Praise be to the sacred song
of her sweet sexuality.

Soft skin, paled underneath
the smiling moon grinning Cheshire,
eyes close in silent prayer
to a deity who is not there.

If she only knew that she was,
the goddess of desire,
long blond curls falling down past
her supple shoulders,

cool water washing naked skin,
and from her mind’s distance
she imagines him
the one she loves
adoring her as she adores
the sparkling expanse.
How two lover’s hands
intertwine as passion’s twin finds
peace behind the trails and pines.

Long neck, blushing cheeks,
and in my dreams she is the one I seek,
wonderful witchy woman of words
nature’s breathing poetess.

She rises from the cool blue pool,
hands to her breast as the moistness
slides from her hair down her sides
around and under her thighs,
dripping on the evening’s green
as she greets the night and starts to dry.

Then returns to my dreams,
safely sequestered in passing fancies
of magical women I will write about
but never meet or even see in reality.

I am walking back blistered foot
falling off the track we both laid,
those railroad rods on
which pennies were sat
so, they could become pancake
shaped metal bits,
as thin as the skin
of the flat earth minds
that I am trying to break through to.

I'm often reminiscent of times,
When my grandpa used to
Take me out on his bicycle,
We were just roaming around
His tunes always left me spellbound.
But it was so pure
He was one of those people for whom
Money held no allure
He was a man of passion and music,
He was a poet
But I didn't know it
He gave, not just with his words
But also his soul,
Even when he didn't have much control.
I would always ask him for a candy
I remember once he even gave me a sip of brandy
He never said no to me asking for a toy
He often considered me his blue-eyed boy
He would stop all his work and writing
Just to play with me outside,
Whether clear skies or lightning
Now that he's no more
I miss him and the lessons he tried to instil within me
But more than that
I often miss that genuine connection
With someone who understood so much,
But still cared enough to smile and laugh along
The man with a golden touch
With him, I was happy as the day is long.
The world will be a much better place
If we all could learn to live our life
With his grace.

I am ready for the storm.

Though yesterday
still holds sweet sway,
like the flat-bottomed clouds
that pulled away
the deep blue day,

those soft fluffy
cumulous have gone gray,
with wisping whirlwinds
sweeping up dust.

Dark shadow’s overcast
preparing for water’s
vicious blasting bath
as severe thunderstorms
turn a turquoise day
into an early night.

I have sought silent moments of wet grief
to give myself that salty brine relief,
wetted white sheets then fell asleep
to find that time had gifted me
with emotion’s soft reprieve.

I have lived and lost, paid the cost
of all that was depressing,
obsessing over what I was possessing
and what was possessing me,

and in those moments, I have learned
quite a few lessons,

like I cannot get back one spent second
pursuing goals that might not come to fruition,
materials things should not be my mission,
and if I am not enjoying the journey
then this trip is not for me.

I have also realized; I am my own light.  
Even though there is darkness if this life
the greatest victory I can achieve
is acts kindness against the inevitable black
that will swallow and take all of us back.

She is there to distract,
to stretch out relaxed
and be in fact
something that detracts
from the calming acts
of meditation.

She is not the elevation
of my being,
nor the spectacular apogee
becoming
the ****** of my life.

She is not perfect,
nor should she be,
nor is she
responsible for
completing me.

Though time may take
old lines and replace
them on her aging face
with strange wrinkles,
and body parts will sag,
and heartbeats will lag
till mortality steals
all that we are,
emotions and will.

She is not the best
or worse of anything.
She merely exists,
passing complexity
temporary curiosity
that will not sate
or devour me completely
no matter how pretty
she may be.

I need
my vitamin
b-12
musician
nutrition
to energize me
while I sit and listen.

Art is as essential,
as amminos
for growing
musical
muscles.

I need
my poetry
energy,
to keep moving
and informing
every forming
bit of my being.

If I hope to succeed
in whatever I endeavor
I pursue,
other people’s artistry
is the nourishment,
I need to do
what I want to do.

Grief is an old country song,
sorrow spoken in simple broken
verses accompanied by
the tears of hillbillies
and their family as they cry.

It is reaching for forgotten values,
beseeching preachers for what
tired seekers cease to believe
because innocence has been
abused and deceived.

It is hard work paid against
the balance that will never
ever break even again.

Calloused hands and hearts
muddy boots and ***** pants,
from reaping what we plant,
while others are sowing
the hate that they are growing.

Hymnals become pleasant memories
of a place that no longer holds
much power over me.
Nostalgia makes me smile
uneasily as I rise to see
the past played out
then fading from me.

Grief is knowing that
I cannot make my way back
or revisit the people
who are currently missing
from life’s short stay,
in this world’s late stage
spinning plate play.

Time carves us all from the inside,
people recognize faces
but do not realize no one
is who they were the day before.
Every loss, every victory, chipping pieces off
like tiny stones quietly slipping over the edge.
Sometimes I want to wear my growth
Like a new dress.
Sometimes I want to share my scars
Like a name tag,
have you call me by my real name,
let the world love me without judgement.
No one escapes pain, so what’s the point in small talk.
We all share a bed with the shape of everything we’ve ever lost,
so I don’t want to talk about the weather.

Dream is
the loveliness
of deep thoughts
I know naught
freeing themselves
from my unconsciousness,

lips unsealing,
the cool blue
feeling of healing
affections,

nightmare forms
stretched and
elongated
feared and hated
at the same time
I know they came from
my sick mind.

Dull to exciting,
inviting strange lighting
to illuminate
that which will not wait
in the dusty cupboard
of my old mother Hubbard
soon to be empty
closets,

the closest thing
to revelations
that I have ever seen,
sadly
I am frequently forgetting,
even though I know
sometimes that is a blessing.