Strangely, I confess I miss the memory of you. After all these years you
would have thought you'd not be a factor in my mind; but you are and I
still
see your face glowing passionately at me after making love.We were so young
and innocent, and less confined by lapses in taste and refinement. That is
the great mystery of age, that as we get older we are anticipated to draw
between the lines and hide out emotions in a bottle. Even thought he bottle
is clear glass and we can see out as well as in, still confinement is just
as bad as freedom. I remember stroking your mind with tender touches of
open
conversation. I think that is what I miss the most. For hours we'd talk,
converse, share, open our souls at one another. Making love was really just
an after-thought, an extension of our conversations.I cannot recall where
it
began to go off; where we began to lose touch and somehow forgive one
another. That seems the tangled weave of reality that one way or another we
neglected to be present for one another.So, naturally, as time progressed
we
became less and less meaningful to one another.
Yet here I am, years after we have gone, still remembering you.
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 10:46 AM UTC
I flow through you
inside and out of you
filling my cup with the
totality of your passion
through the wishing well
of devotion
I am captured.
Flying as if I was made
of airplane metal
My
song is your name and
my dream is your hand
holding mine, an echo
of my love for you
I flow inside and out of
your silence
around and about your
words
Every song I hear
somehow is a vision
of you
Intoxicated
I feel as if every
wine bottle on the planet
has filled me
I am full
no room for anyone else
no desire to be with
any other woman
I flow through you
inside and out of you
and in very way
you surround me
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
Monday saw me smiling, beginning of the week.
New five days, new adventures.
Tuesday saw me grinning, second day of the week.
Long day yesterday, long day ahead.
Wednesday saw me smiling, **** day had arrived.
Two more days, weekend calling, hurrah!
Thursday saw me getting paid, great day to BE!
Money spent, bills underpaid.
Friday saw me hurting to get the day done
Weekend here, two days off.
But alas, after those two days it starts all over again
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 3:01 PM UTC
Well it is Sunday tomorrow.
The clock is ticking down.
Mass in the morning,
sleeping in the afternoon.
Dinner roasting,
pen in hand,
plans in making.
I think I'm going to write
the greatest poem
ever written.
It is trailing inside of me
even as I write
these words.
I can feel its' gripping force
capturing words
I'm trying to use.
Monday will come and
Monday will go.
When will these words
get written down?
Perhaps next week?
Perhaps next year?
Perhaps when I'm
feeble and old?
Maybe the words are just waiting
for a typical Sunday type of mood?
Who knows?
But I do know,
somewhere inside of me
is the greatest poem
ever written!
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC