Holding on to a lost love represents a loyal heart, not weakness as others might suggest. In me, it comes not from insecurity but knowledge. Occasionally there are those who think I am weak because of my hunger for love. I smile and offer no defense, for they are simple like the captured elephant, which does not attempt escape even after the heavy ankle chain has been replaced with thread. Bound by a strand of vulnerability, these individuals feel powerless against a basic human need. Sadly, like the elephant, they do not know that freedom awaits them.   —Excerpt from The Maven.     I hope you enjoy my poetry and prose.

 

 

I Know Why The Willow Weeps  © A Collection  of Poetry, Short Stories, and Monologues.   Table of Contents (not yet arranged) I.             Hour of Separation II.           Depths of Frantic III.          Recovery IV.          Gallows Humor V.            Relapse VI.          Surrender     1. Hiding Places   When the one-eyed cat unsheathes it claws, the world shrinks to places under beds, where children hide from parents who wish to punish, unjust wrongs to make unjust sins less sinful.   Still — rebellion flourishes when children find protection under beds— away from strong hands; so they hide in places the world can’t reach, peering in open closets — rooms that harbor no good hiding places.   Seek and sought a child to find— the one who hides from you and this world are more than the bed can protect.   The next move is to move to the space beneath the stairs; a place already explored— ‘till soft anger grows— when the last place searched: the bed— leaves no one to hear the giggling beneath the stairs.       2. Her Desires With skin deep in shade like tree covered hills, her beauty — a cocoon of silk, and perfume for my senses. Her mouth smells of wine; her neck, long kissed by the sun — I quench my thirst on thirsty lips, a single finger glides across her hips— she smiles. If she asks for water, I will give her an ocean. If she asks for silence, I will cut out my tongue. When she asks for the Devil himself, I will pluck him from his fury, force him at her feet, and he, too, will become her servant.   3. We both had spoons to dig a tunnel to each other. We were to meet under the old theater in the middle of town. For eight grueling months, I dug with fervor — endured sickness, loss of one eye, a broken wrist, and an infection. As poor luck would have it, my spoon broke half way along my journey; I continued digging with my hands until I arrived at our destination: the theater, where I gladly waited another month in solitude. She never showed. In fear that she may be in some kind of danger, I dug towards her. Months later, after suffering more sickness, I arrived at her starting point — horrified by what I found: her perfectly clean and polished spoon lying next to the hole. No note — just the spoon.   4. Holding on to a lost love represents a loyal heart, not weakness as others might suggest. In me, it comes not from insecurity but knowledge. Occasionally there are those who think I am weak because of my hunger for love. I smile and offer no defense, for they are simple like the captured elephant, which does not attempt escape even after the heavy ankle chain has been replaced with thread. Bound by a strand of vulnerability, these individuals feel powerless against a basic human need. Sadly, like the elephant, they do not know that freedom awaits them.   The Maven I sat in the garden among the dead flowers and snow, shaping a snowball for the one I used to know. When in this snowy haven, on my knee flew a raven, then suddenly the flowers began to grow. The snow kissed the tulips, the daises, and the roses, her memory blossomed, never forgetting her poses.  The frail vines on the lattice that deadened my view, turned back the lush garden that I once knew.  Is all this from a bird? You're only a raven. "I am much more than that," the bird called, "I am a Maven."  "From the dead in your heart brought the winter's chill, and the terror of loss brought the winter's kill."  The garden, I replied, died from my pain? "Yes, a flower wilted each time you thought her name.  It has been winter much too long; free your heart and end this song." What of her soul and her beautiful face? "Do you not want the flowers to bloom again in this place?" I think only of promises whispered in the night. “But this garden cannot live without your gift of sunlight.”  “Breathe easy and release her ghost," said the raven, "Bloom again these flowers; shoo away this maven."  I thought for a moment — and then the snow began to fall, the flowers died again as I shaped the snowball.  Webster's Dictionary:   A Maven is a person who has special knowledge or experience; an expert.   5.   She thought me easier to be played on than a pipe, but I was a grand piano, finely tuned and rarely played by any. My folly was that I thought her mischief common and plain, having no knowledge that she was a gifted and trained pianist. Alas!   6.   Death Request: Bury me twice as deep — six feet will not keep me from her.   7.   Communion   Our Sunday morning while church bells ring — reminders of sinful heaven. Priests deliver platitudes and beg communion, we lie quiet in our own blessed union.   Outside, the goers come and go, silk and hats and, “Look at that…” While sermons fill the rafters, grocery lists grow longer. We reflect —   As the speech lingers on— restlessness and hunger, though she and I feel full. Soon the bustle outside of starving footsteps and quick handshakes will bring a vibrancy to the neighborhood.   As the doers feign interest, I move closer to my mistress. At last — the warm regards open with the doors. Is it wrong that she and I freely drift awake—?    I must admit— I have always loved the smell of a clear conscience in the morning.     8.   By no small measure did she creep into my rhyme, giving urgency to my leisure and endearment to my time. Wherein I feel that, my poor tongue has spent, for this self-shackled slave whose freedom came and went.   Yet no sorrow befriends the cruelty she knows, May love's mysteries plague her ‘til the last of her woes. I have learned: one cannot save a drowning fish, no matter what god — no matter what wish.   More lessons than this, I’ve studied for naught, for all the passion craved and sought. Here ever hum the birds to the bees, as the locusts fill the leafless trees. The river dry loves the clouded sky, giving cease to my fever but thorn to my eye.     9. Considerations If I lay you down on richly scented sheets, would you consider every stitch as I sprinkle jasmine by your feet? With endless perfumed kisses, like waves upon the sea. Will you wake and remember me? I ask— consider the evening sun, if it mourns the morning bright. Consider the small spider that wove its web that night. Consider the candle's flame, as it melts into itself. Consider the picture of mother turned down on the shelf. Consider the flickering shadows, dancing upon the wall. Consider the jealous silence, past the door and down the hall. Only do not consider me an apparition, because I sat and read to you. It was my heart's sole ambition, to conjure up this view. And suppose our impassioned fragrance favors the morning wind, do you think the night's breeze might bring me back to you again? Consider all to consider, and the greed we shared that night. Consider the angry dead, who crave our gift of sight.   10. The Ones at My Door You say there's a ghost or phantom at my door — that I pay no attention to the shadows on the floor. With a roar, salt pours from tight eyes that weep, to the planks on the floor by the door as they creep. Fears fly highest when terror is winged; I cannot make sense from all that is hence. From each crack in the fragile shell, reveals a well I know so well — I cannot swim in shallow water; nor do I trust to drink from such water. What you fail to know is that I cannot show, that I do see the shadows lurking beneath the door. What more can I do? What more can I be? If I turn — if I run — they’ll just come looking for me.   11.   The Phantom I am a phantom — I rattle chains and haunt the hall called Lost. My name is Never — I am what will never be. Possession of this house provides me with a large space to roam. There are many gardens here; however, the flowers are nearly dead. Deep within, a protected room called Child remains untouched by my moans. That room has never known a dead petal. From there, I can smell the orchids and honeysuckle through much of the house. I need not haunt that room to be a force; I thrive here in the present. I am Never, the phantom of now.     12.   Two Logs   Bright burns the fire; dark dims the night; two logs fill the room with light. Yet one log alone; one log on the hottest flame, fails the fire's lust, declaring loneliness to blame. It craves and simmers and earnest it tries— never learns of consumption, in cold ash it dies. Needing another — to light and warm the room, scorching and searing beneath a *titian moon.   * Titian: a fiery orange color.     13.   To Sleep   If I could be any type of cloth; any type of cloth ever made — I would be a silken gown of purple, red, and gold. As the story's told — I'd be worn only in private, each night to bed... It's even been said, you can see right through me. Perhaps a little… yes, only a little might show, passed her hips I would flow — resting and nesting on her thighs. How many sighs would there be? From every man who could see… but they don't — for she is alone; she is mine. She'd wear me every night, when all is out of sight. Having only each other— I would caress her skin, more than any hundred men. Why shouldn't I? After all — I am her favorite gown — that special silk. I am not a noose; my love is loose around her nurturing milk. An ornate and skillfully made silk — you would marvel at how I was born — spun by the hands of the Nymphs. They say it took years to make me, (although it isn't true). It is my lust for her that makes them think it so. Let it be their woe, for only we know the secrets we share — each night when her hair falls beside me. My smell, her smell, our smell is one — I hate the sun! As the evening fire fails to rise… our affair in the night slowly dies — I live not ‘til she comes again for me; until she stands nude in front of me. We will prove the world a liar, when her silhouette appears by fire, and in each other — we live to sleep.     14.   Disarming Disguised in quiet await, Is a knowledge we once believed. Seduced by memories we deflate, And in this we are deceived. Remembering looses grip when another's hand we kiss, Memories merely fade, but the soul can have no bliss. It's a hunger and a thirst, craving all that is beset, Numb unchains a song from a region called "Regret." Giving lure to the Devil, fearing we may forget.     15.   I washed my face in the river called love. It was refreshing and cool — until I felt the sting of leaches.     16.  The Happiest Hour   Those who pity… those who wish better for me, my day will come when they stand over me. I should move on; I should cast it to the sea — relieved they'll feel when they stand over me. The grave won't end — this and she — no, not ‘til they stand over me. The happiest hour, I shall not flee,                                       nor will I cower when they stand over me. I'll then release it; I'll then have more for me. I'll be over her, when they stand over me.     17.   I need her as Heaven needs the crystal sea, as its cities need the streets of gold, and the souls need the paradise before them.     18.   I miss her as a mother misses her stillborn child — like another misses the one she gave up.   19.   I was the monkey with his hand in the monkey trap. A clenched fist is all that kept me from freedom. I heard the hunters coming through the jungle. Struggled as I may, I would not let go of what I wanted.     20.   She is the ink that drips from my quill, the thick blood in my veins, the reflecting terror in my eyes. A mother — a nymph; a life enduring lymph — all that lights the skies.     21.   Only betrayal by my own mother would there be more sting than yours.     22.   Unfamiliar Footprints A poem about Alzheimer’s Deep in the night came a splinter of light, giving curiosity to my woe.       Walking in careful slumber,       out by freshly cut lumber, I saw footprints in the snow. With ponder yet to wander, to there, which was near or yonder, and whether or not I should go. A shiver pulled my robe tight; a quiver embraced my fright, I headed off with the footprints ahead. My head steady pounded — thoughts grew confounded — I questioned each step that I tread. The wind howled with a curse; the winter night made worse; thoughts swelled darker within.       I continued on with familiar song, mother sang so long ago — Each step grew colder, old, but no longer older, I was lost out here — alone.   Following the lonely prints, clung one hand on the fence, stumbled, I nearly fell.       Where is my home, my lovely old home? I wanted… but too afraid to yell. Then through the wind and the snow came a child's voice I didn't know, grabbing my hand, I let go of the rail. “Why each night do you get lost in your plight—? And make me come get you out here in the cold? You are much too old for me to scold; let’s get you back to bed tonight.” I looked only once at the footprints behind, hand in hand with the little child. Steady hummed that song that eased all the wrong, while he tucked me away from the wild.       23.   Because of you, I can no longer walk by those gorgeously voluptuous statues in the museum. I really fucking appreciate it!   24.   The Heathcliff Tragedy The world has always loved those tragic figures in literature, film, and art — desperate souls that love someone who does not love them in return. These are surely the saddest individuals and arguably the most romantic of all literary characters. In real life, however, that person is not romantic at all, only pathetic and weak and quite scary for the one being admired. Restraining Order, anyone?   25. Like comes and goes in a relationship, but if love is there, it bonds the two souls together until like returns.   26. I went into the garden of love to bask in its loveliness. I declared it beautiful and full — until the mosquitoes came.   27. If chivalry is dead, it is because, feeling its vulnerability is too much for the fragile nature of a man. Therefore, evolution has chosen a proper defense mechanism to suffocate its reaction to the soul.   28. A dog cannot chase two cats. Well, not successfully.   29. In my dreams, a beautiful woman comes to me and whispers, "Be patient and hold fast. I too am eager but we must wait." As I turn to look at her, she vanishes. The phantom air falls silent. And again, I am alone.   30. I am the soldier who came home from a violent war, only to find the quiet and regular life to be overwhelming and intolerable.   31. A broken heart hates time, but time is a subtle and patient friend that brings one into the dawn of a new expectation.   32. Original thoughts — Unoriginal pain. My soul cries "Unique!" But I fear it's the same.    33. I am not so afraid of self anymore. Knowledge has tamed the beast in me; the very thing that gave it birth.   34. She promised to stay, but after the bandages came off, I discovered she had vanished. I wondered if she had ever really been there.   35. She banished me from her heart, so I found refuge in my own.     36. I came upon two roads diverged in a yellow wood. I knew by taking the road less traveled it would make all the difference. Sadly, I have been standing here for years, unable to decide.   37. My only prayer: God send me someone to crave.   38. My revenge is that she will never hear my affections again, spoken or unspoken. But of course, I’m lying.   39. I do not believe in revenge. Fate works best in redeeming our honor and satisfying our heart. Consequence will do more to a person than retribution ever could, for whom then can they blame but themselves? It takes patience and wisdom to see this complex law through to fruition.   40. To me, commitment means staying ‘til death, plus five minutes.   41. She was I when I was not. She stood tall when I was on my knees. She spoke when I was mute. She loved when I could not. She endured pain when I could only numb. She did everything when I did nothing. Will you ask me again why I do not move on?   42. Even when I’m laughing, my thoughts are on us.   43. Trying to make someone love you is a ridiculous task of masochism; cutting yourself would be better time spent. At least then, there is a reward for your actions: a lovely infection leading to an even lovelier scar.   44. If only Ophelia would have talked to Hamlet before throwing herself into the lake — maybe it would have saved them both.   45. If only I could believe what I know to be true.   46. I don't drink and dial — I just dial.   47. Sometimes I think I have romanticized melancholia to the point of basking in it — comparing myself to the tragically romantic literary characters that I love; thinking, the more I suffer for the loss of someone's love, the more I must love them.     48. I loved you more, much more than more. But no more, no more — am I that little bird who picks up crumbs around your door.     49. She thinks my love has grown cold like the winter night. However, in my heart, it is summer and I am just a boy swimming in a warm lake, deep within the lush woods. I hear every bird; a fawn and I drink from the same source. There is a name for such a place.   50. I am the tragic optimist: I still believe that she will return to me.   51. After a vicious bite, can one ever fully trust even a friendly dog?   52. The perfect oxymoron: The evolution of Man.   53. She is a Poem Around her the moonlight fell; the dew loved her feet as well. I cannot begin to tell — how she is a poem — a lovely and fresh and most graceful poem.   I will tell — how she’s a bright and gentle creature, the light loves her every feature. And if these words could reach her, I would declare Hallelujah my only teacher.   If only to sit awhile — to touch her silken hair; it seems to flow down everywhere. I would pretend not to care, try even harder not to stare. But I might stare — yes, I think I might stare.   O’ how I’d kiss those doe like eyes, ‘til I felt the quiver in her thighs. I know love tries to out-do truth and lies, still often it dies.   …so and so it’s been said, from the newborn to the dead, that a fool gives up his bed, but in my head — she is a poem, a lovely and fresh and most graceful poem.         54. I stood beneath her precipice with flower in hand, awaiting even a glimpse of her shadow. Weeks later, she appeared at the ledge and with the warmest smile poured hot oil on me.   55.   56. In fear of knowing nothing, I pretended to know everything.   57. Sometimes I feel like a fly in the soup of a glutton. Sometimes I feel like a fly in the soup of a gluttonous king.     58. The Seducer Nymph   I saw a nymph with darkened eyes, flowing hair — pillared thighs.   With subtle motion and swollen lips — I saw the craving in those widened hips.   I sensed the wanting, sought years to find. More than just moistness seeped from her mind.   She urged me closer; I knew to step back. That’s when I noticed the small of her back.   With eyes clinched, searched deep in my heart, stepped slightly toward, my world fell apart.       59. I think I know why Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear, wrapped it in newspaper, and gave it to the woman he loved. Perhaps he wanted to say he would always listen to her, that she would always have his ear, so to speak. Maybe — but I think that is an unlikely theory. To endure such painful self-mutilation, he must have suffered a particularly harsh trauma. I believe he gave his ear to say, "Stop torturing me with your words and deeds! What else do you want from me? Here — take it — take my ear! Scream into it! Only stop your cruelty!"     60. I'm not living, just swimming in my fish bowl. Sometimes I suck the dirt off the windows. Sometimes I hide among the reef. Sometimes I swim fast from end to end. Sometimes I float on my back pretending I'm dead. Sometimes I do nothing and nothing is fine.     61. They are mute who speak around me, blind who narrow the way,       deaf who pretend to listen, infectious devils on the prey.     62. I have tried everything to win her love — everything except witchcraft, and I’m thinking of looking into it.   63. I think the biblical account of Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt meant that if we look back instead of forward, then we will know only tears — very salty tears.   64. Suburban Carnies When I look into people's eyes, I usually see lack: Lack of knowledge, lack of insight, and worst of all, lack of empathy. Some people's lack of empathy is so impressive they should join a traveling carnival, so the world could STEP RIGHT UP TO SEE THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE LACK.   65. Look at her appearance and be satisfied for a moment. Look just beneath the surface, a single layer down and you will find a quiet stream. Sit next to it, listen to its song, think with it, and when urged, come closer — notice your reflection — the stillness she allows. Then, gently dip your hands and drink... Only then should you judge your reward.   66. She is bright, clever, witty, and all that is right. I love her willingness to express. I hope it knows no end. With that quality, passion is hers. The rest of us are beggars and eat from passions’ crumbs left behind.       67. When on thin ice, a subtle crack is the most dangerous crack of all. We walk on the ice hoping it will hold us from the icy waters below; always careful to avoid the large cracks we fail to notice the tiny ones beneath our feet. The unseen fractures lure us with a frail and deceptive promise. Why do we trust it? Because we must.   68. If a dog bites you, do not pet it again.   69.   70. I know what the knowing know. And all I know is that I am more enslaved by knowing I know it.     71. There exists a wild and lusting fire, which stands devoted to desire. Blooms in the garden round river's edge, tempts the maiden to her ledge. The horse whinnies when reigns pull tight, halts for the marvel in close sight. With the sun and the sky and the smell of a rose, and all that tingles beneath the nose; befriends the torrid wind giving spark to the fire, guiding the way from the deep mire. Passionate winds rest — floral joy soon dies, from truth beyond the gifted lies. Realizing the smoke, sun, and wind, had created a demon the devil did lend.     72. Consider the Willow Think of me when the willow weeps, its hanging agony laments the wind. Think of me when darkness creeps, when devil's angels have death to lend. Think of me when the willow weeps, think of me for it weeps for me — When death has come and suffering sleeps, think sometimes of me — and only me. The willow weeps but bares not a single thorn, so with such, think of me and smile. I am kindred with the willow’s mourn, but loved you all the while.   I will never be known for a heart of steel, when the willow weeps, its grief I feel. So think of me when the willow weeps,       think sometimes of me — and only me.       73. For You She is of infinite variety, I dare say the color in my dreams.       She is more than light,       a crest in the night, ever much more than she seems.       74.   A passionate woman is — to me, a tickling verse,       without restraint, without rehearse.     75. A Note to My Teacher You have taught me that God is not alone in Heaven — that he has a woman at his side. I know that he must love women above all creation, for all else is utter failure when compared to her. I think he intended it that way — proving his love, his admiration, his great capacity to exalt her above all others. This, my dear, you have taught me. Surely, he formed you from her and her from him, before ever thinking of me. My love is all that I have and I give it to you. Take care of it, nurture it, however, have the knowledge that my affection is a durable thing, and can weather the strongest storm. Always remember my story, The Pickpocket: cling tight when the storm comes and we shall hold each other as the rain cries envy; together we can outwit and circumvent whatever jealous rage the world can spew.     76. The Pickpocket We were lost at sea. Through the raging water and relentless fog, we found hope in a distant lighthouse. Midway during our travels, a wave stole my beloved from my ship. I had forewarned her of the ledge — that she should stay close to me. Cling tight when the storm comes, I said. However, my worst fears were realized… I cried out her name — out into the vast sea, but she was gone. Many nights I have imagined her lying next to me. One cannot dream words to give justice to the sadness birthed from that delusion. I realize that you believe my rescue attempts have been a useless ambition. Nevertheless, I know, out there in the cold, dark sea is my beloved, clinging to driftwood, or a runaway buoy — something. I never cease my search — the lighthouse is always there to remind me of a light that two lovers promised to follow, but lack of wisdom and foolish distraction snatched it away like a common thief.   77. The Morning After I want to write you a poem the first morning I wake next to you. I want to create in rhyme — the smell of your belly from my belly. I want to study — you naked among impassioned sheets. While you sleep… Still. With broad strokes painted in verse, an eternal rehearse. to memorize your pose — Repose. I want to write you a poem, and when you wake, it will rest where my head once lay. Smell the letter; breathe and breathe deeply— know how I lived last night.   78.   I have suffered a twinning expansion.       79. My lust for a twin has offered me a muse, a kindred soul — so much like my own that if we never had another day or shared another thought, I would fail in fully knowing myself.       80. Perspective - 1.   I am in shark-infested waters; the smell of blood is everywhere. In the corner of my eye I see dozens of sharks circling, their patterns growing wilder with each pass. I remain calm, even as the occasional shark bumps my leg. Breathing slowly, floating on my back, I smile, wondering where I will be in just a few moments. Perspective - 2.   One morning I awoke in darkness — in a box — buried alive. I scratched with fervor, breaking my nails into the pine. Dirt filled my eyes and mouth. I panicked, but moments later a peace came over me as I realized I could do nothing about my situation. I wiped the dirt from my face and thought, this dirt doesn't taste so bad. Note: If we could master perspective, we would be happy nearly all the time. We are not in control of anything, especially our destiny. So relax, float on your back awhile, for nothing, not even death, is that bad.     81.   From all the words that I crave to know, I have more than failed in my search, for I do not have the talent for what I see. And I love words! Your eyes steal my gift and speak what a poet cannot.     82.   It is better to suffer for passion than be wasted by the fear of it.       83.   Loneliness knows no shadow like the soul that has lost its way.     84.   She taught me that tears come from an endless source.       85. Sometimes the greatest act of love is when we walk away from it.       86.   When I saw your face, I knew God loved a woman.       87.   If Romeo were ten years older, he would have said to his beloved Juliet, “What! You must be crazy. I’m not doing that!”       88. We fit like a puzzle: a two-piece puzzle. Each part sold separately.     89.   My intelligence has outwitted faith and its childlike wonderment. Alas!       90.   I danced with the devil. I thought I was leading until he dipped me.       91.   Absorb and know. Know and live. Live and create. Create — and know the soul of God.       92.   After a breakup and following the mourning process a magical time is at hand. Coming back to center is what I believe to be the meaning or reason for it all. Through pain, we learn sensitivity and empathy, giving us depth. Through living again, we learn enlightenment and hope, giving us balance.       93. Her cruelty springs from the fountain of knowledge that says, "He will never leave me." And I suppose, she is right.     94.   Dead flowers are better than no flowers at all.       95.   We should fear love the same way we should fear God: love it, respect it, and ever careful how we scowl at it.       96.   There exists no poverty in the state of love.       97.   Weary Traveler   When love wanders in or comes by train, I’ll smile whether by car or plane. To greet the weary one who travels by night, bringing the liniment for my sight. She wearing crimson bandages in her eyes, shall remove the mystery from uncertain skies. Restored traveler and healed *Stylite, come soon by day or chosen moonlight. Diminished by wounds, I struggle to sleep, my mind just as weary — my heart growing weak. Still, I stand with my cane, alone in sunless wait, listening for her steps through the garden past the gate. *Stylite: Early Christians who lived on high pillars, unsheltered, for their cause.       98. She was an angel whose wings gave me shade in the heat and warmth from the cold. With great heights, we flew above the storm with equal swiftness; we outperformed all who threatened our love. Sadly, it was no match against our own malevolence.       99.   Unwanted Flowers   I stand amidst the loud of a steady and eager crowd, feeling and surrendering the urge to cower, from each hand outstretched with a single flower. For in my own, I clutch from the one I've known, I cannot forget the one I met. My love does not go where the wind is blown. It has been my plight to love through the night, so I turn my face from the flowers in sight. Though I crave the smell of a fresh cut rose, and all the comfort of my woes, I cannot take from another's hand, even the tiniest grain of sand. Unwanted flowers send madness to my brain. I forget to regret that I live with this pain. So I turn, I yearn and burn, like a fool to his folly — never cease to learn. Waiting is belating, still I sit in the devil’s hour, turning from those who hold out their flower. And never stop searching from love’s highest tower, the one I love hour after hour.       100.   I found a princess living in a peasant village as she walked among the crowd, clothed with a common veil. My interest urged me closer where I saw behind her eyes, the kingdom she knew. Her physical beauty had robbed her of her precious gift, so she fled. I took notice the moment she entered my view. You see, I too had fled my kingdom, thinking no one would find my treasure within. Now, here we are in a peasant village, a prince and his equal, feeling no need to return to what was once our world. We have chosen a more simple life, keeping the kingdom contained within our love. In this quiet paradise, we relax into the promise given by the confidence of passion — taking us on a great journey to the oldest of kingdoms, where all of history has dreamt, but few of its citizens have seen.     101.   When the sun dries up and the moon turns to blood, I will love you. When the storm in your soul quiets and you grow weary with age, I will crave you. When darkness is the only thing left to call ‘something,’ I will know you. When this vile world turns to rust and the sea fails to rage, my love remains, for it is eternal.     102.   The stars envy the heights of my adoration. The seas covet the depths of my love. The snow yearns to match its purity. The sun dims humility against my shine. The rivers grow calm in its presence. The winds still their anger. The beasts in the wild feel it — as do all things — even the tiny sparrow that sings. I feel not love. I have not love. I am Love!     103.   If my tears were blood, I would be dead.       104. If God's gift to us is life, our unyielding loyalty to those we love is our gift back to God.       105.   My father taught loyalty. I was his only student.       106.   O' that, the man I am might live and the creature I have become might cease to be.       107.   She shall know no more of my loyalty to her — my undying love for her. I will not awake from love, but she will never know.       108.   I would hang myself if it weren’t for the rope burn.       109. Trying to make someone see right from wrong is like politely asking a tornado to spare the trailer park in its path.     110.   The woman who loves me must understand the plight of a man who will love her long after she stops loving him.       111.   Believe that God will deny his children their promise of heaven and the angels their gift of song. Believe that mothers will turn their nurturing milk from the mouths of their young and that a father's protection will cease to care. However, never believe that my love shall dim or that my heart will no longer crave your quick and loving return.       112.   Why were you not my muse while I had you?       113.   I am strings on a puppet. From her hands, I dance the dance of the fools.     114.   We were a brief candle, slowly devoured by the flame. What beautiful light we gave the room.       115.   What I want more than anything is to be lost in someone — the way light gets lost in light.     116.   I was beguiled, bewitched, and beheaded.       117.   Sweet was her sting; murderous was her venom.       118.   If she would only stop calling me, I might then begin to live. I plead my case to her, beg her for release, but she continues to call — I die. Losing her over and over again is a maddening punishment.       119.   She made me believe we were playing a game: "Put this clown suit on and this funny nose," she said. I happily obliged knowing only she would see me. I danced, (as clowns often do) wildly and without inhibitions, she pulled open a curtain revealing me to everyone I knew. Some laughed, some pointed, others quietly walked away. By the time I gained my senses, she had disappeared among the crowd. Funny thing — I never noticed that curtain before.       120.   My folly was that I tried to save a fish from drowning.       121.   We were like good lighting to a room — everyone we touched, looked and felt better.       122.   When the moon is a fiery orange, I know it surely looks upon you, and you, it — for only you could turn a pale face moon and give it the glow shone only by love's knowing.       123.   Winter Tree   She is cold like the winter rain,       I feel dead like the winter tree. I know not what tomorrow might bring, blossoming maples — hope for the spring. Then I will shelter the birds in my wings; cool an old couple beneath these wings.      And be no longer dead like the winter tree.       124.   How high did you say?       125.   I writhed in pain and wore a crown of insignificance. Daily, I polished it for her.       126. She thinks I no longer love her — that I love another. What would she do if she knew that without her I am a ghost, proof that the dead do walk the earth jealous of the living?       127.   The Burial   On a war-ravaged street, I searched many buildings for life. Hope turned to panic as I ran from building to building, frantically looking for life. Hope diminished with each mangled body, until sadly — I discovered my most monumental terror: There among the rubble ­— a man and woman I once knew, clinging to each other. I wept beside them, wiping the devastation from their faces. I would like to say that I prayed a quiet prayer… but my heart was not so quiet.   Here I am… I know now that I have been looking for life among the dead. I realize I should leave this horrible place. Soon I will, but not right away — no, not right away.       128.   I drifted away on thoughts of my past, when my boat hit the rocks with a gasp. So I gasped and I gasped, and steady my vessel, sank into a nestle, and I gasped no more.       129.   Chemical Electrocution There comes a violence and a gifted wild, breaking foundations of all beguiled. The mighty oak must bow its head, passion and rage the fury thee wed. Taking down the fortress built high to shield, a turbulent tempest the mind must yield. A storm of chemical, clamor, and song, floods the red river we wanted all along. A magnificent storm to arouse our night, for the wind ungoverned returns our sight.       130.   Do Not Wake Me ‘Til I'm There If promised to see her in fifty years, I'd say, do not wake me ‘til I'm there. Though old, weak, and eyes of tears, do not wake me ‘til I'm there. Let me sleep, for life without knows only of the dead, wake me not and think I ought with all that I have said. I live for her and pray I sleep, when ‘til the day we meet, in light, in dark — Do not wake me; no, do not wake me ‘til we meet. For if I wake — the pain I'd take, would lock me in a hole. Terror and madness if I wake — would murder my loyal soul. Love more than love, more uncounted than every hair; please O' please, I beg of you — do not wake me ‘til I’m there.       131.   Seduction If terror comes by night, birthing the devil in our fright. Then by the light of day, let us fold our hands to pray. To send from his steady course, the one who rides a dark horse. Black eyes that bare no shine to see, and craves to steal my soul from me.       132.   I was silent in life and drifted into a long sleep. When I awoke from my slumber, I found life had passed me. I asked, "Is it day or is it night?" And God whispered, "It is neither."       133.     The Night's Noise In the distance, so late at night, I hear it come… sending the noise to my bed with a rushing hum, Somewhat adventuresome — Drum, drum, drum —  confident, yet quietsome. I hear — come near, its whisper in my ear, so marvelous it calls my fear; a mere sphere in the atmosphere. Can you hear? In the night, I yawn, just before dawn, my attention drawn, sleepiness gone. Indrawn! I wonder to where it is to go — my woe is not to know, to and fro, perhaps a depot? My anxieties abate; it's never too late, maybe my fate is to leave with it. Truly it comes, truly it came, nightly it calls my name, the rushing — the rushing of the train.       134.   A Crow’s Lesson   I saw a tiny thing weeping in the snow. Of woe, of woe, sang the dying crow. What of woe, do you weep little bird? I'm dying! I'm dying! Have you not heard? From the woodshed led me to your call, Did you get bitten or suffer a fall? From the bullet, from the bullet, I cry. Yes, I heard you say, ‘I die. I die.’ I am sorry little crow; I did hear the gun. Two shots! Two shots! Round and round I spun. You're just a crow — did you not know? Never such a pest as that of crow. I have work…lots to be done, I have no bother by the sound of that gun. The crow wailed— Wait! Wait! I don't mean to mock old crow, but it's too late, too late. There's a reason — a reason I cry. I know little bird, you die; you die. Two shots! Two shots! The first one for me, I tried, I tried, when I flew from that tree. I failed with the sound of the gun. There — dead in the snow: Your son! Your son!     135. The Escape Here I am, though here I am not — as it would seem, Upon the closing of my eyes, I enter a dream. Each night — the oceans mist upon my face, the beauty of the moon; the salty air I taste. I hear the laughter speaking not a word, of a large most glorious bird, shhh — a distant ship is heard. I smile, while upon the ocean, I stare, ah, the cool wind in my hair. My refuge, my escape into life's adore, a white robe I wore — among the birds that soar. Crabs scurry in the colorless night, I love all in my sight. Alas, the wonder ends too soon, when a disturbing voice calls my name. The same! The same! The same! Reluctantly looking back, the fluorescent light from an earthly hell, as I awake ever so lonely in my cell.       136.   The Digger In the backyard — a beautiful yard, my wife dug hard — so very hard. An ornate shrub protected an ordinary flower, before the storm predicted at any hour. From the attic window I welcomed the rain, even applauded its dance on the windowpane. My wife continued her effort in stride, neverminding the rain from the comfort inside. Her fingers wet and dirty, she dug, I went back to my chair with a shrug. She'll never learn, I thought to myself, turning down a picture of us on the shelf. I should have buried her in a deeper grave, but I've never been one to work like a slave.       137.   The Digger (Her Revenge) “I'll be digging in the dirt behind the shed,” her nagging voice still pains my head. I smirked going back to my chair to read, Go out in the garden and plant a seed. Maybe it'll birth you a stalk to climb, to that imaginary place built high in your mind. "I'm sure it would be better than this," she said. In her eyes, she fancied me dead. Shooing her away as one would a fly, Go and dig, plant something that'll die. So she digs and she digs, so wide and long, as I laugh and mock in gesture and song. She turns only once, "My dear, dear mate, I will do just as I'm told with this 6 x 8."       138.   Fountain of Youth Some of us are men but possess a boy who will not leave, tempers follow angst with his heart on his sleeve. Rising when deflated leaving him crying and alone, from fears he feels hated breathing out a swift moan. With a wishful cry to enter back into the womb, terror makes haste with each slight change of the moon. We see this child coming, rising from his play, in waste do we linger ruining everyone's day. Still we let him kick his feet and shout, creating in others irreconcilable doubt.       139.   Connections As I had hoped, she arrived in the night, a steady crawl through the fog and rain. Cautiously descending from atop the hill, she eagerly stepped off before the cars rolled still. With grace and charm and umbrella in arm, walking a straight line, keeping her eyes on mine. Quick came the softest voice ever heard, capturing my eyes and word. Hers nearly touching my hand, she asked, (My heart yearned for a mountainous task) “Do you know the way to the connecting train?” Then vanished — nevermind the blinding rain.       140.   The Wind Within I know places where faces are blurred, and voices from dreams past are heard. Where hands from the sands of time unwind, bringing cursed shadows to mind. When you try to try, yet fail to sail, breathing slows and cannot exhale. Force that wind from deep within, if a demon can't fly, he cannot win.       141.   Urges I look for the echo inside me, when the light doesn't shine so brightly. There is no fame in every pain, in love — I do not take it lightly.   Perhaps to my credit; if only I would not have said it. However, I did, and so I did —         my heart was hungry and I fed it. It's like each time I feel the need, my tongue cuts and I bleed. What to do — what to do, if I were you...       I’d leave.     142.   The Simple Life (of a Crab) If beauty exists in a time and place, with each woman and child and the glow on their face. From youth to death, when she gave him breath. The journey is short, the old will report.   Not for me — for me, life is like the sea: long and vast, with many a cast.  — I will not worry today.   As so many will defend, how quickly it all does end. I don’t yearn for tomorrow, —  worry not about tomorrow — For I do nothing with time to waste, no need to avoid preventable haste.   Rather — I think I'll sink back into the sand, burrow far away from the traveler’s hand, Where I’ll consider nothing of this, worry nothing of that.  — for I have all I need.       143. Growth She is the memory in which I think, thoughts flood my mind then vanish in a blink. She said, "Images imagine imagination." Words like those bring my adulation. In awe, I lie at her feet, craving , enslaving, I confess defeat. I cannot forget images beset… for there is no regret in growth. So if I try, ‘til death I die, I will never remember such a bright searing ember that has given me and still allows me to suffer this growth.     144.   If I rehearse what I put into verse then I am like a rich man stealing from a beggar’s purse.       145. She revives the feral nature in me Her beauty lingers more than memory With fullness like the willow tree Lips and breasts so close to me My nights have tasted ecstasy.       146. Her cruelty knows only pleasure.       147.   Hamlet’s Demise There is something about men, and that insecure nature in them, that craves his woman will find, all the character, all the passion, all the hope of mankind. And when his woman turns her heart, he cringes, wiles, and falls apart. Never knowing what he knows he could know, if only these creatures had desire to show. But they don't — and we won't — doomed to struggle in vain. How can we cope as we lose all hope, forgetting even the sound of our name?       148.   Grief and lies caused rebel, our love was in vain. I now feel only to shout farewell never to speak her name.     149.   A Slave Within A Slave The moons’ lies cast wonderment to my eyes, it shines my soul cries — so and so it tries, like a bedtime rhyme for nighttime skies, offering treasures from heaven and all it buys. I cannot forget what I fail to learn, for all my heart and all I yearn. When lithe befalls a blind that I cannot find, from the voice that's frail and seeks to bind. The slave is a slave who fears the free, running from pastures deep inside of me. Even when the winds and rivers rage, terror thunders and rattles this cage, I cannot for the life of me turn the page. I am a slave; a slave within a slave; all I know I fear to crave. A slave within and a slave throughout, never knowing the passion I could steal from doubt. All we fear; all we know, and so and so and so — is to be a slave within a slave. All I am — all we are is a slave within a slave?     150.   Tenses If I leave you, or you leave me, whichever we first might know. The past compels the present in everything we see, incubating a future ego. In all the ways to pen the mind; in all the ways to send away. It's blithe that hope cannot find, when sprightly love we fail to say. The lesson therein: voice concern but concern divine — a fool steps on the heart that knows. Rather lift and exalt when fears do bind, and all the joy of Heaven will show.     151.   All That’s Spent I fear what's near, O' hear keen ear. All that sings in me that brings — joy and strife, gift and knife, trauma and loss, each night I toss in the shadow called lost; yes, in many halls called lost. Years have sent… they came and went, my folly repent, for the time I spent… all my heart and all it meant; my soul freely given, not meant for lent. Hope may have faded, failed love never jaded, trust — belated — life for death I would have traded. Another minute to feel what I will never repeal, life unfolds on an inescapable wheel. Before when I was blind, now I fear what I may find. I hope it wasn't waste, a momentary taste — in the rain, they made haste — in the mire I was placed! From my gift to awaken, my virtue was taken, I slept with the thief so closely forsaken. Many dark shadows surrounded, my heart grew confounded, my voice cried, "Exist!" but my soul is what sounded. Always swift to go, leaving me alone with my woe, and all I know, I believed that glow would surely show, and wait I did from hope's depot. It seems I’ll never find a love of a kindred kind, to lift me from this impassioned mind. I'm lost, I’m lost, so far behind, and sleep I want from all mankind.       152.   A Word I know it's absurd to ask for a word, but in wait I need, in lust I bleed, for the quiver of your lips and your tongue as it drips that single thing to bring me what I need.   153. Another Man’s Boat While I slept and before she left, she shackled me to the heavy bed. The gentle lure of the sea had turned on me, as the water crashed through the cabin sinking my ship. That night was darker than death. My love had escaped on another man’s boat, inferior as it may be; the night had swallowed her from me. I cried out her name until the cold sea stole my last breath.   154. Her Desires  (A Sonnet)   With skin deep in shade like tree covered hills; her beauty — a cocoon of silk & perfume for my senses. Her mouth smells of wine, neck long kissed by the sun; I quench my thirst on thirsty lips. A single finger across her hips, she smiles. If she asks for water, I will give an ocean. If she asks for silence, I will cut out my tongue. When she asks for the Devil himself, I will pluck him from his fury — force him at her feet, and he too will become her servant.   155.   I was thinking while lying in bed — a theory that questions the contortionist: I considered their suffering, their unique devotion to a strange art form and the many years dedicated to it. Envision with me — deeper — a profound inner turmoil. Think beyond the physical pain of twisted bodies and on to the emotional and perhaps spiritual struggle they face when not wrapped around themselves — when they too lie alone in bed, relaxed, with limbs outstretched. And at that particular moment, they are no longer a mangled spectacle for the enjoyment of others. Perhaps, this absence is a melancholy affair — a darker craving…. So my wondering is: do you think it’s possible that they become so lonely and afraid — afraid for the next day, the next breath — so much that the melancholia and anxiety they feel from being separated from their beloved identity, they impulsively get out of bed and assume the familiar position? And there in the dark of a small room, as their body shapes to shapes of absolute anatomical disbelief, do you think they at last feel unwound and calm?     156. When our ego longs to swagger, open fists become a dagger. The gleam in our eye, is the dream passing by — What once had luster and glare, now poisons the moisture in the air. When heartfelt words of hope could say, instead hopeless drifts our way. We lower our head in frail defeat, as a devil takes his familiar seat. It is then our will attacks, as his foreboding wings relax. Stealing from him, his lies, and with all his might he tries — he cannot foresee the strength we’ve taken, from his solemn chair he cries, “Forsaken!” By the time his tattered wings open for flight, we’ve escaped into the heavenly light, and bright, bright, bright turns the night, filling our sight — with a new, anew.   157. The Reins A thunderous clap, snap the reins on my back, flashes of light, I wonder: could patience exist in a storm pounding fist, a lily in sunlight off yonder? When I ponder such as this, through dark clouds and its mist, I am ever so eager to be — running in the heather, which springs from good weather, as a field of daisies yield a bed for me. Yet the reins steer this life, down the lane windy with strife; pulling tightly, a whinny and cry — for if I had a penny… my pockets would have many, ‘til I rest my head to die. True! Stories dark I tend to tell, Is not as such, cry’s back from Hell. My life has known less pain than glee, what, I ask, is left in this world for me — it is more Lilies to see — or the crack of the reins on me?   158. Lips and hips dream my fingertips, yet I awaken to more than that. For if I sat or slept at the feet of God, or wept at the face to his right, no not one in all of Man would compare to your sight — My light! My light! My light!     159.   I feel the plight of the old: I am cursed with wisdom in an age I cannot use it.   160. I’m the Guy   I’m the guy — quiet in thought, with knowing eyes to listen. I’m the guy whose passion has sought. I’m the guy who shines.   I’m the guy who will read you to sleep, only to wake you with my lips. I’m the guy whose treasure runs deep, a poem for the flow of your hips.   I’m the guy who will teach you love, prove it’s not folklore and myth. Show you how far your price is above, rubies and all that shit.   I’m the guy, who will help you remember, vibrations of long forgotten ember. I’m the guy with soft, strong hands, to warm your coldest December.   I’m the guy to cut loose those strings, help you dance, let you sing — I’m the guy who will do all those things.       I’m the guy — I’m the guy.   I’m the guy who will do more than him. Cultivate — indulge that sin. Again — I’m the guy who will do more than him.   I’m the guy who will dig out from his grave, just to plant a flower for you. I’m the guy who will not wash his hands, after I’ve had my way with you.   I’m the guy to gift cravings each night — exultation wills our plight. I’m the guy to release every pain, ravage your body; speak softly my name.   I’m the guy, unlike that other guy, whose stamina never urges to finish. I’m the guy who will not diminish, even when you beg — it must! I’m the guy with that kind of lust.        — Yes, I’m definitely that guy.   I’m the guy who will learn your skin, study entire perfect parts therein. Filling regions given up for lost; thaw the heart plagued with frost.   I’m the guy who will keep you nude in bed, whether or not snow blocks the door outside. I’m the guy who will do just as he said, as I work my way down your side.   You’ll know it’s me — that guy — when I take my time for you. I’m the guy who thinks like a woman, I listened on what to do.   If you’d like to know if I’m really that guy — the guy I claim in song; be careful the wish you wish for you, I’ve been that guy all along.   Then there are those who know that I am that guy. Few others are those who woke to find me, the first view in their eye.   I’m the guy, who will whisper ancient verse — with a lick, a kiss, a giggle causes bliss, my lyrical tongue inverse.       I’m the guy — I’m the guy.       161.   The term Man and Beast is redundant.   162. I learned a lot about Love in 7th grade English class. In the margins, the teacher would write (SDT), Show Don’t Tell. It seems the first rule of writing is also the first rule of loving.   163. Silent Refrain   She takes no notice of streetcars — signs; ignores subtle gestures of the sad faced mime. Who with flower in hand,       single and plain,       still turns her back in theatrical refrain. Careless comes the weeping — flower shades a fallen tear. His sadness blooms the metaphor, locked in that unseen mirror. Hope, like the night, falls still — glances that never shine. Sobbing, his shoulders bounce, to her rhythmic footsteps in time. Makeup smears with salt, twisting wipes to his eye. Silent thumps his chest! Motions a last goodbye.     164. Time When love cries, tears form jealous skies. A devil flies when truth lies. Hope does not cope on a tightrope, where the wind grows angry each time. What is what we do, when reason failed us last season, and again this season — and the wind grows angry each time? We die behind the eye of love’s face, when we fail to embrace or settle in place, where the wind grows angry with time. To feel and kneel and hold its hope, learning to walk steady that tightrope, where the wind is never angry this particular time. Quiet craves a sky where the rope stretches high, by and by we sigh ‘til the calm draws nigh. …where the wind breathes easy from time to time. Ah — where the wind breathes easy some of the time.   165. My loyalty is as constant as time and as fixed as the stars.   166. With you, beauty is not in the eye of the beholder, for all who have eyes to see — see better in you. Whether their lack halts their journey before reaching the reservoir beneath the surface, or another’s fathomless depth permits them entrance to the fertile gardens within, each one collects a great reward, and suffers an eminently rich experience. Now, how much more has your treasure given to me?   167. Gifts You’re a maiden and a queen, all of this and in between. Simple and serene through the fog of a dream, you appeared, and forever I am changed. You breathed in me what I knew I could be; in the vast mire I rose from a catatonic pose, no longer froze, I am now free. You do not yet know what I intend to show, as my heart and mind renew — bringing old into new — all of this because of you. Thank you for life; thank you for breath, apathy has lost its hunger for me. I shall not speak what’s been robbed from Death. Wait! My mate, for I will show, all the treasures buried within passionate pleasures. Yes, it won’t be long.   168. Agriculture The truth? Well, we must bring it down from the sky, discern past the cloud ridden eye; journey beyond words that lie. Then we shall know. For a man cannot hide all his thoughts inside. Nor can he recover when left with no cover. As cutting down his strings cripples the puppet that sings — he trembles, naked and alone. Judge by that, all rewards to see, for what remains left to be seen, in him, in you, alas, in me. I decree — is all there really is. Furthermore, it is sad to know, that which I do succeed to show cannot be seen. From all that we deem… I rise each night with a scream. When those I love fail to notice the way I crave to shine; all that lingers in a poet’s mind, is a harvest which has taken years to nurture and grow, yet is rarely plucked and tasted.     169. The Lust of Rainbows She stood on the lawn hanging her breasts out to dry; I watched from a small attic window, where dust danced in the long strips of sunlight. My eyes burned; I dared not blink, as that primordial red river raged through me. Her hair — long and fallen curves. Her chest — the deepest cavern. Both easily shadowed a single bead of sweat, as it journeyed passed one — two — three freckles. It was then I felt the jealousy of all the unborn rainbows impatiently waiting their turn for a chance to shine from the nectar that tasted her skin.     170. If I am the morning dew, then she is the sun that absorbs me.     171. Empires have fallen from a single, seemingly insignificant lie.     172. You are never more in the moment than when killing a fly.     173. Confronting Lily My finger is on her flower. The tip is wet. Wet — like pre-cum; exactly like pre-cum. Look: http://www.sunlesswood.com/images/lily.jpg     174. I am the victim of my own contentment.     175. If you desire warmth, clothe yourself with nakedness.       176. There is never there when you get there.   177. I would rather feel pain for her than nothing for her. If I cannot have love, then I will take pain.     178. Trust, we earn. Respect, we earn. Loyalty is ours to give. We own it. Our greatest choice is loyalty.     179. My romanticism is an incurable disorder in which I desire no cure.     180. Knowing the right choice and not choosing to do it is poverty of the soul.   181. The next time I fall in love: background checks for everyone.     182. The edge of my mind is a torrid wind of passion and tender rage.   183. Some people betray you and do you a favor when you least expect it.   184. My chapped lips yearn for a moist kiss.   185. “You’re over me,” she says. My silence is a terrible knife in my side.   186. The solitude I feared has become my dearest companion.     187. An impulsive tongue will lead the heart to silence and a silent heart is dangerous to the soul.     188. She wore sheep’s clothing; I stood naked before her. I had no heart to flee as she disrobed and tore me apart. Nearly lifeless — as I tried to make eye contact with the savage wolf in a desperate attempt for mercy, she slipped back into the sheep suit and vanished among the herd.   189. I can hate you — then you call in need of something and without hesitation, I forget it all and come running.     190. If only she were the innocent Desdemona, and I were wrong.     191. A good person gives the shirt off his back and then takes them home to browse his closet.      192. Sometimes the cup is half-empty.     193. I could not live without you. Now, I need to be without you to live.     194. As long as breath flows from me, she will know love. Once dead, I will search and plead my case to the one who claims to hold the keys to the grave. If he sees fit, I shall come from the dirt and haunt her all her days, for what good is it to be in Heaven if she is not there beside me.     195. If I could write words of water, I would forever quench her thirst. To only speak a feast to devour, She'd be full hour after hour — For her — and her first.       196. Some people seem like an ornate chandelier with soft lighting, only to turn out to be a single, flickering, fluorescent bulb.     197. For years, I walked on eggshells. Finally one broke and a deformed, bloody bird emerged.     198. I cling to her memory deep in the caverns of self – kept secret, for no one would understand my plight, and those who have not truly loved would cause me great frustration with their lack. I am she — she is I. And although I do love myself, I feel I cannot write without my hands or see without my eyes — any more than I can live without my love. However, with hope and love’s restore may she return to me —  opening the floodgates of passion, to carry us down a new river, to a new city, where old friends feast at a table made for royalty.   199. Folly is my mistress and madness my bed nurse. One seduces me to bed while the other tucks me tightly in.   200. Woman would be better spelled: Woe-man.     201. If God had had a mother, he would have known how to design the mind of a woman. He simply had no frame of reference.   202. I know the slug’s struggle when helpless beneath a young boy dropping salt. The salt burns are bad enough but why the ridiculous giggling!   203. Each night before I sleep, I fight the urge to weep. For the hole, it is too deep; and the darkness begins to creep. Though I try — I cry — much salt in my eye, to live and not yet die — by and by, I sigh. Sleep for a single night may end, a broken heart on the mend. This melancholy den, by morning around the bend, I awake to a new trend, to descend all over again.     204. If I had a penny for my thoughts, I would be wealthy beyond measure.   205.   I look for a flower that craves fresh water A soul kindred to my own A heart to lay my head on A face to kiss and eyes to miss A flower to care for A flower I can call my own.     206. I cried a sea of tears for her to wash her feet.     207. The flies and worms have come to me wanting their due. They know I am dead and have refused to surrender my body to the ground for their enjoyment. I pretend not to see them following me. At times, I wake up covered in insects. I shake them off and run away; they are never far behind. I have escaped those remorseless gluttons another day.     208. To My Mourners If I die before you, and when you think of me, close your eyes and picture me sailing on sea of tears. Gentle waves of rose petals decorate the horizon. My small vessel has everything I need: a few favorite books, a journal, and a pen that never fails to flow. Though tears and wind direct my course, I am not sad — I am at ease as I sing, I’ll fly away — as so it seems I did.     209. This puppet has cut his strings and ended his foolish dance.     210. There is no terror birthed from mourn like the wrath of a woman’s scorn.   211.   Acidity …so cries the hour of a once living flower. Lovers fade and cower,  — leave me to heal. Dream I did and dream I do, for I never knew such pain could hold this long, passion impelled along… I dreamt of a song but the melody was wrong. …so cries the hour and dark turns the flower; from heavens enduring power, flies eat from fruit turned sour.   212. 3-Day Emotional Forecast for the Heartbroken ·         Continuous rain today, still suffering from significant ozone loss. ·         Partly sunny with 100% chance of isolated thunderstorms or pop-up showers. ·         Hot and humid with a mild chance of tsunami.     213. In all the dearest of gifts to give, I gave her love’s light wings, and she flew away from me.   214. Maybe in Heaven there are many gods and every few billion years they have a science fair where the gods show off their skills to the other gods as well as the angels. I think our universe and all that is in it, even with the miraculous creation of the Internet, our god places somewhere in the top twenty.     215. God should get one demerit for creating the mind of a woman, and two for not allowing a man to understand it.     216. The Greatest Misfortune Ever Told Abraham, in my opinion, was a sadist, or at least mentally ill. In ancient times, it must have been perfectly acceptable to be the first person to cut and butcher a child’s penis — his own child’s penis — all in the name of God. Moreover, bequeathing the world’s first circumcision did not seem to satisfy Abraham; in fact, it fueled his next delusion: to kill the already mutilated boy. Abraham was an unsuccessful murderer thanks due to God’s “intervention” at the last moment. In present day standards, we would have locked away and highly medicated Abraham. I find it bizarre that such a brutal historical achievement has evolved into a highly practiced, modern day custom. Maybe that is why God created Lithium, so that we would not mistake the voices in our head for his.     217. I received a call from a friend in the early morning hours. “Wake up!” she said, in a ridiculously happy voice. If only I could, I thought.   218. She can go to straight to Hell — if I can go with her.     219. The grand problem is that she did not love me enough — and I loved her more than I should have.     220. God spent extra time on a woman’s body, giving special attention to her lower back. On that particular spot, he perfectly overachieved.     221. Not only do I have the heart of a poet, I have the calluses to prove it.     222. The Rogue She is like Heaven! Let me explain. Through her eyes, I enter paradise. What I see past a highly wrought gate is a contradiction that begins with a lush garden. And as with any common garden, this one has many thorns — but here, none have desire to prick, nor do the spiders have urge to bite, nor the bees stingers to sting. All creatures within yield to me as if they knew I would come. I try but cannot fully appreciate the mountains of lilies and the vast fields of heather as my eyes follow the length of a waterfall that begins in the clouds and fades into a colorful mist. O’ the wonder — for upon closer inspection — it isn’t water, but diamonds raining from the floral *cordilleran. I have more joy than I can tell; the brightest sun I have ever seen illuminates each diamond, creating a rainbow — with more color and vibrancy than a rainbow. I wish to stay here forever, but a voice beckons. There — a little girl waves from a small playground on the edge of an emerald sea. My foolishness wastes me; petty judgment distracts me from the real beauty of this place. Sitting quietly on a swing, she waits for me to push her. And I do. I have never laughed ‘till now. No, not once, like this. All other joy is a fraud and I give it the name, *Rogue. She speaks softly — reveals the mysteries of God. The Greek hero Orpheus, the wondrous poet whose pen enchanted man and beast could never speak what the child whispers to me. All life’s ambitions flee. She giggles, motions me closer where she kisses my cheek and presents me with a dandelion. I confess: I do not know bewilderment — I am bewilderment! It seems there is no end to my foolishness. I sit down next to her on the only other swing. And strangely, the playground has decreased in size and we are sitting closer than ever. On either side, the diamond waterfall is a backdrop for an astonishing exhibition — the playful nature between a lion and calf, wrestling among the daisies. Breathtaking indeed, although I only glance, for the real beauty is here in the playground — with her. I realize that she is not really a child; her innocence is as strong and pure as her depth. I wish never to leave, yet from an adjoining forest, another delicate voice summons my attention. Her wealth surely knows no border or bottom. If she were a thief I would gladly give all my riches and without hesitation. I look to her for advice; she giggles and directs me on. So off I go, dandelion in hand, to yet another essence within her that I am sure to marvel and certain to deny all I have known to be true, for it was all a *rogue, before her. *Rogue: A fraud. *Cordilleran: An extensive chain of mountains or mountain ranges, especially the principal mountain system of a continent.     223. When your mind is a ball of twine, and you have more than a taste for wine. When muscles ache with a binding grip, as your blood slows to a dreadful drip — there is no better time to make haste, for time lost will time waste. There’s never been a lonelier place, when beauty sleeps with a solemn face. Perhaps, at least then you will know what is there — was always there — and still always there.     224. How to Achieve World Peace Women are stronger creatures than men are, in every way with the exception of physical strength, which is arguably only a matter of semantics. Perhaps, men have their brute potency merely out of a common evolutionary overcompensation. Even then, most of us men are a deserving sort — I hope. The key to the heart of a deserving man may be the same key needed to obtain world peace. The tragic irony thrives within its contradictions: Although she often desires to, a young woman cannot see how she could be for a man. No matter how aggressive or subtle he is, she does not extract truth from his words and mannerisms — “Do this! Say this!” he may silently scream. “Feed my silly ego! Tell me that I am king of my jungle!” Sadly, she does not understand. The older woman has a much different plight; she has been where the young girl has not; her measure of power is more developed. And some women, for a time, wisely use their control to direct or to acquire a man’s love. Others learn how easy it is to manipulate a man’s mind and heart through sex. For some women this lustful easiness sickens them. Nevertheless, there are still those more frightened ones who would rather pity us poor men — fearing that simple words or deeds might validate or launch us into a grandiose world of contentment — whilst torturing us with what we know they know to do yet refuse to do simply out of principle. This does not speak for every woman, of course… just the pretty ones. The final tragic irony is that if women would soften their ego, giving men what they need, maybe the windows of Heaven might pour them out a blessing they could not contain. (Meaning: men might feel safe enough to lose their own ego and finally feel free to express repressed and sensitive feelings that have enslaved them since the beginning.) Perhaps unknowingly, women over-focus on men’s vulnerabilities and the many qualities lacking in his nature — so much that they lose sight of their own nature and resist their own frailties; consequently missing the true but less obvious power they possess — the happiness of mankind.     225. Becoming   Words fade, buried deep and gone, thoughts subside; the pain grows strong. Sorrow and you — for you. Dejection is mine. Simple lies bring quick cries — love dies in us — no trust left in us.   Some lust but fading fast. Dark mask of memories. Rivers of fear and hurt — until I rest in dirt, I shall live with us — And the pain that gains my soul.   Feeling love dying, my soul is left crying. Heart rapid drumming, what are we becoming?   Changing — I am always aware that we are falling asleep, Dreams wilt like week old flowers, as the loneliness creeps upon us — the hours slip away.   So must we suffer this life — like this? My wishes cannot be lived in grief. Relief may come only when the ghost is gone. This I must dream, however, it does seem, that what lies in the sum… of what we have become.       226.   Memories   Memories of the life, days passing on the mind, of long walks and talks about meaningless things. Coffee, tea — what will be? The river glow — rushing slowly — dark yet light in the night.   As a kid, what I did — toys of laughter. Playing tag, joy — running after. Bliss in youth — energy divine; morning ‘til dawn we played.   As a teen — my first date, scared and excited, cleaning, bathing intense. United —   Teen no longer — mature.  Music, theater, poetry — mature. One girlfriend, not seven. I settled down. Frown.   Three kids — what they did. Brats, what happened? Now they are…mature.   I'm old; I'm old. Memories of life passing by memories of life. Now is gone; then will never be here. Wow!   Memories.  Ah sweet thoughts of the day, wonderful living I must say. Memories will die — so shall I.  Sigh — Ah, sweet memories.         227.   What We Know                                                                                 Silence and awe, inner triangles of us, we look deeper into what we know, searching for what we know.       There are things we should say,       things we ought never to say.   Understand me, love me, don’t turn your eyes from me. Searching for what we know.   I am love. I am hate — trapped between these… Will you rescue me? I will — if I can discover — what I know.   I am here; let us love. I feel our love, though sometimes obscure. Still in this — love is here.   Understand me, love me, don’t shun me and twist me apart.   Forgive me; love me; search within me.       Find what we know…   Hunt for it, far and near, listen and hear, dig up what we know. For we once knew and grew together like harmonious creatures of fanciful lore. Only before — where has it gone?   Look! Just beyond the hill, by the pond so still — to the right of the old campsite       then left — a sudden left.       get closer — feel its breath?   It whispers secrets about you and me. Please don’t cry.       I am here —       I too have followed the mystery here.   Now — here we are, as once before, forgiving, loving, understanding, never again shunning, finally learning         what we know.         228.   Twin Souls   Twin souls birthed from the same dark hole, a vacuum void of light and hope, a fragile boat on a savage sea.   Deep in a wind and storm, long night ‘til morn, shadows and grief are born from   Night cries — dark lies, hate and more things monstrous, I dare not speak about...   I cowered from life with terror fixed eyes, flashes — the thought still mortifies.   Like a whisper it came, as if it knew my name, the unmentionable seemed to pass, at last!   A wave of sudden warmth; a soft and generous light, broke the cruel night. Emerged, twin souls shining — iridescence… a saving and indescribable love.   Like breath and water, like mother and father. I cannot live without my twin. I cannot breathe without my twin.       229.   The trick is not just to look, but notice, clearly and constantly, until the details embedded in the facade reveal themselves for our discernment.       230.   A fool allows himself to be a wildcard — forgetting his values to become anything those around him want him to be.       231.   When we lie to spare someone’s feelings, we only delude their suffering. We may keep them forever from knowledge but never from the ruin of deception.       232.   Happiness is loving the means while only acknowledging the end.       233.   The least refined first comes to mind. Simplicity outwits the obnoxious kind.       234.   There’s this — there’s that — of weakness and might, of sun and moon from beneath their light. When I smile while all is bright, dark looms a fear I may lose my sight.   Subtle is the voice, yet a thunderous sound, falling from atop that sacred ground. Frailty like rain comes pouring down.   Days have gone by and by they went; time I’ve craved and wasted time I’ve spent, of many nights restless and a restful stint. I found a few treasures and gave them up for lent.                               But love, O’ love, she has been a faithful horse, never knowing, ever growing her faithful course; I donned a mask of buoyancy to my soul’s remorse.         235.   She is the ink that drips from my quill; behold the image that binds me still. Days when I fail to find a word, when passion urges to leave the herd.   I think — maybe in time there will be more time to search for what is mine; then hope might have an urge to bring… a melody that she and I can sing, a song to right the wrong I’ve known — haunt the quiet moments I’ve known.   From far and near, faces of regret appear. She is the salt in my tear — Still I have hope for my own. Even though I sit beside her — I feel I am always alone.         236.   Make no advances to win a woman’s love and she will aggressively accept them.         237.   Like ivy, you have grown wildly yet with cultivated intent; a passionate entanglement through the crevices of my heart; a simple shelter for a creature who has no other protector but you. And with an uncommon reach, your lightness has suffocated the shadows of my past… I have learned that one grows most when left alone — to flourish. The sustenance I craved has met the limitless range of your touch. I am confident, the intense heat or the coldest winter, with all its careless fury, could only permit a seasonal hibernation, and instead, bestow a blossoming spring upon us — a future reminder that storm and death mean little to love.       238.   I prepared her a feast — all that she could want. Sadly, she wanted not only her plate but mine also.         239.   Your fault — is the rhetorical. You exist only in the allegorical. Always feeling the cold shoulder, just when I wanted to hold her — I must find comfort on my own.   Am I to blame for this passionate brain? Love, it does not to live to die! Why and why, fists at the sky, I must find joy on my own.   Struggling to speak softly, my ego grows lofty, rummaging for pleasure in pain. When she harshly speaks my name, I must find truth on my own.   Trying are the times at hand, each scattered grain of golden sand, slips away before my eyes, darkness envelops the bluest skies — I must find the light on my own. I must live and die on my own.     240.   Although her heart sometimes hides behind a thorny fence, I gladly press my face into it for a lengthy kiss. It is the right of love that I do so, not only with haste, but also with enthusiasm.       241.   My revenge on heartbreak is that I will never become jaded by the pain love inflicts on me.       242.   I cling to love like a buoy in the middle of the sea, unable to let go, for I then would surely drown.       243.   Love is elusive. We may have a glimpse but never grasp its splendor.       244.   I have cried rivers over you; now, the riverbed is dry, cracked, with dead, rotting fish in the hot sun.       245.   I Have Felt the Water Savage I have felt the water savage, when dark the storms did rage. I have felt the water ravage my vessel into my cage. I have learned the water’s struggle, when violence urged my way. Even loved the water’s struggle, with each gentle or crashing wave. My ship, rocked, tossed, and torn, I cleaved to the broken helm. With loss and fear and timeless mourn, I saw another realm. Sensing the lust for further abuse, a quick and brutal swell, She pulled my fingers loose, and softly said farewell.       246.   Maya Angelou knows why the caged bird sings and I know why the dead bird doesn’t.      247.   She underestimated my loyalty, compassion, and most of all my forgiveness.     248.   Love is like antifreeze — tastes so sweet until it destroys your insides.       249.   I have equated loyalty with suffering.       250.   A fool’s prayer: God, if is not meant to be, please let it be anyway.     251.   I love her but if she were again in my bed, I would have one eye open in fear of my swift beheading.     252.   Farewell! Farewell! I wish I wished you well.       253.   Face — pale — Soul’s ascent from Hell — into the light Sun curing night Contrition for the daggers I have said From the storm that rages and the rain in my head.   Reflection in my eyes absorbs the darkness of the skies Patience tries — release denies Outside near the garden the green grass dies Cracks in the mirror like many times before Lights always dim, cobwebs by the door.   Unclean house with scattered, dirty clothes This is all my broken heart knows? Until a new wind blows? Indeed, until a new wind blows.       254.   The Wooden Pew   A small chapel stands alone, in a graveyard of need. Childhood’s hour has known, of a god who performed a deed.   An old man — walking among the tall weeds and thorn, remembering my younger days on a wooden pew. With an urge in death to mourn, the old wood that I once knew.   Turning the knob — rusted — locked, wiping the years from the windowpane — looking in I considered the frock of old Reverend Kane.   Through the haze, the wooden pew, time had not touched its face. I never forgot the wood I knew, or that holy place.   A thought to cry — then heard a quick tap, waking me from my sleep. Ten years old on my mother’s lap, oh, how I wanted to weep.   My mother smiled and touched my head, I hugged that dear wooden pew. Closed my eyes by the words she said, Chicken and apple pie when we’re through.   Consumed in all my bliss, I could already taste the cinnamon in that pie. Knowing now what I will later miss, There are joyful tears to cry.       255.   Three Levels of Afterlife Punishment   1.       Limbo 2.      Hell 3.      Suburbia       256.   If a man is not loyal, he is not a man.       257.   Cupid is a ruthless and guiltless bastard. I would like to shoot him with one of those arrows. Maybe then, he would be more careful where he aims.     258.   I wear the fool’s crown and what a charming dance I perform for the townspeople.        259.   I know love like a bird knows the sky. I know pain like the tear knows the eye. I know joy like a boy knows his toy. Still— I remember her breath like a flower forgets its death. I hurry to her smile like a runner runs the mile. I dream of her exploding kiss like the archer who didn’t miss. And yet— I am haunted by her smell like a ghost escaping Hell.           260.   She vanished like the morning dew Pain rose like the desert sun Death and grief was all I knew ‘til hope and life had come.       261.   A broken heart dies again with each passing minute.       262.   Circumcision proves that God is a woman.       263.   The desire to birth, to detonate passion with a persuasive and potent emission — to augment a voice so clear it would irritate the center of the soul’s design — and finally convince the tongue that it is quenched of thirst; she is the poem I chase.         264.   The Sun   In all of pleasure in thought to say, idle words of the dismal day. For pondering upon the morn to be, darkness conceals the beauty I see. Passion burns like the sun, they say, then why is most of life so gray? True, I shall live ‘till the grave, my sorrow for a bluer tomorrow I save. Surely, my words are pity to none. I hate the sun. Fun? Oh no — I hate the sun.     265.   Goodbye   My life, my breath, my end, my death. My journey, my mind, my days remind. My thinking is vain, my exit, ordain. My mourners who cry, my tears in their eye. My, oh my — why do I die, by and by? My reply, outcry, crucify, defy. My prayers, my plea, my death to be. My end to send, the dirt I blend. My presence unknown, A soul windblown. Oh my, I cry, I sigh, oh why, must I die? Goodbye.       266.   The Hole   I'm in a hole, I can't see out,             the light suffocates a moan. My death is soon without doubt,             the wind in the dark has blown,             I chilled to the bone.   I scream to the air as I hear a voice, a shadow engulfs me; I hear it rejoice.   Horror entombs me with a wretched fear,             as I fall to my knees, repenting my sins, shadows sneaking near,             Oh God, help me, please.   Great wails come from the distance in the night air, stalking for its victim, I must beware.   I cry to the voice echoing in my ear, no return do I hear. Fear.   If only a savior could be found, I hear not a sound, my very soul is bound.   I shuffle back and forth, looking for the light, There is none in my sight, I feel a spider bite me.   Wait! Shhh… I hear them — the footsteps as they pound, Please let me be found! Oh please, may I be found?   The feet walk away, as I say, Come back! Come back! I fall and pray.   Death rears its hideous head with a scream, a tearful stream — a scaring dream.   For this tomb in which I am held as a slave, I misbehaved; malice I craved.   Locked in a hole, musty old hole, I plead with my soul, down deep as a troll, I lay and roll.   I feel hurt, a mental hurt, as I tremble in the dirt.   And cry, Why? Why? Why? Must I surely die?   Wait! I see the sun’s light, it awakens my sight.   And the voice, the one who took my choice.   I cry, please let me out, pretending a sincere pout.   “Okay,” he says. “Come out, Son; my little feller, come out of that dark, cold cellar.”       267.     Insanity   The slightest glance easily unknots me, silence I’ve clenched so grave and tightly. At times — I strive with deep compel, and cannot keep whole such easy ravel.                  Still worse,   Her body frustrates my urge for baroque cliché, strewn paper stained with bloody — with bloody array.    Thought on thought, I’ve found a muse! An out to out this disabuse. In search of false or true reprieve, a quest to leave, I cannot leave.   When later,   Slow roused the mind, deep by the moon, woke me so I stirred the spoon. The more I woke, the more I knew, the taste was more of me than you.   Finally! At last, the remedy had come, shadows recede in the morning sun. I would have crept back to my bed to sleep, but how could I sleep!   Then preparing,   Not wanting or allowing the day to wane, I noticed the coupling alone in a frame. Taking it out quickly, not gently, I tore the picture accidently.   With even greater haste, I emptied the house, … jewelry, shoes, her favorite blouse. Broken and smashed the relics that blinded, to rid myself of all that reminded… Thunder, clamor, and ill fury to end, I avoided only Of Mice and Men.   Gone, the vanishing, the slowing beat, Blood smears — the shattered glass by my feet. The vacant, inane, unwelcoming gaze, Again, my head is a lively maze.   Coats colored white,   Clicks the lock and turns the key, They enter but not to talk to me. The needle, the needle, the needle that craves, Sends blood to my head, it makes me a slave.   With urge to run, I curse and shout, My sanity is more than theirs – no doubt. The drift of my eyes — a careless glance, I will sit on the bed; I will sit on the…bed… I…sit…       269.   Separating her from me is to separate dust from dirt.   270.   The Courage of Strangers   She looked at him with a foreboding hiss, her vacant eyes – windowless. Quick came thoughts of that and this… He could not move, would not move. But she did move. Off her chair – his passion would not dare, courage could not bear him to speak – the things he desired. So he waited – ‘till he heard the clunk of heals pass outside the window and down the alley. He thought how her laughter mixed well with the laughter of others.       271.   Ice would not melt in her mouth.         272.   Divine Narcissism   If someone survives a risky surgery or a terrible car accident, everyone says, “God saved them.” If they die, “God needed them in Heaven.”  What about when they’re in a coma for ten years? “God is testing our faith,” some might say. Doesn’t he already know our faith? Either we simplify God’s mind or we give it more credit than it deserves.     273.   When I crave my tongue to speak daggers, those who receive my cut are like the centurions. And I am the disciple Peter who unsheathes his sword and slices off the ear of his foe.   274.      Phantasm In a sullied snow, I wary. The sunlight could not tarry another melancholy February? Adrift on solitary’s bed, I sit, shredding platitudes bit by bit. When a ghost from a brighter summit… I think her name and begin to hum it. I can’t escape — how she gave the most beautiful agony; a breeze known only by winter. She’s gone now — and the letters I sent her. Flickering candles vaguely mute the room. Daylight will be here soon. ‘Till then — restless by the phantom pall, I pretend my shadow is hers on the wall. I reach out; she reaches in. We dance as the candles dim. Occasions pass — still turning — still watching her — as she watches me disappear.   275. She saw an arrow there, flying round as if to strike. Another arrow there, failed two separate souls alike. She saw an arrow there, stuck deep within the mire. Would have plucked it there, but its end had caught afire. She saw an arrow there, though the night had dulled its gleam. So many arrows there, had pierced the lover’s dream. She saw an arrow there, high atop the willow tree. An ancient arrow there, reminded her of me.   276. If anyone knows the perfect woman, please tell her that I will be over to kill her, because if I can’t have her, no one can.     277. A flowerless hand, her tempting hue… That which makes a lover can unmake her too.     278. At dawn — barely dressed — I sat beneath the last remaining leaves of the birch tree before winter seduced them back into the ground. As winter loves the dying leaves, so do I love her. And as the leaves surrender to be reborn in spring — I am reborn in her.   279. They say, "The grass isn't always greener on the other side." No, not always — perhaps, rarely... Yet sometimes — sometimes, the other side is a lush and delicate garden — a bosom of redolence so sweet one can hardly recall the common stench from the other side.   280.   I find no relief in time. The months bring no release. The burden of spring allows me only more awareness of the things I cannot forget — like, she and I never met. Alas.     281.   My Explanation   I have known pleasures most men never consider, felt the softness and the hidden regions of a woman’s soul. I’ve ascended the branches of the tall birch just to touch a better air. My belly remembers the exhilaration of a snowy mountain descent. Distant seas have tasted my skin after sex and — fine linens have held the salt from my tears as I explained myself to love. Passion has kissed me on more than one occasion. My dreams and life have been a blur like a marriage arranged by callous desire. Still, I have loved with a love freer than limit, and in turn been loved without restraint. With all the wonder I have known, and all left in this world to marvel, I haven’t the calm with you that I’ve had with others, or the ease within my brutish desires. With you, I am feral – with you, I simply, am. For it is you who stirs the prehistoric nature in me.       282.   Sure — maybe — Your love is a color Your love is a sound Your voice waters the wild flower That sprouts beneath the ground.   And even though — Your eyes calm the raging river Your hips urge the rolling sea Your feet, they are ugly Because they walk all over me.   Indeed — at times — Your touch could warm the glacier Your kiss gives cause to dream However, your heart, it is terror From which I cannot wake to scream.   Albeit, there’s no doubt — Your breasts stir crowds to envy Your navel, a pool for the lucky rain Although, your soul, alas, is empty The angels still covet your name.       283. Every morning I awake feeling sober. For the first hour, I question my newly found love. By the time I get out of the shower, I am drunk all over again.   284.   The Stranger in the Woods     Owls in the forest branches, music for the dim wood. Strength colored eyes, along the tree line, he stood. Near him I danced with a reticent glance, yet he would not look away. Enhanced by chance, his captive trance, wooed my fears away. Kept hungry by his steady stare – an ode to mystery… seized by distance, the strangest history— appealed to my senses, my longing insisted, like the trees long and twisted, I could not (this time) run away. The great and violent oak, wore the legion like a cloak, ‘till finally the weather broke– and I did not run away. A light from behind his right, shone out from the terrible night, Now – I could not run away; I knew I could never — run away. He took me by the hand — a book in his other hand, I asked, “Off to another land — to some far away land?” His silence spoke oft to me; his expression gave life to me; the forest owls sang out to me, “Never — run away!” My head began to spin, as the dream brought peace within. “It’ll be okay,” he said to me. Then off to the forest, he went, as the shadows effectively bent; leaving only his comforting scent, and why did he run away? Morning woke my sweat with tears, Life and all its hidden fears, came rushing back — painfully back (again) I felt the urge to run away. Through many imprisoned years, I spent, In fact, twenty came and twenty went. And all the love I had, I leant, but I always ran away. ‘Till finally the furtive stranger came, once more to smile and whisper my name — I could not help but notice his familiar glance. And solid in his stance — he took my hand and kept my hand and would not let me — run away.     285.   Oh, tragic lament. Oh, fiery regret. Dreams that have long forgotten the nights that held them. Oh, sea of lost and frightened voyages, where mourning maidens selfishly wore black — longer than the pain gave them urge. Where priests sacrificed nothing for a god who gave them what their followers should have kept for themselves. And children — and children — Fading, shrinking playgrounds, with voices that grow louder with time — as we grow weary with time. Oh, familiar descent — a covenant of time and plight — and their transparent struggle. Discarded blood soaked bandages give comfort to the conscientious objector; whose beloved repression no longer produces the high promised to them in folklore.           Thank you for reading.       © 2011 Tommy Riddell  ~ All Rights Reserved. Contact: tommyriddell@gmail.com                       Site design by Virgil Media.