Stars sprinkle the inky night sky
Like crumbs of diamonds on a still, midnight ocean.
I am not afraid to be here, alone,
In the vastness of twilight.
For these few moments, time is as long
As the space between those stars,
And as empty, too.
The uncertainty that sunrise will follow.
As sure as the sun is destined to rise everyday,
When there's only darkness surrounding you,
Pierced slightly by the silvery glow of moonlight...
You're all alone and helpless.
You only have the vague hope that the sun will return.
And as I sit here now, star-gazer,
Faceless nomad on the damp grass;
I feel immortal, and I am afraid
That I will always be alone with the stars.

Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
        she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
         little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
             this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
           in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
            Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part

Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened  space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
     naked heart's
            thunder

sometimes I forget
that I am ish
as one of the sun frowning commuters
I think in their language
then every once in a mile
a rozmowa comes and
as I forget the ish words equivalents
as i stumble upon the grammar
I realise I'm a universal foreigner
of too many heimats

He had given her his
Everything
And it killed him
Requiem
This is how love kills

tonight, breeze
of rose,

tide, sweet
river brightened,
falling into the dark,

our love, the
breeze's ghost,
running from
the sun that
slipped away,

leaves in
flight on the
trees, tireless
and wordless,
murmuring
of summer
dreams and
crazy love,

high tide,
the sea's breath
lowering
the sky,
silver cloud
and moon-onyx,

our love,
tonight,
where the night is....

where the night is
a sweetened breeze,

where the night is
the dark, daring
us to go on,

to wait forever....
for the silvery
whispers of the
night to
sigh
for love.

April 16, 2017
Dear You:
         When I think of you, there is this gap of space unexplained. Almost like when you have to stand up during a spiritual chant or sacred ceremony. Or when you look up at the sky and realize how very small we actually are in this Universe of the Divine. When you see how the half full moon cups so beautifully in tangerine glow across your section of sky, and how the clarity of stars imprint the constellations of the human heart.

    I guess what I am actually saying is, you are so much more to me than a female *** *****. You are the sacred. The down and *****. As earthy and tangible as it gets. The source of rolling waves to exquisite pleasure. A pivotal and unique part of my feminine self in the form of the mystical, the beatific, the mysterious.The portal for the source of Life itself.

But let us start at the beginning.

I remember you, at the tender age of 5. Exploring the mysteries of my own body, under the covers where no one could see. At about age 8 or 9 I worked you over so well that a small explosion ensued, and I was utterly  stunned, thinking that perhaps I had done something wrong?
I dared not ask
a  soul.

Only later (but not much later..when the red flow started) did I read about the subject "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and later "Changing Bodies, Changing Lives". (Thank you, more open-minded stepmom :))

As a teen, I was lucky enough to have amazingly progressive ***-ed at my NYC school. AIDS was rampant and our ***-ed teacher, an ex-priest, had us rolling condoms down bananas in no time. How we laughed and turned the color of beets. And watching "The Miracle of Life" was pretty amazing.

By then I had a very good relationship with you, Little Miss V. I stroked and coaxed you out of your shell any opportunity I could. My cherry was intact, but popping and bubbling over was fantastic.

You are connected to the trials and tribulations, as well as the highs and lows, of first love and love in general, as I discovered in time. I was exposed to the vulnerable, the tender, the painful. I realized that your intense physicality was indelibly connected to my emotional source, veins mapped and held together my strings of blood and discharge. Somewhere, I needed to protect you, and myself, to know when to give freely and when to hold back.

You were the gateway to motherhood, to the slippery sliding exit from the womb of my prodigy. The intense pain and wonder of it all. The place where it all began, the result being three gorgeous and sassy love bugs. "What, Mommy? I came out of there?"

You are now the woman goddess source of me more than ever, and despite the powerful pain and ****** rivers each month, I am thankful. Thankful to be a woman, to be alive, for the inter-woven magic of the ecstasy and ardency of emotion. So much better to feel it all.

My womb with a view.
My moon's tides, ebbs and flows.
My candied oyster, succulent shellfish.
My pretty little cat.
My aching, drooling, dripping swamp of longing and loneliness.
My jewel of enigmatic darkness.
I will never take the words "****" and "*****" negatively, and can turn it right around on those attempting to do so.

For you hold the links to my heart, to my soul. You are my little nesting fuzzy creature, worthy of kisses and appreciation. You are my internal bomb ticking and ready to blow, my slick, hot bud poised to flower.

And, oh, how you flower.

k, Little Miss, V…Ciao for now.
Love, ***, the woman-goddess-love –light source you own

True love:
Loving perfectly
an imperfect person

True love:
Giving everything
For only one

True love:
I love you
I love you too...

If only there were words
           to the unspoken verses
           when silence is the only sound

           More than only
           near paralyzing torn,
           weary of searching endlessly
           for what cannot be found
           silence whispering poignantly
           drowning out the midnight rain,
          
           There is no more sorrow
           in search of the lost
           unstrummed guitar chords
           Unwritten psalms
           forever left unsung;
           without amity,
           woe betides an unfinished,
           abandoned heart's song

           Only a heart lonely knows,
           there is no absolving darkness
           whispering of screaming silence
           by night and by day:
           "all things must steal away"  
           not to be thought of wanderings end
           as a  velvety-crimson rosebud
           shamelessly withers brown

           Swirling eddies stir
           a black swan of loneliness
           swimming within the flood
           of raven river waters'
           silently eclipsing
           its pitch black flow

           Muted pleas silent as pity
           blowin' in the fleeting windsong,
           speaking in beckoning salutations
           singing in sweetly beseeching tongues

           Like the hush of a pensive soul,
           once touched by another, moved
           like a bedrock marrowed mountain
           left stifled, stranded and wondering,
           feeling an awkward silence
           when the leaves come falling down

           There are no misbegotten promises
           cast lightly in the moonlight’s restless spell;
           there is no solacing stillness
when silence is the only sound...