I laid myself down
beneath the summer moon.
The breeze was warm,
and grass was cool.
I gazed at the trees
swaying in the breeze,
and listened to the stream
flowing free as could be.
I want to be the water
running wild as a dream.
I want to be the rain
dripping off of the leaves,
but what I want even more
is to be the blood in your veins,
to take over your heart,
and soak up all your pain.  
I would make you forget
all the hate and disdain.
I would fill you with joy,
and kiss your soul everyday.

How can your hands
be so warm
when your blood
is so cold?

us
as humans
are three parts
struggle
one part
curiousity

asking our god
Google
how to solve
our problems

using .org
as a relevant source
for reasonable destruction

"whats the most painless way
to **** myself?"

"how can i tell if my boyfriend is cheating on me?"

we are unsure
if blood or electricity
runs through our veins

and we are almost certain
that some form of cruelty
lives in all of our hearts

living with brains running on
wifi signals
and vocal cords
fueled by poison

we suffer
and we make others
suffer

Montage of our memories
Here and there
All the sweetness
All the bitterness
Gave birth to a kaleidoscope
Is this the beauty of art?
The clash between tears and laughter?

drifting alone
through this desert
through these solitary sands
isolated
and deserted
the desert fox
without thought or reason
without cause or purpose
this old heart
these young hands
this love I have to give
but no you to give it to
I am wasted without you
my life is shattered
my dreams are lost
where are you?
if not here?
where are you
when I am without you?
I am withering without you
abandoned here
in this barren wasteland
like a flower in the desert
without hope
without water
without love
won’t you free me from this heat?
this unbearable sunlight
too harsh for my eyes
the truth is just so bright sometimes
I do not wish to see myself
not like this
lost like this
but there is no cure
for all that ails me
only time they say
can heal these wounds
that sorry old adage
so I sit and wait
for something else to happen
and I say
**** me or set me free
twisting these sad young hands
as my old heart melts
in the memory of you

I love the sound you make
In your sleep when the hair on
My chest tickles your nose.

It's the most beautiful grunt.
With your make-up on on a
Saturday night, I'm stunned;

Can't breathe, but without it,
Fresh from the shower, you are
More woman than any.

I've been in love before, I've
Taken in a girl's morning
Breath and thought the smell

More refreshing than that of a
New book or guitar strings, but
****, I love the scent of your

Self.
How do you spell "love"?
I don't know. I struggle with

My own name when your
Eyes look up from whatever
Wherever and

Punch mine right between
Themselves with the force of
A grateful supernova.

You rub your cheekbones from
Smiling so much,
And I have found a feature to

Worship like a deity they raised
Pyramids for back before
They knew beauty from

Goddessness.
I am a lover of moments.
You breathe, then I.

I No Longer Live Here And There Is Nowhere I want To Go.
I want to go on a journey.
One that has no end,
But a car will only take me
From here to a place called there.

A train just goes from A to B
They require tickets to somewhere.
And a taxi willingly carries me
To a specific destination.
As long as I pay the fare.

Where can I find a journey that has no end?
I do not want an End.
I want to keep going
And leave everything else behind-
................
A boat would do it-
The horizon lasts forever.
But if I hit a storm,
Sink and drown
Death is a place, too.

I do not want to go anywhere-
Never stop,
Just continue.
...................
And hope I find her again

(Gerry Aldridge ©2017)

Insubstantial
And Inane
Everyone
Is the same
In this game

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.