


(seasons)


and waves again.)


one day i’ll see you,

with eyes like the summer and
lips like the stars.

with hair like the autumn and
hopes still unscarred.



one day I’ll see you

and our dreams will come true.


until then,
until then,
until then,


(I wait for You through the gentle passing of waves;


(seasons)


and waves again.)

(remnants) of love.

Feet buried in
sea-softened sand.
Waves calmly crash
against worn rocks,
brightened by
hand-scrawled marriage proposals
and iloveyous.
"I love you sugar frosting"-
one reads, evoking memories
of
awkward first kisses
and childhood hand-holding.

We're too old now for
Brightly colored sun dresses
And size 4 sandals.
Too old for pigtails,
and being cute.

But here,
Moonlight streaming across
Tired, smiling faces.
Hands touch with that
same childhood spark.

And love,
again,
is perhaps a possibility.

I am.

i am.

i am shouting!

i am shouting exaltations of love!

i am dreaming of holding you tangled in arms draped against skin eyes alight kissing you sigh that beautiful sigh of warmth content as you rest your head against my chest I feel the warmth your breath instills heart with fire and water, love and lust, everything and EVERYTHING!

i am shouting exaltations of love!

i am shouting.

i am

Yours.

Time passing; or the oak tree

There,
there is a quite earnestness about
the oak tree
that has set itself apart.

It’s,
it’s as if over the course of watching
its caretakers come,
and go,
The roots, branches,
and wizened trunk have

withdrawn,

fearful perhaps, of another autumn,
another quiet
passing of seasons.

A whisper passes,
(through leaves, through branches).
A yearning, wistful call,
or perhaps simply
an acknowledgement.

That seasons, as do all things,
turn.

A leaf,
edges curled,
tattered,
drifts slowly,

endlessly,

the oak stands silent,
watching.



alone.

the yours and mines

O –





Speak the hers that show the hes

(the hes that stare with open lips)

At hers who kiss and dreams that see

(the drunken love that sips and sips)



that talk will love of hes and hers

(who kiss and kiss but think no more)

that kisses far from talk holds cures

(for darkened glass and bolted doors)



o dream my dream you lovers true

(the hers and hes are all but You)

for you are pure and drink me through

(for talk is old our love is new)



for You and Me are naught but one

(our secrets kept in others eyes)

my Moon is yours you are my Sun

(a fire alights -)















(my mys are yours your yours are mine)

The City

With his hat cocked over one
Eye
(for the ladies, and for glamour.)
Meandering through
A cacophony of indulgences
Strewn on a barren plain of
Hedonism.
A mirage of lucidity
In that same eye,
(still completely unaware.)
Prosperity an illusion,
Depravity engulfing it.
“Foolish wanderer!
Purveyor of Nietzschean complexities!”
Whose shoulder brushes a pig – tailed girl
Garbed in the epitome
Of innocence.
(Except for small digressions,
Such as the shirt exposing
Her undeveloped navel.)
Now like Pomona,
yet destined to
Submit to a barrage of
Society’s emaciation complex.
(And its related advertisements.)
Like all the other flowers,
(Crushed by a gust of wind
exhaled by a not quite omniscient
God.)
But for now,
She walks,
And with little thought of magnitude,
She tosses an unimportant penny
To a beggar,
Completely devoid of eloquence.
Entertaining contemplations of a
.357 to his temple.
Protected solely by his unkempt hair.
(Accumulating the grease of
Immorality shed by the
Slightly inconsiderate city.)
Comforted by the sometimes silent,
Sometimes deafening clang of
A reminder of better days.
His only respite,
Comes from spare change,
Dropped into his impoverished chalice
by the storekeeper every day
Who walking with an uneven tread,
His foot wandering,
Only to be brought back again by his resolve.
Honed by experience,
And by foolish errors.
For “experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.”
Or at least that’s what he read in his
Tattered copy of Wilde ever present on his bedside table.
He had tasted success,
And ambition devoured it,
consumed it,
And continued to feed off it.
But consumed by avarice,
His morals lay bare on the fractured sidewalk
of his past.
And with this he taps the cold disk
that calls forth the quiet “ching”
Calling for payment where payment is due.
But he doesn’t look up.
At the man with his hat
Cocked over one
Eye
As he walks through the cold metal door,
Lost in itself so much that it does not realize
It is a portal to
Discovery.
And the man steps through the
Gleaming opening,
And for the first time sees the city,
For its radiant tributes to Apollo
Standing taller than Olympus,
But also for the silhouette –
Of a wall swathed in the protests
Of the poor.
He pauses for an eternity,
Then, as his father had taught him
Amidst cries of anguish from an unborn child,
He adjusts his hat,
Stepping into the light,
And continuing on,
As if nothing had
Happened.