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Connie Buchan Oct 2013
I can’t fix this
Something has gone too wrong
If love were enough
I would have it done.

I can’t fix this.
I feel you slipping away.
Time is getting shorter
And the end is coming soon.

I can’t stop this
Even though I will it to be done.
I hold on tight
And give all I have to you now.

I can’t stop this
What is to be will be.
No matter how frantic the hope
The end is clear to us both.

So we accept this
And we love all we can love
And in that moment is a liftetime
Of moments yet to be.

So we accept this.
Without a word we just know.
Together, as always, we wait.
And together we see it through.
Connie Buchan Oct 2013
Some people hate laundry day. I have always liked it.
It reminds me of my mother and also of fresh beginnings. a bit.

To wash away the soil of another time and have things clean and bright
Is a good way to get rid of life’s grime and start another week just right.

But then comes the folding and ironing. Now, that I could do without.
Until I start it and then I’m finding, I like that too, without a doubt.

Maybe I am a different sort, and really don’t find chores to be blue.
I only called this bit of writing that because it’s just for you.
(especially for ‘soul of torment’ ;-) )
Connie Buchan Sep 2013
The hype is hard to handle when you’re different than the rest.
Everything focuses on the family in the traditional sense.
But when your world doesn’t look like that, you do your best.
I don’t resent their happiness. I feel no offense.

Looking for small gifts of tenderness and sharing are the tools for me.
My small family feels much bigger when it is the world I see.
So I will make it through another year and on into the next
Looking forward to another year knowing I’ve passed the test.
Connie Buchan Sep 2013
I have dreamt this dream for several nights now.  It started off in colour; blues, greens, whites and yellows and with only the sound of beautiful piano music and the barest of floors.  Each night the vision grew in detail but faded in colour, until now it is in black, white and gray with the actual colour only implied by my memory of it.

The scene is part of a room, a corner, in a very large and majestic house.  The floor is hardwood with no carpet.  The walls are a very light, warm white with somewhat high ceilings.  I am standing (you cannot see me) looking towards the corner of the room where there are French doors.  The door trim is black.  The doors are open.  It is night and the moonlight is streaming in the doors and in a window, off slightly to the left.  Chiffon curtains frame the doorway and blow in the slight, cool, night breeze.  It is a warm summer’s night and the fresh air is scented with an ocean fragrance.

To my left, just barely in the picture, is a glossy, black baby grand piano.  The ebony of the piano is a sharp contrast to the soft white of the sheer curtains as the breeze wafts them towards the heavenly tones.  The music coming from the piano is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.  The notes reach into my chest and engulf my heart.  The pianist cannot be seen.  He is just out of the frame of my mind’s eye.  My heart tells me it is he.

I awaken from my dream and lie there, still, with my eyes closed.  Not wanting to lose the tranquility, I re-feel the dream again and again.  In the foggy abyss between dreamland and being fully awake, I imagine him sitting at the piano.  His hair falls in loose curls as he is slightly bent over the keys.  His fingers fly over the ivory as he plays with passion and heart.  His love of the music is evident.

He is wearing a crisp, white tuxedo shirt and black morning suit with the tails falling over the back of the piano bench.  He has not yet adorned the formal tie needed to complete the ensemble.  Or maybe he has already removed it.

This is the artist’s private time for peace and composure.  As he closes the piece of music, he raises his face to the moonlight.  His moist eyes glisten in the silver glow.  His face is relaxed and calm.  As he slowly closes his eyes, a soft, contented smile graces his lips and his body sighs.  He has found the completion he seeks, in his music.
Connie Buchan Sep 2013
Burning heat is about to sear
When you hold me close and whisper near.
You start out slow and simmer light,
Turn up the heat all through the night.

You know my time and when to wait
Never too soon and never too late.
You kiss me light, tongue on my lips
Holding me close, I move my hips.

Lips pressed to mine, mouths open some
Tongues probing light, harder to come.
You love to tease and lick me there.
My mind does dance to who knows where.

I loose all sense, I cannot think
Into this well I gladly sink.
The water's warm, I'm safe and sound
I feel your arms close all around.

Your form is hard pressed into mine.
On me you soon shall sweetly dine.
You know how just to spin the web.
I cannot form thoughts in my head.

You take my will, it appears as yours
But it's really mine behind hidden doors.
Parts of me held just for you,
You see me there and pull me through.

I'm lost now in a swimming maze
Only to feel, all thought a haze.
Colours flash behind closed eyes
The heat is burning my hips, my thighs.

You take me up and then up again
To a land where only you lay claim.
Again and again you make me rise,
A man of desire in a controlled disguise.

I want it all again and again,
You spin me around to your own sweet end.
You want me too and finally release.
Us both in rapture ne'er to cease.

We calm and rest completely spent,
The fire hot and away it went.
Now we lay for a long time warm
As I lie there cradled in your arm.
Connie Buchan Sep 2013
Take me in your arms and lift me from this earth
High above the canyon to the towering peaks above.

Cliffs reaching up, up into the brilliant blue sky
Jagged-edged, stark and cold they lead to glorious heights.

Your muscled form, your wanting eyes, your willingness to please
All make me light, allow me to sail as we move together.

Gaining speed as you fly, my wing-ed god, my mythical creature.
Me laying gently curved and cradled in your arms.

Placed on the ledge, gently teetering and open to your knowing touch
To send me over the edge, awaiting, inviting, willing, wanting.

You caress, you invite, you tease me to leap, to dive
Eyes close, let it happen, let it build and all fall into place.

I'm over, off the edge, trusting, enjoying, coaxed into blissful release.
The free fall, the rush, the air, the colours, blue, green, red, silver diamonds sparkle.

Oh to be alive! To know what it is to feel, to live, to lose words, thought.
And to crash! The glorious breakthrough crash with you, into you, around you.

Pierce the surface, white water gushing, open and in....absorbed.
With you, swirling, there to bring me to the surface, to gasp.

Wrapped in your loving arms, wings spread, exhausted
We lie spent, drying in the sun, enveloped in a golden glow.
Connie Buchan Sep 2013
If I t’were have lived in long ago times
With corsets and uncommon lace.
Where women were seen but seldom well known
And easily kept in their place.

If manners were strict and customs the rule
Where’d that leave a woman like me?
For I am not one to conform to law
When unnecessarily cruel it be.

Those were the days when girls where not taught
But were expected to fill a pure role.
Learning to read and even to write
Less important than a painted on mole.

A society fake with filth underneath
Was reality, no truth did they seek.
For death was at hand if you were cast out.
Your future success very bleak.

The rich set the rules of life’s ***** game
And many corrupted the more.
Positions of power were but a whim
Set by the generations before.

If I lived back then I fear I’d have died
An early and untimely death.
Resisting the pain of my sisters in arm
Ending in my final breath.
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