Openings. Portals for longing’s quest. Finesse the eyes that hunger to see a world dressed to the nines in grace. Love lives in tales of bowler hats on sweethearts leaning loafer smooth, to peddle footsteps like silk on skin. Peeled awake. Thoughts tie down arms that hold down the city’s doubts. Soon to fly through clouds that pillow the noise of your mind’s traffic.
So much pain. As the world rises down in flames, there is still the possibility that our hearts can remain open. Blood binds us all. A transfusion of possibility. That’s the one drop rule that men born of women did not need to legislate for it to be true.
My empathy rides the crocodile. My tears hold me accountable. Protect my hope. Love is a protest, witnessing in the dark with the delinquents who make a claim for the light. I dare to see you. Not through you. Where you crawl. Where I hide. Marrow of bone. Matter of life. A bridge between aspiration and despair. I’ve climbed your timeless stories that tell of what you saw before you knew. Babies. Your babies. Before you knew them. Before you saw the world through their eyes.
Louder than the pain of a hammer head falling on your thumb. Wounded hands play the ear drums with intent. Don’t let the beat scare you. Swing lightly with April, like your dancing with yo’ daddy.
Though we are not a gentle kiss when pressed together, and swaying hearts may rock the boat that floats on by, when Spring tries to hide her melody from your peripheral vision, you show your true colours when you swing.
No you need not be afraid of your beating heart. The beat is the life you live, and life is worthy of all your hopes and dreams. So swing with April, before the wild wind drifts you away into your last season and an eternal beginning.
That a poet is at the mercy of his muse, and that my love for her can not save me from the choice she makes to hide from us. What we were will always be before us. She will never be free of the moisture of me. I marked her for alltime when I bit into the neck of her soul to engrave my name inside her.
Wash me with your eyes my love, once more, before you take me to bed, that I may sleep beside your returning curiousity that turned me out.
I am unclean from feet to follicle, yet the unfed Raven nests on my crown of crumbs but he does not eat off me like the hands I once held inside my womb shaped heart when you hungered for my touch. Nurtured us in longing with the wettest kiss mistaken for hope.
My locks have been divided by fangled thieves of circumstance who add up my time and subtract me from you. The temple has been desecrated since I allowed you to enter me, with the gentle force of your indifference. And I have only you to wear though worn out by the distance between us.
Then become me, so that I am forever yours.
In my time, I painted pictures. Were the colours
bright enough to hold the gaze of your first
In our time, I told stories. Did the plot
stray from the sincere path? And substitute undefined character flaws for a happy ending?
Life is in the blood, and the cup runs over. Love covers a multitude, and the pen still wonders.
We miss you two
Though we are where you see us
Some people like to tuck their shirt in
Some drummers like to stay in the pocket
Some like to ride waves and rock boats
Some climb trees
Some climb mountains
And some prefer to take their chances
And walk across burning coal
Because they reason that their toes are still on solid ground when Achilles loses courage
And all of them have a reason to believe in the way they wear their hair
A One night sit
Sipped and swallowed
A bitter pill Washed down with stale saliva
The taste of luck on a blue Monday like those kisses that seal red letters
Guts in a whirlpool while you hide in the chaos of the clutter that describes your hobo life in a suitcase
Packed with emotion
Thrust with desire A strike that holds you down
And eyes to watch you slip through the four fingered tension that lives between your slender shoulders
Thrust with desire
A fragrant word sent to exile in the dreams where your fears escaped from love….
He who wears the paper crown is king of the crackle. Unproven.
Brandy eyes see undressed lies in bed with contrived laughter. Soberly and dripping wet.
Reconfigured finger pops the luck. Guns drawn before Dawn has broken, down baby, damned lady, seated upside out, beltless, love bulging, bursting, with tenderness, lust and found in distinguished denial.
The one you use when you say everything in the noise of silence.
Crackled grief and textured tears, too salty for truth, takes you hard and easy when you cry below the waist…ed words of indifference.
The one I use when I am merely your reflection without my beating heart.
Metaphors provoke the page, that words might march the field of battle to muddy the water of our discontent.
Eyes roam across the cold grass in search of the pearls that fell out of our mouths as we ran into wonder.
Discreetly. Ever so slow to open that door to right now. I already caught you, when you fell head first into my heart.
I fell into you. A lucky catch. You caught me before my eyes landed on yours. Wide open. Iris to nose. I was born wild before I lived in you, but I was so eager to escape into a world with more breathing space to fail. Now when you crawl on your feet to get a word to me, I crawl on my knees to serve you.