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Softly Spoken Dec 2018
There’s always a bustle here
In my ritual place of ribs and beer
The sharp scent of ginger and coriander
The acrid burr in my nose of seared flesh
Fusion food served around me
But I go for Hirata.. again.
Can’t argue with taste, and it tastes
Korean bbq and Buddha beer
A brief nod to the moments of clarity
As said by drunks
The beer bottle cool in my hand as I reflect
Beads of condensation forming on Buddhas belly
And I’m here hoping for Constant
It’s now my third attempt
In as many months to catch a glimpse
And tonight apparently the stars align
Jupiter and Mercury on the rise
As I walk in
There is a way about him
So much bluff and bravado...
reminds me of someone I once loved
There is a mischief in his smile
Something warm in his eyes
Even beyond his jokes of his ego
Too big for the Room, apparently
I don’t discourage..
He’s honest in a way that piques
So here I am
Third time lucky finding Constant
To my delight he recognises me instantly
“Lucky Buddha for the lady?”
His eyes dance..
I interpret, maybe to much
But believe he’s pleased to see me
So we joke..
We laugh
I watch him get an earful
For not concentrating on the flow
The manager in tow..
and he side-eyes me and winks
Inwardly I hi-five myself for
Timing this so perfectly
So here I am
Trying not to watch Constant flow
Trying not to blush as he looks my way
“I’m too old for this ****” I think
Then feel like a kid
When he throws a grin my way
I regular Wagamama in transit.. for the food mainly... ok maybe not all for the food
Softly Spoken Dec 2018
Here between clouds and timezones
I’m listening to hella woman engaged
In life and realness
The couple next to me deeply in love
And I am present with sorrow
Clutching at my throat
Sobs caught in my chest
Rereading the words
As I again slice through
The emotional contrails
I leave in the sky
I had thought that I lost my muse
He is gone from me
But his shadow urges me still
To pen this turbulence
The green sparkle of his eyes
The soft scruffiness of his beard
The way he flowed through life
And tears ***** my eyes
Their thorny appearance
An admittance of the fact
I still long for him
To hear him speak of math, or art
To hear him flow
To hear his voice like a summer field
Sunshine and  mountains, and snow
I still dream of the 5th year
After we’d parted
We spoke in husky voices
What would happen if I arrive
On his doorstep broken
Lost
Alone
Have we now created this?
This future only whispered
Over whisky
Clutching hands and through tears
How I made him loose a tooth
How he replaced it with gold
Just to **** me off
How his mother still worries at him
How long he stuck with me
Through doctors to just find out what is wrong
How we turned into “that couple”
In Jackson; infamy follows us
The dream of our daughter
Mary Elizabeta
Fierce and thoughtful like her mom
Sharp and brilliant like her dad
FieryAuburn and burning
Too brightly for most
Suspended from standford
3 times for brawling with faculty
How she fights with Lily
Swords at the ready
she throws herself at my elder daughter
But can’t land the strike
The Klack of Shinai
The sound of Lily barking “AGAIN”
Mary’s angry frustration comes
through in her Kiai
How my son saved his life
Jury rigged an oxygen mask
To counter the stroke
Keep his brain alive
Together we grow old looking over the Tetons
Through tears and grasping for each other
Together we invented the best life I’ll never have


And I dream of it always
Softly Spoken Oct 2018
As the air thins you are called to memory
I am as yet
Unsure of what relationship exists
Between the flitting nimbus and velocity
And me
Perhaps the times I fell away from the earth
Skirting through layers of atmosphere
Between the curvature of horizons
And a past sunset far behind me
I left traces of longing In contrails
I left vapour trails of emotion in the sky
Understandably you are filtered from my gravity restricted musings
With feet on Terra Firma; no contrail exists
Only here with vermillion slashing the clouds
Carving a wake through air so fast sounds can’t catch me
Do I remember how I howled
  Oct 2017 Softly Spoken
BR
He drew a figure eight on my spine, absentmindedly,
and traced the nape of my neck with his fingertip when he said,
“You are beautiful to me.”

But the ellipsis in the silence spoke louder than he did, and the look in his eye was not born because I was lovely;
It was not because he loved me.

A thing too small for love-
But far too large to be lust;

Simple. Ugly.

He looked at me like he was hungry.

So sweetly he critiqued each curve, every line, blurring my edges with the images of every bent perception pulled from the mire of his mind;

and I
could not
satisfy


Pretty innocence diminished in the grip of his vice,
Pressed tight against my body, despised in dark eyes.
I am not the inhuman creatures you contrived in the middle of the night.
I am not the feminine expression of your ******* pride.

What a wicked crime,
to take a woman’s body and leave the woman behind.
Softly Spoken Sep 2017
Words like knives
Words like balm on burn fingers
Words that cut
Wrapped around my heart
Words never spoken on my lips
Words tumble from mouths too fast to stop
They could heal this wound
Or tear at it all the more
Words drunk like water
Words hurled at loved ones
Or whispered to those too far away to touch
To those whose words have healed me; my thanks
To those whose words could heal us all; keep writing
Wrap this world in what could be
Words could save me, if I let them
For now my words will fall on deaf ears
But wrap this soul in prose long past
Poets... I love you
Thank you
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