With
passion pray. With
passion work. With passion make love.

With passion eat and drink and dance and play.

Why look like a dead fish
in this ocean
of
God?

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 appreciation
Means more to me
Than any gift in return

You sit at your screen
fingertips flying in the face of decency
like a spigot attached to a vat of arsenic
dripping your poison, slowly, surely into the ears of the unthinking.

You justify the burnt skin, the orphans, the unending torture as deserved.

Deserved?

How can it be so?

Go tell the orphan, scarred and screaming that her fate was deserved.

Go stand beside mass graves and thumb your nose at the deserving corpses, stained by the blood of ages.

Where is your heart? 
does it choke and sputter,
buried beneath your all encompassing loathing?

You call me stupid, maybe so,
my views naive, my compassion wasted
yet my heart beats proudly, swells with love 
while my tired eyes drown at the unfolding horror.

War is not a spectator sport,
it is not justifiable, nor deserved.

Call me stupid if you will, ridiculous if you must
call me any number of names in your attack on my spirit
I will not care, I will not bend or bow.
Your hatred will be your undoing.
Not mine

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.

Who is to say what is true and what is false,
Perhaps the angels who have fallen are you,
And me.

Stories and fables speak of our desires and fears,
What are the gods if not reflections of all that we find holy?
Does that not beg the question of who created who?
Is God nothing more than a combination of our eggs?
Some broken,
Never a dozen whole,
A reflection, however poor,
of our fractures beliefs.

And if we are fallen from grace and this life was deemed a sort of punishment then is it not our God given duty to rise above the suffering,
Deny the base temptations
And close the door on the face of hate?

I do not judge the fallen angels,
I count myself amongst them,
And we want to go home.

elemental force
her hips sway in Paris
his dreaming hands in Montana
entangled
geography subsides

Fingertips descending spines
Causing Bodyquakes

Delicate mist of kisses
Covering peaks and valleys

Mahogany stretched towards the heavens

          Oceans of eagerness
                    
                    An arch of bliss

Fainting breaths

          Dying with Desire
To be Born in your Love


These thoughts are looping through my mind

                    I must have you

                                   Once More

               Just

                               Once More

Until...


                                 The next time


©Tina Thompson

Who made them valedictorian,
those keepers of the word-banks,
more concerned with righteousness
than with the art
we oh so love,
pointing fingers
with a million pointing back.

And we,
we keepers of the faith,
writing words,
writing lines,
writing stanzas or not,
scribbling & scrawling
bits & pieces
of our fervent-hearts,
exposing ourselves
to the masses,
truly naked
for all ages,
for an eternity of readers,
feeding our souls
for those perusers
who might want to know
or forgot
what it is like
to live (again).

Like I f'ng said.
who made them valedictorian,
them f'ing poetry police.

(A friend once told me)
That the stars in the cosmos
Must have been aligned when the two of us came newly into this world.
The astrology up in the atmosphere
On the 28th of April
Saw you coming
And three years later
On the very same day
It said, We must make her a match.
Someone to fill the in-betweens of her fingers
And the empty spaces on the inside,
To brighten up her eyes
And the shine of her smile.
They won't find each other right away
But the magnetic pull of the universe
Will bring them together
Without a doubt.
And I was crafted from stardust and a celestial glow
And beamed down to earth
Fated to wander its surface
Until you came to stand in my path
And point me in a new direction
Hand safe in hand
And heart tethered to heart.

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.