steven-loeding
Just a simple man. / Nothing special, except to those I love, and occasionally am fortunate enough to be loved by in return. / Some of my writing may expose me as an old hippy. It is a title I claim proudly. / / As a side note...punctuation has never been my strongest talent. Any glaring errors, pointed out are always appreciated. / / http://avalonsrespite.com/
You lied?
Tender, mercy filled words schemed
to revamp long lost confidences.
Uttered to spawn epic trust.
For you could NEVER do
as others have!
YOU LIED!
The SWEARING of,
"I could NEVER do"...
is EXACTLY what you did.
You lied?
YOU LIED!
Nuff Said!
GOODBYE!
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
One child...
wrapped in grandmother's quilt.
Protected from the night's raw chill...
sits on a grassy knoll
and lifts innocent eyes to the stars.
Dreaming the visions of a child
not yet plagued by life's unjust ordeals.
Dreams of play, dreams of peace...
reverie lacking all vilification
for seeds of hatred
have not yet been taught.
-Longing for this child's innocence.-
I sit beside her...
my gaze focused on the same faint points
of a somber twilight.
She attempts to fill my mind with her
visions of inner dreams,of peace.
But alas, I am much older;
although I fight the seeds of hatred
sown long ago...
rooted phantoms castigate my soul.
-Longing for this child's purity of love.-
My dreams are reality,
nightmares assaulting all senses.
Exploding buildings...
Falling forms of people
forced to choose death from flame or hard concrete.
Smelling the stench of burnt decaying flesh.
As vultures feed upon our nation.
Hearing the screams of innocence
trapped in the rubble awaiting their
slow horrific death...
Alone!
Tasting an acid thirst, a desire for revenge
devours any sense of justice within me.
Feeling anguish for children
who have lost parents or loved ones.
My outcry sees seeds of hatred planted,
and taking root in new and fertile souls.
-Longing for this child's peaceful dreams.-
She removes a warm hand from beneath the quilt.
Without hesitation, she reaches out to me.
Too young to know why...
movement born from instinct...
sensing my need for comfort.
-Hope becomes rooted, sown by one pure child.-
Now I see... all of her dreams reside in my hands.
My part of this tenuous bargain called humanity.
To build a chance for this one special child,
our possible future.
Without a sound we return our thoughtful gaze
into the night's darkness as clouds begin to clear.
The star's faint glow is minute, a soft web of light
embracing this child's innocent trust.
Once again I can dream her dreams.
We remain, two silent souls searching
the celestial pathways for others who hope as we --
-To discover a child's pure desire to heal.-
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
War...
Just illusion, a monstrous nightmare vanquished
with a ray of orange sunshine upon the tongue.
Mellowed with God's own gracious herb;
fiery gilded hairs of Acapulco Gold.
Bob, our coarse prophet of peace's dream,
his sallow voice arrived on autumn's dry wind.
Janis sang with sad, painful screams,
lilting ballads of fated, melancholy sin.
Flower children swaying,
moving to a blaring din.
****** naked bodies entwined.
Massing round a roaring flame
projecting the awesome power of love.
Childish hopes, banishing the nightmare of war
to naught but a bard's sorrowful tale.
How might you spill your brother's blood?
Reclined together, ****** by the shore,
watching pink and purple penguins
as they frolic in a rolling sea of split pea soup.
Diving within the shifting colors for treasures of ham.
*"Make love, not war!
Make love, not war!
Make love, not war!"*
We were but children, playing with grand theory.
Alas, lucidity comes with old age...so-called wisdom.
Our dream was lost to history's dusty files
as warmongers dined within ivory towers.
To think...
such a simple design could end the horror.
One mass of chanting, ****** teens,
color blind, hands embraced as one,
man, woman and child.
Just illusion...
a drug induced fantasy of a dream.
And "The Nightmare" regained
it's baneful power.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
I.
A gift from my Grandmother,
given when I was only twelve.
Just a plain spiral notebook,
and inscribed on the inside cover
in her own delicate hand...
*"Look every day for one happy thing...
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
That's OK,
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."*
Well... I tried
but my life was so dark,
miserable and all alone.
After two months,
only three entries were shown.
The book was put on my shelf and soon forgotten.
II.
Six years later...
my first fate filled night.
Friends tried in vain to fill me with hope,
but I knew...and I was certain!
The battle was over, could NEVER be won;
better life be undone.
New razors sharp, shiny glow
bathtub filled to let my blood flow.
Just one final thing,
the note pointing blame.
So I went to my shelf
for something to write.
Still there, covered with dust,
that blasted book.
Supreme irony to write a suicide note
from the pages of this cursed thing.
Happy memories
numbered as only three.
A mistake I made
or perhaps my salvation.
I read the first entry
penciled in lead already fading.
*"Wendy R. came to my table at lunch today.
I showed her my limerick about the ant
squished by an ele-phant.
She laughed, said it was funny.
She touched my hand softly
and I think she wanted to kiss me.
It made me feel good, so I'm writing it here."*
Tears flowed, anger flooded away.
Just one joyful memory simple and pure.
Razors were tossed, bathtub water drained
I survived just one more day
then one more again,
and the next...
and the next ...
So much joy in life I might have missed.
III.
Many years later...
Such simple pleasure from life
I might never have known.
My lover had been taken... unjust!
Not just any but, "That One Lover," the only one.
That half of my soul, the spoils of my joy
won by the sharing of tears and of years.
With one simple wave, a mere gesture of his hand
God ripped her from me with taunting words of grace.
He laughed at my stupidity, my simple blind faith
as he flipped me "The Holy Bird," and spat in my face.
By now, in my wizened older years,
I was hardened to pain.
This time it was ANGER,
virulent puss-filled Rage!
Knowing no relief
till vengeance's own fury is released
and again I was SURE,
of death... absolutely no FEAR!
As the headlights rushed toward
me it seemed so **** clear
I needed to see God directly,
to laugh at his cursed embrace.
And though the cost be eternal damnation,
I'd gladly pay it thrice
for that one simple chance
to spit back at his self-righteous face.
I know it was not real but I swear,
in that split second of time
in the blur of the lights,
my Grandmother, framed by the haze
one hand a shaking finger
of mirthful admonishment
the other holding
that blessed ****** book!
Brakes slammed...
Tires screech...
Car spins...
Semi-truck's horn receding
from my lost soul.
I had survived yet again
but still all alone
I returned slowly home.
I was afraid to open it
for I knew what it held.
Most of it memories of Bonnie,
the times of us.
Joys turned to haunting memories
Nightmares of dreams un-won, forever lost.
But Grandma knew just what I would need
on the cold winter nights that my heart would bleed.
So I took a deep breath and I opened it first
to a dog eared page visited often, my favorite verse.
Just a couple of lines written with a quick, jerky script.
*"Today I first held my son,
such joy...such wonder-
(I CAME SO CLOSE TO MISSING THIS!)
My own simple words cannot express
What I am feeling this moment,
But I knew I had to try -
I'm attempting to write it now."*
And at the bottom
of the otherwise barren page
two small fading stains.
The salt of tears shed
on that one exquisite night.
And to those two, were now added more.
I cried...
And I cried...
A flood of tortured relief
and slowly new life dawned, I began to see.
The pain of love's leaving
would always remain,
but with pause, with passing,
would fade to quiet refrain.
Time soothes all wounds in such sublime divine ways.
But my memories of her... the "Best of the Best."
All written right here in this very precious book.
With incredible consummate detail.
The first time she touched me,
the tender tingle it caused.
She first said, "I Love You,"
beneath our special tree.
Our first kiss, the passion it arose.
Our first night together...
a beginning to melding desires,
our bodies first cloaked as lovers-
ahhh four fully filled pages there.
All the intimate telling,
the touching games.
We giggled, we played
we roared with rapture's blessings
till dawn found us exhausted,
fulfilled at last,
still embraced as lovers do,
peacefully fast asleep.
All recorded right here,
safe from the ravages of time.
Why should I so terribly fear;
memory's taunting lull?
I fell right there to the floor on my knees.
I thanked my lover
for being there, though still far away.
I thanked my Grandmother,
her foresight of when I would bleed.
And I thanked God!
Begged his forgiveness, blessedly received.
I survived yet another day.
And the next day yet.
The next... And the next.
IV.
Till I find myself here today
reflecting on his simple plan,
a new book before me,
design so simple yet grand.
Hard-bound leather,
acid free pages of yet ****** paper,
intended to stand firmly
against times wrenching torment.
And on the inside cover with indelible ink
in my own passionate, hand guided script.
Those same simple instructions faded from time
yet engraved clearly, and firmly in my mind.
*"Look every day for one happy thing;
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
that's OK.
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."*
I close the cover,
I lean back, warm and content.
Jimmy is coming at three,
he is so much like me.
Shy, turned inward,
unsure, yet so full of light.
This "Book of Happy Memories,"
yet to be, is for he.
Today he turned twelve.
It's for the dark lonely nights,
his shorn young heart bleeds,
as my Grandson's soul
cries out...
For it's own healing need.
© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Embrace me...
With words of love;
weave them through my being.
On a dark night's passing,
they are balms to my battered soul.
Embrace me...
With a lover's delicate touch.
Mysterious...
Forbidden...
Desired..
For it calms my quaking flesh.
Embrace me...
As your rapture's own.
A warm summer rain,
mixing with passion's droplets.
It washes all other cares away.
Embrace me...
Simply hold me tight.
Through the passing day,
into the dreary night.
Embrace me...
Love's first tender play.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Passion upon a rocky stream...
youthful expectation of a dueling fray.
Slip-bobber swirls within random eddies
induced from a bottle of Southern Comfort
tossed with wayward abandon.
Time passes...hopeful dream dies.
Enticed by a liaison with greener grass.
She swims with lazy nonchalance,
in shallow recesses naked to my sight.
Dining upon her own chosen array.
Casting off the feast I hold before her.
Something fishy going on here!
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
You willingly enter my domain...
my chamber of decadent delights.
Your submission and fate sealed
with your own hands as you
tighten the necklace of servitude
around your delicate throat.
The lash is kissed with my love for you.
Its harsh caress your sweet desire.
Ropes bind your kneeling form.
Restricting even your rising passion.
For your pleasure is mine to allow...
or to deny.
Trust to me your mind and your flesh.
Follow my lead...
as I train you to walk the swords sharp edge.
Balancing between a path of pain or certain ecstasy.
Freely given, I take all that you offer
returning everything which you seek.
©S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Ravaging dank night
rapes last rays of light.
Silver stream of ribbon moon
casting shadows of fear and doom.
Grasping firm to hope's faint call.
Await dawn's lifting of night's cruel shawl.
Reveals "My Love's", anticipating gaze.
First kiss embracing boundless days.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
I:
Did he know,
gazing within
the first morning’s
reflection of the mirror?
The world was ruled with rapacious greed.
Could he...a simple carpenter’s son hold reign?
Rivaling concepts of malice and hate
with only a vision of righteousness.
What might have been if faith had turned
that one lonely night, praying in the garden?
All we now treasure and know
not lost... simply never learned.
But his belief held fast.
Even as the nails pierced his waiting wrists,
and the breath was filched from offered breast.
His tendered flesh drained of life's essence.
And the world’s foundation shook
from this one man’s belief.
“Most cherished of all ‘The Father’s’ gifts, is Love".
"Love even your enemy...your own butchers.”
Perhaps he knew from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not.
II:
Did he know, gazing within
the morning’s first reflection of the mirror?
This man condemned God‘s chosen few.
****** them with imperfect ideals of superiority.
Hegemonies, spawned from purely selfish desire.
Built upon altars of blackened bone,
stained with the purified blood of unnamed martyrs.
Animating his belief with the potency of his voice
and the putrid breath from chambers of death.
His dream blossomed from a nightmare‘s blackened shade.
Millions died as millions more bewailed their loss.
And the world turned once again.
Its very bedrock forever tarnished red.
For this one man’s beliefs were embraced
within vows thought sacred by the masses.
Never again quite the same.
Just one man’s pronouncement of a claimed truth.
“All the problems of the world lie at the feet of the Jews.
Destroy them and all life’s trials will be resolved.”
Perhaps he knew from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not.
III:
Should I know, gazing within
the first morning’s reflection of the mirror?
Our world cries for one man’s envisioning truth.
We search to understand the differences,
and to find the similarities amongst us,
before a tired Earth exhales one final breath.
An angel of mercy, hope, and salvation.
Or a demon seeking power,
returning only horror and death.
Fate beckons with a satirical, crooking finger
as the seeking ignorant masses swarm to hopeful honey.
Whose voice will it be rising from the wilderness?
Will it usher in a bright dawning, new day?
Or bring upon us tomorrows
which we wish would never be?
Will it be you, or will it be I?
Perhaps I should know from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not...
Fate shrouds Destiny within a dark veil...
blinding clear vision.
All that remains is Belief,
a clouded hope for possibilities.
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
*Guilt endures a weighty shroud
first aggression taints our deed
self-righteousness stains our trail.*
I saw you today...
flickering image across a flat screen.
One hand clutching a precious doll,
worn ragged from trust’s tight embrace.
It wears the tears from your half lidded eyes.
Camera pans left revealing the crime...
a ****** stump where an innocent hand
once held a child’s inquisitive fingers.
I wonder what I would say
if ever forced to face you,
exposing my great shame.
Perhaps I would repeat the spin from our
doctors of the twisted and profaned word.
They preen with vain pride,
“So few are as you".
Just a casualty of a righteous war...
As if the crippling of even one
guiltless child was not one child too many.
one child too many
one child too many
*Guilt endures a weighty shroud
first aggression taints our deed
self-righteousness stains our trail.*
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC