If I'm to believe in a higher power,
then every second feels like an hour.
When it's spent away from you,
heaven seems plastic and untrue.

But if Gods are a delusion,
then you'll pardon my intrusion.
There's no plan, no we, no "one".
Without love, my soul is gone.

Yet, if this cosmos was designed,
there is a port I have to find.
But if it's simply chemistry and dice,
then my heart can live on ice.

Wake me up when we can travel in time,
when we can turn our blood to wine.
And if you could be mine,
that would be divine.

Is there a God?
I don't know, I haven't met you.

I had my heart broken
By a boy who likes to pretend
That he never liked me
-- except my heart didn't really break,
because it was never his.

It was more like I was lonely, and he was there
so I let him hold me and, he let me hold him
-- and explained to others that
"this is my way of showing I care, but I don't really, truly care,
I don't love her"
"I don't have feelings for you" --
he told me after he had picked up the phone
this girl called (maybe another me)
I just said I didn't care and stared at the ugliest leaf I've ever seen

So I didn't really have my heart broken
But it's easier to say I did
and more exciting, tragic
more romantic to say I did

As I sat outside in the candle lit night, across from a child of Eve, a woman who so bravely brought me into this world, I listened as this woman, my mother; spoke kindly in conversation saying “All I have ever wanted for you is for you to be comfortable in your own skin”
As if she knew that I had a constant shiver in my spin, a creeping feeling of paranoia and fear. As if she could read that I was so afraid to embrace all I was feeling and fearing in life and that all I needed to know was love.
The love a mother, the way they leave trails of sweet kisses on your face as you drift to sleep or hold you in the water of the ocean, arms wrapped around you like you were being, once again, swaddled in a blanket like you had been years ago.
My mother has been present for years but I didn't truly meet her until recently. We lived in the same hollow house, she signed my permissions slips and made dinner but she was not known to me. Never allowed to reveal herself to me, she remained a mystery, packaged in a perfect plastic exterior. Like many families there was an unspoken expectation to fit a certain image, each member played a certain role, dressing and attending rehearsals for their part?
Like so many she learned to live a lie, forced to ignore the bug infestation under her skin and just put on another layer of clothing, of make-up, another costume and simply play pretend. Pretend that she is perfect. Pretend that she is fine. Pretend that she is happy. Pretend that everyone else must be blind. Like that they can’t see the signs or symptoms?
And like so many daughters of Eve she wandered tasting the fruit of the forbidden tree, hoping to find satisfaction in something, never seeing what she was meant to be. Or acknowledging the beauty the she as women possessed. The gentle love of a child lay upon her mother’s breast and I know I curled up in my mother’s chest many nights just to see if her heart was still beating, cause in her eyes I could see she had been weeping and I wondered if her heart was truly broke. I know that Eve was crying for her daughter, for my mother, for me, when she saw the broken hearted burdens that we both carried.
Some nights I speak to my mother’s refection in the mirror when I look at myself; I speak to her kindly as she has to me. I see Eve in my eyes and hope that her beauty will spread within me. I wonder though, if my mother sees herself when she looks in the mirror? or if she sees who she has been, or if rather she sees nothing but others opinions and expectations weighting on her back? Curling her over and the waist to where she can’t even see her most important scar, her naval. The declaration that she was worth laboring for, a constant reminder etched in her skin. I dream of the day that we can meet our mother Eve, speak to her and learn of her aged wisdom stand in the presence of the only woman who has a scar less stomach.
I just wonder what my mother would say if I asked her today, “are you comfortable in your own skin?”

As crazy as it might be
This callus is a beautiful thing to me
What's an ego to go unbruised?
What's a heart left unabused?

I didn't get this hardened shell
From concrete, glass, or fires of Hell
Why dwell on the knell you gave my cerebral gel.
I'm under someone else's spell

My palace with this Alice
Unshared with such malice
As what gave me this callus
It should be just now, us

I can say with a sense of pride
I needn't abide by a bride
Whos the great divide on each side
Without intention, will break my stride

I won't be denied
This emotional high tide
This woman which I confide
My side, a guide astride this distance ride

This callus thick of scorned love
Glad you're not what I'm thinking of.

Set this in motion
In this mind matter ocean
Your words are brain lotion
To lubricate my emotion
With this potion
With a notion
Of devotion
A heart in locomotion
Physical commotion
So glad to have choosen
So glad to have woven

Woven and weave
Like ivy leave
Entwine a maple tree
Under which you rest with me
Like pedals and stem
Fabrics set in hem
Gold in mold with gem
You wrap my brain stem

I hate so bad I'm not a better writer. I use to be able to make women fall in love with just my words. I squander my words. They are not mine. They will always be meant for someone else. It will always be their choice to keep or lose my words. Maybe each line was a piece of my soul and its abuse is what made it leave. I will fight the writes block with all my heart.

To write again...for now of past.

My words are lost to such neglect. I abandoned you so carelessly. I lost the heart you held inside and the soul that spoke to me. To find you once again I visit past haunts searching for your coursing song. Words that once have kissed my lips are now forever gone.

For the past...Part One

My love...

Forever locked in a single sentence. I firmly held the sum of all our experiences. Now I know for such a wondering soul. That only constant Muse would catch and keep your eye. Such a poets passion bleeds beneath your hand and spills easily like blood from a razors edge. Paint me once again naked in the moon light glow. Where only lips and our bodies were the median for the art that we transposed. If cold was meant to cease the lust it only fueled our fire. The shadows we played in were games that over took. Made memories that will outlast the soul. If only they could be writtin in the perfect pose. Dancing furiously intwined in the nearly frozen fountains. We made love within the gardens, under our moon with such abandon. If I could once again kiss your breasts floating in that water. Locked deep within your lips my moment of perfect pleasure. The night washed clean acrossed your skin with that sacred water.


one of the most sexually amazing experiences of my entire life and this is what I write! Help me pls

Standing there she wrings her hands
The light falls on her thinning hair,
Shadow hides the worried eyes
Which fixate on a distant stare.

Years ago the husband left,
Left despite the child inside,
Despite the growing pile of debt,
He left it all to run and hide.

The boy is born one winter morn
Born with golden curls in mane,
He grows despite the hardship felt,
He grows to suit his noble name.

Lean and long and strong in frame
A ready smile upon his face,
Beneath his long blond curling locks
Expressing his good humoured grace.

Boaz is his given name
The Hebrew word for strength and strong,
His mother’s strength of character
Is echoed in his blue eyed song.

Thinly proud she meets each day,
She bears the hardship, every storm,
Thinly proud she loves the boy
Who runs in rows of growing corn.

Standing there she wrings her hands
A worried mother’s reddened face,
For battle’s flag has called her boy
Who volunteers with pride and grace.

Short letters from the front arrive
A message filled with love and joy
To reassure a mother’s fears,
In promise for her darling boy.

With brimming eyes she thinks of him
Holding close his teddy bear,
Thinking of the laughing moments
Happy times they used to share.

A silence from the distant front
The drums and guns have sung their song,
Chilling tales of valour but,
Combatants now do homeward throng.

Standing there she wrings her hands
With streaming tears as hopes depart,
A deathly silent distant field
Where lies the promise in her heart.

Marshalg
For all the mothers who wait.
20 June 2013