You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.

I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.

And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss,  I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.

Goodbye hurts more if you fight it. Healing in acceptance.

Passion leads
This fool follows.

You speak of forbidden love
And relish in its passion,
Like a fat sow rolling in ****,
You cannot smell the stench,
Of your joined betrayal,
You couple with immorality.

Go home to your true partner,
Cast away your paramour,
There can be no happy ending here,
There is no love where there is no innocence,
I know as I once danced late into the hot nights to this very same song.

I could show you a skeleton path littered with the corpses of past lovers,
Empty shells of who they once were, skin shredded by snakes, leaving the stench of our distaste behind,
A litany of curious choices,
A dirge of the fallen's passion,
But you will not listen,

For your ears are deafened by the drums of need,
The screaming voice of your own conscience,
And the death rattle of your lost integrity.

You are my peanut butter,
I want you everyday,
Breakfast, lunch,
Snacks and dinner,
You go perfectly with my jelly.

Bathed in my own tears
Baptized in love's broken promise
I lay here and remember
Whispered words unsaid

Night's mystery does little to dampen the pain
Memories brought back in an instance in this digital world
Your Instagram smile looks up at me and I recall all that was good
Social media failed to capture the hurt

In search of enlightenment
I stumble.

EMDR handled my childhood traumas,
Small pebbles can grow into landslides if not checked.

Buddha's mindfulness allowed for some insight,
But being aware of my behaviour does not always lead to course correction,
My personal OnStar can merely suggest direction,
As I am only a passenger on this ride.

I am left strained.
I can see the road
And the beautiful sun set.
I can feel you beside me,
But I do not trust,
I fear
If I look too closely
I will find you gone.

And so I continue
My search for enlightenment,
My lasting hope is
When this journey ends
I will find you there.

My words are not my own,

Nor do they belong to my totem frog
Which hippity hops
His way trough my life,
Guiding me towards a metamorphosis,
From drunkard
To enlightened.
He (I) sure am taking his time,
But should/could this journey be rushed?

My poems are not the caw of the crow and/or raven,
She does not sing a song so beautiful that I am moved to purge it least it take up too much of the spare space I have inside of me.
She is my spirit guide,
Turn this way, choose that one (with the pretty smile which makes you ever so nervous),
Do not wear that ridiculous outfit,
Don't even think of-
Too late, now live with the repercussions, idiot.
A ****** of voices.

My muse tickles my lust and embraces my love
But is neither.
She/he dons many faces none of which I have ever seen.
Whimsical *****, ******* of emotional release
I do not know you!
I write your words as they come into my head.
Or I would,
If I could keep up with your maniacal laughter;
You spew nonsense rapid fire, child slaying zombies with Cheetos stained fingers,
And with all the elegance therein.
Yet,

I am thankful indeed.

Can I be considered a good leader if those that follow ultimately fail in my absence?

Is the artist only as good as the canvas upon which she brings her creations to life?

I suspect not.

Therefore I am a failure as my legacy is covered in the blemishes of the fallen. Viaducts down, Rome sacked as what once was great is now nothing more than tales told by those who choose to live in the past.

But I am young.

Thus I return to the scene of my crime, hastily departed, left reeling, a drunk short a drink and a sympathetic ear, and I begin anew.

Perhaps this time I will impart some wisdom to allow those that can to light their own path, so that this time when I depart they will stand resolute and face the coming dark with the certainty of knowledge, of awakened minds.

Wish me luck.

Three hearts for thee divided,
Lust battles with duty for attention,
Making waves that drowned your cries,
Yet you persisted.

Three loves became one,
Your heart the sole victor,
To you go the spoils,
And yet you persisted.

One heart's love is yours entire,
Overworked and overwhelming,
Wounded soldiers make terrible bedmates,
And yet you persist.

The library is a quiet, empty cave where voices echo like ghosts in a gymnasium.

Laughter.

You can feel the history here, both in the dusty tomes and the architectural nod to the Roman coliseum.

Strange visitors of which I am numbered as I stand here spouting poor poetry on my phone.

Enough.

I do not love you for your smile,
So welcoming, warm and mischievous,
Or even for your special glance, so demure, meant only for me.

My love is not a reflection of some ensorcellment found in the depths of your jewelled eyes.

I do not love you for your charm,
Your wit and lust for life,
Or for the way you embrace new friends, companions and experiences.

My heart is not a slave to your every touch, bound by a witch's brew of lust, tenderness and desire.

I do not love you for your beauty,
Enchanting as you are,
Not your flawless style and grace or the way you walk a room, every eye captivated by the boundless joy that emanates from within your breast.

I just love you,
Simple as that yet all encompassing.

You are the vision of my heart's beauty.

I sit amongst rampant consumerism,
Yet I smile as I sip my Starbucks tall Pike Place.
To my left, old ladies decked in Tiffany decry their neighbours folly,
Even while they sit blind to their own.
To my right, Chapters!
Book store that offers so much more,
A perfect monument of society's needs answered in one storefront.
We don't shop here for a read, or for the escape some unknown author's words spell for us.
No, this masterfully crafted shop answers our shared need of empty spending on soulless items that will lift us from the mire of our meaningless lives for one instance,
Before that scented candle or witty greeting card is left to collect the dust of our fallen gods.

Behind me the street is full of noise but no one is listening,
Busses carry the many but each is a world onto themselves,
Thoughts not of their making wrestle for attention with smartphones,
Before long the thoughts echo what the eyes read on the digital screens glowing below them.
The enemy of my friend...
Don't let consciousness wake!
Combined the noise without and the noise within will drown whatever chance we had at relevancy.
And so Oprah wins,
Look under your chairs,
It's your new life,
Not to be mistaken with your old one,
This one comes with a shiny new automobile, trip, ring, dress, shoes,
Anything but enlightenment.

Before me,
Possibilities.

You?

Death is boring.
Dark, cowled and skeletal,
Exuding a mysteriousness that she fails to fulfill.
Her goals are one dimensional
Though myriad in her often creative
Approach.
Creative after an eternity of
Collection.

God is almighty.
What can you give the man who has everything?
Your faith?
Omnipotence...
Safe bets are seldom captivating.
Unless you’re a criminal stacking the odds
While your fellow man takes the dive
For your gain,
Your glory.

Buddha is just a man.
Enlightened.
He accepted Death’s embrace,
And God’s divinity
Thrusting aside the Devil’s whispered
Temptations.
Yet
Buddha was just a man.

The Devil whispers the sweetest dreams
His voice is a silk melody
Dancing along our nerves
Touching our forbidden parts
“Take her, she wants your ****”
Plunge into her moist depths
Sheath your spear,
Spill your seed,
****** hard
Then soft
Find release in her moans
Peace and heaven in her trembling touch.

Her moist lips part
But it is not your name she sounds
Her voice once radiant with lust
With desire
Now drives a shard of hate within, through your still rapidly beating heart.
Cupid speaks another name

Once hard now limp
Pull back, pull out your flimsy ****
Look down into the empty depths of her eyes
See in them another man
Her hunger is sated
Bruised lips mouth the apology your ears refuse to hear
Yet your heart laid bare just moments before
Is pierced anew.
Laugh it off but
The Devil has his hooks in you

Another carcass for the heap
She is the hook, you are the meat
Butchered
The lost leading the sheep to slaughter
Do not fret, you are not finished
Soon you will rise a phoenix from her cooling embers
Golden and resolute
Stronger for having licked her poison
Yet you will know that you are now
A stranger to yourself
You are the hook
Find him some meat
The Devil hunts again.

Sleep deprived,
My mind whispers of your soft touch
Urgent with need.
My eyes wander over your every curve,
Intoxicated by your beauty,
They devour you whole.
My skin recalls with vivid clarity
The feel of you beneath me,
The throbbing desire,
The explosion of mutual release.
My mouth can still taste the moisture on your lips,
It yearns to return to you,
To nibble,
To lick.
Watching you dress,
I wait...

Do you ask why the angel has fallen?
What is it the mermaids and sirens sing their song for?
Are jewels and princesses all the dragon keeps?
Who banished the troll beneath the bridge?
Do you demand an answer of your lord;
Why preach forgiveness in written word even while your children give voice to harsh judgements and incivility?

Where have all the faeries gone?
Who tends to their forests now?
Did the angels cry out as they were caste from heaven?
Do their wounded wings bleed?

Again,
Do you ask why the angel has fallen?

Or do you just follow the path your shepherd cut content with the fable he wrote, with your certain knowledge that all is right with the world.

A cup of coffee in my hand,
Fresh aromas rising with it's steam
In this cool crisp morning air,
As I sit and read,

Your poetry inspires and moves me
As I catch a glimpse of your soul's echo.
We remain strangers separated  by land
Yet together we find community in words,
In prose,
In the release of voices that reside inside of each of us.

This is my morning routine,
I greet the day with your rhythms and rhymes,
I sip and savour them,
Along with my coffee,
And my heart knows peace.

I am ready for this day.

My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.

You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.

This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.

Pain is separation from you.

*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.

Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.

Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.

You are both the light which chases my old shadows and the breath that snuffs out my flickering candle.

My duties require feeding your warm glow with my left while placating the your angry breath with my right.

I am in. Committed in love
With you.

Do not stress over the broken dreams of yesterday,
Cracks in the walls of your good intentions allow the glimmer of light,
Neither sought or understood,
To shine through.
You cannot know what awaits,
Not can you have more than the slightest effect on your life's outcome for 'you' as you know yourself to be is nothing more than a grouping of molecules more complex than the universe you reside in and your thoughts and designs no more authored by you than your eventual fate.
So please do not angst over broken hearts and what may have been,
You never really had a chance anyway,
Yet realize that something good and often better will come for within you resides the universe just as you reside within it.

The human heart is very fragile indeed.
Yes it is capable of holding and exuding such fiery passions as to consume you whole,
Yet can it not be crushed underfoot with a wayward blow meant to push away rather than injure or the sweet kiss of fare thee well from the object of your eternal desire?

Love is not the monster that hides beneath your bed, rather under your sheets where you wistfully dream of your prince, your knight, the girl next door or the **** *******.

Love is the creature that hunts for your immortal soul not by night but rather captures and enraptures you in the brightness of day with a single smile and words that only you amongst the billions in this world were meant to hear.

Love is not the answer, it is the question in the truest sense which poets, songwriters and the daft have spent eternity trying to unravel, it is a puzzle without end for the missing pieces lie within us all and can only be found in another.

And the creator in all his glory housed such a curse as a gift within the most fragile of vessels yet we stand shocked witness each time our hearts break.

Can you know love while your heart seeps in hate?

I cannot speak for desire's fiery touch, nor can I speak against it for who listens to a hypocrite's tale and feels anything other than tired annoyance.

I will not offer any advice aside from the weary words of the twice, thrice, ofttimes fallen, yet who cares to hear the yarns of those that tried and failed.

All I can do is spout sad knowledge disguised as nonsense with the practiced ease in which Dylan spouts poetry and hope that you glean some semblance of the message therein and take not this crooked path of mine.

Fishermen do not cast their nets hoping for anything;
Why do you?

I would build an altar with which to worship you,
    your beauty, your sensuality and your love.
You truly are an angel,
    my heart.
Such a remarkable woman.
You can never  know the depth of my love for you as words and actions alone cannot capture it,
    yet I will try.

We run from the rain,
Take shelter beneath buildings
And flimsy umbrellas
Afraid to get wet
As if the rain might wash that which is us
Down the street drains,
More sewage to be chemically treated
Before we pump it through the pipes
To shower over our heads
Safe this time as it is controlled by man
Nature's tears confined,
Man's nature defined.

Sometimes when I'm down,
Defeated,
Or weak,

All I need is a kind word from you,
As you to listen to my song,
Or read my poems,
Followed by a smile,

Then I will know that everything will be alright,
I will pick myself back up
And become again the strong man that you demand,
Whom you love.

That is all that I needed

My dissatisfaction does not come from you,
It is not a reaction to your moods or your sometimes bleak outlook,
Nor your terrible self-imaging.

I remember laughing late into the night.
I recall with clarity falling in love with a woman who loved the world we found ourselves in and we laughed till we cried drunk on life and each other.

I sometimes wonder where that woman went.

At times I believe you when you say you whither within a relationship.
At times I believe that is part of my curse.

I do not choose a woman who is content to bake cookies and clean the house,
Though you do those things,
I chose you in your glory with all your lust and love and life.

Yours is a heart meant for freedom and no matter how loosely connected we are I am still the tether to which you are leashed,
And you are chaffing.

I do not want to let you go,
Nor have you asked to,
Yet what are we to do when the life you once celebrated is now oppressed from the summer heat?
I cannot offer shade cool enough to calm the fire smouldering inside of your breast.

Thus my dissatisfaction does not come from you,
Rather my bleak understanding of our future,
One I hope you know that I will do everything I can to discard.

I would have you happy and content.
I would have me the same.

Your high intellect is a slim shield for the heart that bleeds black death beneath it.

It need not die.
Though all is mortal and finite know this
My love for you is eternal.
It is within my love the light that will hold that blackness at bay.
A wall more than a shield.

So drop your weaponry my darling. Sheath that sharp wit for another day
For another lover
For I am not your enemy
In me you find your man.

What to write about?

Should I speak of my love?
It's continued development,
The lessons learned and hurts hastily covered with blue coloured bandaids and a kiss?
A favoured topic to be sure.

Shall I rhyme about lust?
Love's charm without the rust,
Your soft body beneath me a must,
That this need will fade, unjust.
Once departed, lacking love, this passion returns to dust.

What is left?

Hate does not touch me,
Not in this country,
Not in my city of cherry blossoms and sunshine,
Or darkly overcast skies coupled with soft misting rain. (Depression?)
Not today!

Death is a foreign entity.
I am not unsullied,
Yet I do think much more of this ***** than as life's bratty little sister.
Necessary,
Which may one day grow into something beautiful to be admired,
But for now is nothing more than crayons coloured outside of the lines.

I guess I should not write at all.

For what worth is there to put pen to paper,
(Finger to touch screen),
When my muse is silently humming a tune to which only she knows the words?
I can hear the rhythm,
My blood pulses with it's beat,
But I cannot glean the meaning.

Therefore I am done,
For this poem is about nothing.

I no longer understand the night.
How it thinly veils the corruption of our souls as our hearts bleed out all that was once innocent.

I am more at home in the light of early morning.
When the sun's warmth takes the bite off of Winter's parting kiss with all the promise of spring and summer's love brightly lit for all to see,
The shadows of yesterday forgotten at least for the moment.

I am not the author of my thoughts nor am I the poet whose poems you read.
I am only a vessel through which life exists; a witless witness of what befalls this body and mind.
Please excuse my false pride,
Forgive me my claims of titles and names.
I am merely the ghost in the machine within which I experience taste, touch, sight, smell and the chaos of clarity of mind.  
I once knew with the certainty of the lost that I was the master of this universe,
Now I bow my head in pious recognition of defeated acceptance. Life is not to be lived,
Life is to be survived.
Free will is a conception of man's need and desire for order in a land where particles too small to be seen or felt rule with the supremacy of god.
We are nothing more than fish in the sea unaware of the ebbs and flows of the ocean around us in response to a moon we cannot even conceptualize.
There is peace in that thought;
If you can accept your insignificance you will realize how little that lost love matters for what is love but a micro atomic reaction to a cosmic event that happened light years from earth,
In which you were the victim of a joke you can't even understand.

Two hearts were never closer when separated,
Nor more apart when near.

We do not stress the important stuff
Rather we raise the ****** flag of war over the inconsequential,
And trample our soft field of love beneath the heavy trod of harsh spoken words stomping over the ripe carcasses of anger.

Where do we go from here?
Do we turn back time and bite our tongues never uttering the words that have bound us one to another,
Or do we plod onwards trusting that joy, loyalty and our oft proclaimed love will win through our clouded emotions to arrive at those poppy fields where this war becomes just another memory?

Public transportation reeks of human sweat; the unwashed bodies of common man pressed together like flaked tuna fish in a can, only less well preserved.

What folly bathing can be; as it hides the dark animal truth of who and what we are. The stench we turn our noses up from whilst we traverse throughout our day holds within it's sour notes our true identity.

We are not nicely scented soaps and perfectly groomed hair. We are not our finely pressed clothes or smoothly manicured hands.

We are creatures of this planet with a developed mind capable of great feats but our greatest achievement thus far may be the lies we have convinced ourselves to believe.

And so we pack into busses, trains and planes and do our best not to breath the same air as our fellow passengers on this trip called life.

Mermaids cry with freshwater tears,
Dreaming of handsome sailors who do not flee in fear,
Or even mermen to share their dream with,
For mermaids are alone.

Sirens cry with silent sobs which no one hears,
For their voice,
Even lost and forlorn,
Would only entice further lovers to watery deaths.

Dryads tears drip heavy from leaves of great trees,
Their pain giving life to the forest,
Even as their love ensorcels their soul mates,
And their heart cries out the truth,
What is bound cannot be freely given,
And is forever changed.

I am left lonely
Tired
Whimsical
Lost and
Empty.

I keeping looking for your words
Kind touch
Soft inhale
Hard kiss and
Laughter.

I do not know what to do
With myself
My time
This world
Without you.

It has been four days
Three sleeps
Dreams
Awakenings
Without meaning.

Come home sweetheart

Without you
I am dust
The space between
The last exhale
A forgotten lyric
Road sign that leads to nowhere.

Come home sweetheart.

I don't know that I believe in fate
Or angelic intervention
Or providence
Yet you are in my life
Which is a miracle that grows
With the passing of each day

The fleeting peace of softly playing music and oncoming dreams.
Too soon I will wake.
Too soon we will pick up our burdens & stumble on.

Warm rain drops beating the pattern of my heart's pulse on the shutters of this old barn house while far away a lone wolf cries, unanswered.

Wind kissed tears from hollow sad eyes form wet trails over dried out wrinkles, whistling through the caverns of past glories on this war torn face, bringing colour and life with the desert rose.

Softly playing violins couple with the lone broken voice of a fallen angel, singing of maladies forgotten, joys yet birthed and a promise, a promise that you fulfill with each breath.

Morning bird song chirping of fresh hope and new love, a sweet tune warding off possible predators even while in search of prey.

Rumbling thunder, the roaring approval of gods reverberating within my bones, my soul, even as the hairs on my arm stand on end at the sound of the fickle lords' voices.

The silence of night captures my imagination, from it's seemingly emptiness rises fables of faery love and poems of ***** desires, all falling short of your brilliant black opal beauty.

You put more effort into your job.

Think about this.
Let it sink in.
You don't love your job.
Often you don't even like it.

You don't look forward to it.
You don't write happy status updates regarding it.
But you do put more effort into it.

You dress nicer.
You're often kinder and quicker with a compliment for your colleagues.
You're nearly always on time and considerate of others needs and wants.
You do your hair, put on a suit, paint on some face.

Imagine if you did that for your family and loved ones.
Imagine getting up in the morning and making the effort to look your best; no lulu lemons or tank tops and shorts.
Imagine putting on a pressed shirt or dress just so the person you love can see you looking great.
Imagine showing up on time for friends events with a small gift in hand.

Imagine caring as much about the people you love.

I have loved,
I have loved,
And I have loved again
Yet every time I am astounded
At how much love there is within me
To give again.

I love you the most.

The day will not arrive when the bird awakes and thinks "Not today, I don't feel like attending to the worm."

Nor will there ever be an ant who sits back and does not do its part for the industrious colony rather living off the labour of its fellows like so sort of parasite.

I have become a man of habits.
Alarms wake me, coffee and toast.
Gym, morning texts,
messages to my monkey.

The crow knows no habits
Hunts and gathers, watches for prey
Does habit call for the roost of murders?
I know less than little.

I have become my habits.
Birds, birds, birds.
I'd do anything for her smile.
Whiskey breath and soft kisses are my
prayers offered to the night,
or day.
Feast solely on the moon and
you will not receive sustenance.  

The past is certain, and so it becomes my future.
So too, is it certain, that I will relive my past mistakes?

Questions without answers.
My habit.
The lord gave me the intellect to question,
but saw fit to withhold the courage needed to answer.
Providence only moves when you do.

If you are the a sun,
Then I am life blossoming from your warmth.

If you are the earth,
Then I am the moon eternally by your side.

Couple of things you should know about me,

One: I don’t like you.

I don’t know you and I don’t like you.
It’s not your fault,
I have been programmed this way,
An overbearing, overprotective monarch of a father
Combined with school yard bullies,
Teachers, priests, mother,
Evil grandmother,
And bad 1980’s movies all combined to ensure that
I don’t like you.
Stranger Danger,
Go away.

Two: You don’t know me.

How could you?
I don’t know myself.
The ‘me’ you find presented before you is nothing more than layers of ******* piled one on top of the other,
By family, friends, school yard bullies,
Morning cartoons, Atari, broken hearts and a mind that never sleeps,
(Certainly never shuts the **** up!)
A product of a society
No more advanced in this age of information
Then when we crawled out of the proverbial goo,
Cheaply constructed, covered with flashy pleasing knick-knacks,
Prettily packaged and presented for your purchase,
Swipe your credit card debt here please,
Yet not build to last.  
I am lost somewhere deep beneath the ‘me’ that was chosen by
‘You’.

Merry Christmas for me
Today
Is you asleep
In someone else's bed
Yet beside me
As I sip wine
While the muscle relaxants kick in