From my "Bestifreadaloud" series about a girl that got away that Spring because I waited too long.

Part 1 The Past
A case made now faded of a simple place, a time, a space,
a perfect moment let pass in haste.
Clasped in clashes,
brash in passion,
rose from ashes,
desire fires every second's essence as it passes,
a ton amasses.
Fast bloom,
Blast!! Boom!!
The past relapses.
Notably lesser song notes float hopeful, emotional ends and remember whens.
Sent us spinning, then spin adrift again.
Sprung in spring, we fell,
Some are reasons to recall.
Summer's season breaks, we fall.
Flocks fly down and fallen callings fade to Winter's south.
How fate related still debated.
Re-Sprung the next Spring' rise, chance misses fate this date.
I weighed and debated and waited too late

PART 2
Still all these years alone, the "one", the "purpose" unsought.
Capturing thoughts,
The ones I caught and tossed,
Things I was taught and lost.
Proof framed and embossed for a cost.
Coping through the unabashed hopes to one day cash in on all this stashed trash I clash with.
"Smash it?" ...the thought crossed.  

Unimpressed by my evidence of self-less requests,
pursuit of self-evident truth proves a most ruthless abuse.
Even less are my skewed protests for “selfish quests" at the behest of the very strangers I sought to impress.
I digress.

The years compound, bossed around, kicked down but soundly employed,
I turn cold, blaming Freud for defining my non-violent, intolerance threshold on page 23 of some textbook I should have resold.
I go silent. Grow old.
"While your whining and shunning your shinning,
They're sinning and winning." Bad timing.

Girls come, go and follow this shallow, hollow fellow on the run.
While preyed upon...I paid a ton. I play.
The sum never more than the cost of rented fun.
Without insight but consent forthright,
my 30 years of intent were spent in a fortnight.
Still bent on shedding every pound of one first-moment's ton I lost not won.
Can't buy happy for less than the cost of your one-ness.
While prayed upon...paid a Son, they say.

part 3

Ohh the wait....
Ohh the weight...
My set-adrift-soul's mending depends solely on tossing
lost cause cost-spending into thrift.
Well it's a beginning.
All the amassed notes, quotes, boat-floaters,
and sailboat hopes spun in one 1-ton loss moment sprung that one Spring.

Now and again, it creeps in,
like slowly growing stinging nettles around a squelched,
once steaming scorched dream kettle.
Still stays packed away in my heart's darkest parts.
Blurred by time and place,
this burning, misplaced furnace space lays in wait.

Such compiled cold-case denial files from other life trials, lay piled in haste on my proverbial, "less pressing" messy desk of "not ready to face."
Too scared or daring to date, try to relate or contemplate
how to best equate this great weight.
Wait?... Wait.
Elation brewing from pursuing future fruition or ensuing
pure ruin gates these fates from moving, year-to-date.
For the sake of trying or dying forsaken,
another day awake is another day gained or taken.

I found her again,
the town's she's in
but she is taken and then
She learns of my wait, it's weight, my fate, she's shaken,
another ton amasses again. I pretend.
Lay down.
Drown the score of sounds surrounding.
Furthermore, slow the pulse-pounding abounding your core.
Fill your breath.
What is less is gone, tomorrow more.  

by R. Craig David-Copyright 2012

Wrote this while my best friend since childhood and I drove 1300 miles to South Florida on a whim for Spring Break. It's epic, so get comfortable.

"Approachable but you wouldn't know it.  Proclamations of the Romantically Challenged"

Day one.

We meet, old friends...watch old friends...become old friends again.
We find our lost grins, ones only shared with our closer than kin.
Thin shagrins of lasting cynicism and sinister pasts are masks to the blasts we got away with and lived to tell the tale.
Alas, we are sons and friends first, not last.
We cling to our good old glory stories past,
But at last the time is new, our trip begins.
Wheels burn, stomachs churn.
Our aspired souls yearn,
to fire the liars and unconcerned.
We head for the East coast.
With temperatures rising,
approaching unseen horizons,
rejecting the superficially tantalizing,
we begin to feel our tattered souls wisen.
Talking a new talk, calculating the steps to walk a new walk.
Testifying our pains, devilishly dodging heavenly rains, the bitter pains.
Watching yourself in a friend, a cynical kidder gone bitter. Your mirror becomes your babysitter.
We search our hearts and back again down I-10.
We find strength and talk about things friends for life can only talk about on a walk about.
We lift some Spirits to lift our spirits.
Night falls,
we arrive alive… our walk about calls 1,365miles in 18 hours.

Day two begins.

Meet and greet with the beach.
Get a handle on some handy sandals,
some nicotine candy and butane candles.
A fifth of Daniels.
Jack and Jose will duel this day.
"You know it's know your fault, pass the lime and salt," ends most answers before noon.
Let's take some dares with the local fare, shadowing the glare of our wear and tear.
The sun fries,
windy sands fly,
waves pacify,
dropped bikini tops glimpsed from the corner of our eye, testify.
The Sun sets.

Shuffing off the nightlife status-quo of Clematis Row, we turn our walkabout into a Palm Beach Safari...Club.
Whoa! Rows and rows of walking, talking shows barely clothed from head to tanned toes.Making funnies about hunting honies preying on $$$.
The unattainable passes. We tap our glasses.
"Point in case, what a waste, such tragedies as these, a lot of money and a little cheese meets a little ****** in high cut sleeves, low-cut cleaves & cuts way above the knees.
Our cuts are deep. Bartender, two Yagers please."

Low and behold…on those stools sit no fools.
Breaking all rules.
with Coronas as fuel,
we inflate our jewels.
As we coach our approach, mentioning "I-10 and back again" prompts grins,
hides our cynicism and sins,
then, moving in to win friends.
Names and places put to faces, careful glancing, winks and dancing.
Alright, the trips to the bathroom are getting old.
Warm smiles once cold, honest questions and truths told…no souls sold…we fold? Hmmmm.
We leave and arrive alive.
Caffine and nicotine stay the scene until the wee hours overpower us.

Day three unfolds

The sun rises and the ocean calls.
Old molds broken
No lies spoken.
No need to peddle your life away settling on the day-to-day following peers falsely content and full of contempt.
Eyes turn bright,
the Sun pours over night,
dolphin, lime and salt,
golfing talk,
day approaches night.
Less tense and more pensive,
more apprehensive and less expensive,
even so we head out to even the evening,
to end our grieving and start achieving....something.
Latitude changes have rearranged our attitude gauges.
So we choose West Palm's Clematis Row to show us how a little rude,
lude and tattooed could clue us in on the anew.
Fools with jewels.
Girls with rules.
Uncool tools abound.
We walk this street of sleekish freaks,
the falsely meek,
lions that squeak.
"Club Respectables" is dubbed rejectables as the objectionable scene is seen as a scheme by vampires with recessive genes.
Next is Spanky's…Best described as "A frat boy fishing pole contest to tackle box in bait shack." One bucket of beer away from "I got your back Jack in case of attack."
We move along.
Colombia Supreme brewed proceeding it's fine grind and American Online becomes the sign of the times swaying us to stay and play at an Internet Cafe.

"I could live here," proclaims a cynical kidder once bitter now soothed by the sea spray and salty air.

Enlightenment heightened by a magic man,
near night's end, inspires an O'Shea's Black and Tan.
The crowd mocks and baulks the sidewalk scene from the patio Pub Dubbed Irish.
We greet the ground,
not the masses' frown,
seat our ***** down,
toast our glasses of black and brown,
our bitters with bite wash down the bitter frowns we normally wear out in our hometown.
"That's a sharp Harp's and sinister Guinness; can I get a witness?"

We head back down our beaten path, writing our epitaphs and usual eulogies...But you know that the "place" or your "space" will change your face, one makes the case."If you sound bitter and you look bitter, chances are you are bitter."
I begin to smile during our final mile of token jokes,
Corona smokes,
shiny Harley spokes.
We leave and arrive alive at the realization,
we have things to strive for in our lives.  
We smoke and joke and poke fun at the run down broken blokes we were before our fun in the sun had begun.
  
Day four begins.
  
We embark for the Ozarks. Our souls at ease.
Save the scene...the last palm tree's waving leaves,  
we wave our palms and leave.
1300 miles more,  
Pushing the morning hour of four,  
empty coffee cups galore,  
moonings a score,  
pedal to the floor,  
memories and more,  
we knew we would be back for more.  
Suddenly learning how insane our inane claims of waning fame should hold no shame,
we reframe our game.
Upon our return…
the strength to strive, take back our broken banks and breaking backs.
Less taxing, more relaxing..."it could happen"... eliquinent waxing.
As we search our hearts and back again, down I-10,we find the strength in things you can only talk about on a walk about,
but that's what it was all about.
By R.Craig David-copyrighted 1995

Whining dog...we just went outside.
Wading through internet DATs and cogs and bandwidth hogs, outside still raining cats and dogs.
double-click trawling pics and blogs searching for remedies and laws that inhibit logs to saw.
Wide-eyed, face down I sprawl still awake, redefining  my character flaws,
fearing my falling into the trappings of urban sprawl or
investing your mind then hitting the wall.
Lose or draw,
a new artistic affair or creative outlet dares you daily to fall.
"Late" is now "Early"
Dawn's illuminating looming, night to be soon consumed.
Insomnia vacuums,
drama typhoons,
crooning tunes....
It'll be June soon.
Feeling marooned waiting for the opportune...well, I'm still waiting,
Whining dog...we just went outside...Fine!
Rain drains backlogged in the AM black...****** dog. Decide! He takes his time.
Three nights of showers,
cowering under this street corner lighted power tower,
unrequited efforts to stay dry.
Moon still high, clouded bright behind the wetness...
Wait, what if I see "her"?
Should I dare bare my soul, take control, or say simply "Hello?" just to know?
Do I want to know "yes" or "no"?
Grandmother always said "The truth is the most powerful force you'll ever face, trace, disgrace or embrace"
I remember my last pursuance of the truth.
You remember college...
The ubiquitous responsibility of apologies for the skewed knowledge sleuth colleges preclude.
A four, no five year matterless smattering reviewing the hows, whys and whos who of Impressionist imbued hues;
the politics of subdued Katmandu coups,
Homer's muses; many a Siren sank the boats I crewed;
news crews that flew the bird flu news coop and recouped,
skewed suing over Golden Arch morning brew,
tragedies, sonnets, and nothing adieus,
spewed formulas and equations notecard ques,
standing in long line registration cues every time we change Major views,
all fueled by a boozing, smokey ballyhoo of Tullamore Dew, hopped brews, tattoos, crude food, music muses and quoted virtues.
What’s even true and what would you do if you knew, ****** logic class…
And alas, you're through! “Here’s your paper, now choose.”
The ****** inequity of iniquity dams me so I can't break free.
Such an abrupt disruption could erupt great corruption,
the self-destruction is tempting, but doesn't pay rent.
Not today, but maybe soon.
June's coming...dryer and higher noon.

R.Craig David- copyright 2008
Redux Edition April 1st, 2013
Inspired by rain, blame shame, the game and a cute girl just 3 doors down that still remains a stranger in my old college town.

There was a smitten kitten, too hot to wear mittens,
whose conventions sent you over the moon.
She liked hiking tall towers,
sniffing lavender flowers
and smiling when tunes were crooned.

It is known and it's written,
many cats liked Smitten Kitten,
some still do to this day.
There were polecats, fat cats, tall cats, small cats and cats that were all work and no play.
There were fast cats, scaredy-cats and cats who only came out at night or the day.
There were even other kittens,
too hot for their mittens,
who loved when she'd come out to play.
All were fun,
had their day in the sun,
but none purred smitten kitten the right way.

It has been said and has been written that smitten kitten,
too hot for her mittens,
without pretense or condition,
had a purring penchant for cellar rats and precision in the kitchen.
In the French district downtown,
near the alleys by the Sound,
some nights she waits for one Ronin Chef,
for last time he left,
a tall and a tasty treat.
Smitten Kitten gives pause,  
relaxes her claws,
licking her paws...she wishes,
for his white wine-kissed elaborate fish dishes
and dreams of what next he will make.
Her tongue and mouth can’t wait.

Tonight it occurs,
he arrives...she purrs,
on the alley wall she curls up and takes a seat.
Endearingly peering through the window...she thinks...
"Whilst he stack his plates with mouth-watering innuendo?"
"Whilst he whip the spicy sauces and flames into a great crescendo?"
He begins...as so...
He chops and he flips sizzled serranos, hot on the lips,
and stacks seasoned seafood high on a plate.
His old radio is tuned
to a station crooning tunes,
twisting tongs and spinning spoons,
the One Ronin chef shoots for the moon.
The chef vigorously bakes and flambés,
stirs curds away,
hands so fast it's alluringly blurring.
He says not a word nor nary a chanced glance occurring.
Smitten Kitten's eyes glazed,
her mouth watering for "amaze"!
Food spins, is seared and is braised.
pots clambered!
hot buns glazed!
fruit hammered!
Sauces ablaze!
Bang, Boom!!

Alas it was done,
Her heart and appetite had been won.
And the chef began to tear the kitchen down and moved out of sight.
Suddenly she scampered and hid,
as a savory stacked plate was slid
carefully out the backdoor and out of the way.

The chef it occurs
had made it for her,
and her fur began to frazzle and fray.  
She sniffed the array of flavor,
her palette began to saveur,
the salt,
the unami,
the spicy and sweet.

It is said and is written,
from Smitten Kitten’s first bite bitten,
she remains stunned, amazed and enamored, to this day.

Mom, at the behest of those you feel you failed to impress, let me digress.
You have accomplished more than you realize.  
You have seen the world around with your own two eyes.  
You got a Masters at the #1 Journalism Writing College in the US.  
And did so against the behest of doubters you once sought to impress.  
You survived  bouts with cancer and wrote a book about it.  
You did not waste a lifetime idolizing something worthless or unfit.  
I don’t know anyone else that has read as many pages of literary depth.  
I don’t know anyone else with which secrets are better kept.
I don’t know anyone else who can translate middle English  or drudge through the quantum physics, met the Dali Lama and mastered Ken Wilber.  
Who can cook an epic meal yet without a sprinkle of selfish?
Or effortlessly design, hand tie and smith 1000 jewelry pieces of stone and silver?  
You have contributed to and held influenced in every city and town you ever loved and lived within  
You’re paid fortunate to love someone who loves you both here and above.  
You were gifted with an old soul.  
You smile and liars fold.
You are positively inspired and influenced by the people, places and art you have witnessed.  
Their purpose, intent and why they exist.  
You raised a son who feels he won from all you’ve done but in return you asked none.

This next stage in your life will be your time to shine.  
It is your time to power back up.  
Things are about line up again.  
Before you attempt to quantify the sum of your contributions and accomplishments, look closely at the measure of the parts.
What are you gauging your accomplished-o-meter against.  
Before you answer, consider this:   This is a capitalist society.
The worth of stocks, bonds, even the paper money, all only have value because someone in power says they do so.  
Innovation is only funded based on potential profitability,
not encouraged to enrich mankind‘s forward go.  
Creating for the greater good is tougher than ever.  
It’s maddening to know hundreds of Americans win millions of lottery dollars every week, then we never hear about them again.
Or pull a slot machine level.  
They never surface a year later, having changed their community or town for the better.
I know money makes things more comfortable.
Yeah capitalism rewards margin first, I too am disgruntled.
Your season is coming again.  
Your reason to be and the how, why and when.  
You should see it out here in the Gen-X trenches.  
We are holding together the Gen-Y instant gratify on one end while maintaining morals of the World War II grinches.
There are so many media outlets now, spewing raw, unedited, shallow ideas meant only to capture my time and money.
Your noble intent, the quality of what you are trying to achieve and contribute, it has a place.  
Your cost you spent, the things you piled up, now in a storage space.  
It’s worth continues to increase.  
I want to help you during this next stage and make the last one cease.
I don’t want you to tape your hope up in a box in a storage unit for another 5 years.  
Your newest book will be revered, buy the Time to debunk Shakespeare
and prove it was Devere.

Bump,thump,bump,thump.... the bass cases shake and quake  
Secreting heat, my skin blushes, that rush of a new secret crush.
She passes and her scent renders all around helpless.
The DJ's plush talons tow and myre you soul's wires.  
Seeping through, the beak crushing your conscience,  
falling, sleep down, the sound grounds you.  
Sowing the seeds of desire on the stone below.  
Called by the thumping, bumping beat,  
You jump from your seat into a market of meat, a sea of shifting feet.  
10,000 lights spin like sugar bright.  
Blood fuels your feet,  
feats of flight,  
blurs of sight.  
Spinning like cotton candy with all your might.  
Body overheating, heart overbeating, grains of lust over seeding.  
Your scars begin to heal as glassy eyes not blue appeal to your "at first sight" senses.  
Senses slow there motion to primal, tingling too much,  
not too much to touch, no sting as such.  
Such a blissful kiss t'would be from she before thee.  
Snip the wire.  
Feed the desire.  
The need grows to fan passion fire.  
The potent scent of dripping skin steams up like the devotional incline of nine combined love potions.  
Love, as real love, survives as only a notion in this moving motion of lust's contrived plot...  
But to feel alive, even for a moment,  
love's emotion fails... drawing bust to the ever opulent opponent of lust;  
a proponent to disguise the potent demise of the heart's conscious component.  
Gas and smoke blows.  
Beats high and low.  
The dancing mass of suppressed woes ebbs and flows,  
capturing the seconds, snatching your essence, rapturing your ethics.  
Feeding the peak you seek, heart weak, roaring soul silenced to squeak.  
Waning away your stay with the sweating sea of swing and sway leaves you adrift.  
The waves of the DJ begin to hammer you into enamerment  
Did this quaking wake the sober state of your forsakenness?  
That complaicent stained vacant place aching to be filled.  
A painful, dizzying blood rush floods your mind and muck the feeling first struck secret love crush  
Were the judgment-blurring thoughts occurring so alluring? They fought off pure thoughts sought before she heart-stopped me.  
In light of a moment caught, wrought with knots of naughty thoughts.  
Light and sound and the thumping, bumping ground drown your bounds. 
No more, no more. 
"Now I remember" internally sounds, profound rebounds. 
Lore from before when the last passing blue-eyed leggy lass tore the door off your soul's core.  
No more, no more.  
The crush becomes dust. You become stone.  
Cut to the bone. No seed will be sewn.
You face the floor and breathe. alone.
  
 "Cameo Theater South Beach"   
R. Craig David-Copyright 1995

Two hearts encased,
chased by a full moon overlooking the black and lucid night.
Like a bright contrasting white light spotlight on things to be.
Mine to yours and yours to me.
Two hearts into one,  
the one moon spills a mana spell akin to an infinite, everlasting spoken rune over the ages.
Our stories into one,
Our hearts bond,
timeless...unsung,
It’s skips progressive stages,
beyond words on pages,
in this quiet moment past the reach of the Sun.
The fullest moon,
the furthest reach,
high in the sky contrasting the black lack of light,
night’s version of high noon.

Emboldened to fold into and hold onto you so often,
bending,
blending,
transcending so tight even our souls share light.
Eyes shut, sealed from light,
we feel and grasp and clasp and clinch at every body-inch,
sparking darkest days into brightest nights...
then, all over again, I see you, I pull you close,
and so it begins again this morning or this day or this night.

PART 2
The ****, salty taste of your waist encases a place in my brain forever.
You depart...we’re apart...
Miss you fiercely,
love you deeply,
to hold you near,
feel my fears leave me,
if only I could just see thee.
My next morning starts anew with more thoughts of you and how completely I see thee as part of the whole sum of who I suddenly aspire to be.

With every rolling tumble and sweet embrace,
with every chanced glance to give chase,
with every coy kissing peck on my neck,
with every wept tear of joy
with every breath or soulful laugh you employ,
I beseech you,
Mate to my soul,
woman to this man,
girl to this boy,
my heart,
my love,
my trust are yours to have,
to hold,
to embold...
laid bare to infirm or destroy.

By R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2017

Part 1
When profound things leave us because serendipity seizes control and teases our soul,

few actually see it and believe in us....it takes its toll.

Our walls grow high...

Wise to all those sly predators that shared our space but ultimately never bettered us.

Likened to a wild bunch of criminals and nuns you sometimes share fun or lunch with,
then again spin adrift.

So we stay put...only peeling away the day-to-day’s fraying gray.

Though we have heightened steeliness to infernal charms,

We sometimes ignore internal alarms,

Oft' ending up-in-arms instead of in the arms of another.

Battling each curse from crib to hearse,
We continue to play anyway, but hold our cards close..
Somehow coasting on borrowed form and verse.

Still too afraid to lead with enormity.

Still too proud to follow in conformity.

We become shells and ghosts to project “normality”.

Still hoping for more,

Still revealing our core,

Still practicing what we’d say with one more chance to settle the score.

Refusing to sink, either our genius always on the brink of changing the world and more...

Or burning down and gutting out our current hideout and surrounding small town or place of clout.

Still reeling from the lingering devastation of past lackluster unreciprocated non-appreciation knockdowns.

To keep from being corrupt,

We fold our coldest stories up,

And box them up under a "never the right 'write' " pens and pencils cup long filled up.

Smiling a little, we continue through this long season's harsh climate.

Subconsciously buying "Dried" sage because "Rubbed" still seems to intimate.

Tragically tied down by the tiny tech gadgets flooding our data stream with faster updates;

All just to dazzle and daze us into a lazy malaise on our busiest of days.

PART2
More and more we wait.

The "what-if's" we contemplate.

The more we try to create something great, then hesitate, none too late

The more this inundating system of “Likes” rates you,

The less your gated fate or guiding faith makes you "you".

The less your justification or inspiration moves you.

Yet uncompromising and alone, you continue and make it through.

No one could ever guess from your crisp pants' fresh press. I digress.

Oddly, all it likely would take is one ego caress from soft smiling muse in sandals and a summer dress.

If you could only get this distress off your chest, fall hard for a new muse, give your defenses a rest

endure the re-birthing process and all the possible hot mess...then...

Never again would you have to guess or obsess.

The sheer potential magnitude of you at your best.

An open floodgate of uncanny, uncaddy personal success.

You would never again feel idleness or unrest.

But "who" you ask, would be caring, tough & daring enough,

willing to share all that stuff through such an arduous process, off the cuff?

Who has such pure heart intent, without the fluff?

A Muse who speaks out loud for you, never a mumble...

Is strong and humble, but not rough and tumble...

Who heeds the needs of your soul's rumble...

Who pulls the "new you" close while your old limits crumble...

Is fair and daring when you're sharing how bizarrely you sometimes raise the bar...

Joins your rare ****** to close down the bars while thoughtfully considering how fragile your scars are...

Who encourages you to shoot for the stars...

Sees the truth of who you were, hope to be and the screams in-between.

And by her sheer presence, becomes all these things for that new man and him alone.

Cause of she, he will achieve and be more than he could on his own.

Whoever that girl may be and until then,

I mend a tightly woven,

slightly broken,

rarely spoken,

unawoken caged soul for one more shinny token to spend on this world alone.

By R.Craig David-Copyrighted 2012

"The Scent of Spinning"

Following the curve of your neck in the dark.
Watching your eyes close in slow motion as I slow my motion.
The smell of your bare skin sends me spinning,
rendering me helpless into your fold.
Time slows the flows of sweet smelling wine down your neck line.
Tracing soft lines down your back, our eyes close.
Excesses of ecstasy rekindling even the cinder within our beating hearts.
Clinging to the start of each new moment, we slowly roll and fold together.
The scented potion of sweet devotion renders quiet all but steady motion like slow ocean waves.
Laws of science, all broken.
Jaws are silenced, none is spoken.
Embraced in compliance, a dream unwoken.
The hour after you're gone,
reminiscent hints of you scent linger on.
Again I descend into a hypnotic slumber,
sent spinning by the scent of your bare skin.

R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2002

You can remember more than the day
the hour, the second, right down to the blink
When you were on the brink
that moment you decide to ignore your basic instinct, your gut.
Your soul starts to sink.
You stop to think...
know you’re no longer in sync with what your soul needs,
your heart feels,
your mind thinks.
Your lack of love for yourself allows you to put all your dreams goals and ideals on the shelf.
There are no reasons or logic or causes to be known.
There is no legacy or growth or seeds to be sown or thrown,
and so the seceding, succeeding that sits on “Her” throne shall be well known.
Your last flickering candle exposed to the cold dark windblown unknown as you walk alone in the black.
Why did you make this decision alone...because you always were the minute you abandoned your own.
But somehow this nonsensical, unremarkable **** slipped in, equipped, betwixt, bewitched,
a too simple beseeching of your heart.

The Professor drones on.
I glimpse at my phone...quick-link to trending news... "Grease thieves"  the headline reads.... Envirogeeks stealing french fry grease to run their old diesel tour bus. Willie's on the road again it seems.
I imagine 60's dressed high school girls stealing DVD's of the classic movie musical and every girl I every dated singing the part of Oliva Newton-John in all the songs.  The old love-crush imagined from my boyhood brain surfaces.
The long legs of the most beautiful fair-haired Australian beauty. In that last scene wearing those tight leather jeans... "Oh Sandy"....Don’t believe me, ask your girlfriend the first thing that pops in her head when you say the word “Grease”...it won’t be french fry.
Wait candy!...Freeing my ceased-up palm from the creases of my  deep-seated thesis folders, releases my pack’s last handful of Reese's Pieces. Nearly asleep, I study the candy's ingredients as Dr. ancient geek waxes eloquent about Theseus, redemption and ancient Greece. The very parallels rule my brain insanity.
The oil from Palm trees burned bright that night the ancient Greeks create a democratic state gathered in an ancient auditorium designed for debate or education or to tempt our fetes and fates with historical songs, love stories and tragedies of the day.
All so my present day brain could reference the social tragedy love songs of "Grease".... the unchanged, tour-bus-fueling power of oil and grease stolen in the name of freedom, a ancient Greek democratic freedom voted on in a auditorium the very design of this Greek History classroom copies.
******, why are they putting Palm Oil in my Reese's Pieces?!?!
11:34am starts.

Unrealistically going ballistic on premature political whistle blowing of missing ballistic missiles.
Rumors round the fickle frowns trickling down around town,
WMD's never found.
Media drowns out our original intent with swayed day-to-day comments about potential evidence or contents of secret documents or undisturbed "security clearancegate".
Still secret and still unclear year-to-date....
our eroded freedoms now appurtenances as consequence.
The missing  missiles long ago hidden or moved like agendas with chess-master finesse.
Citizens chide "You lied!! Confess!"
Behooving you proves nothing in bringing relief to your beliefs,
thieving your freedoms and Commander in Chief.
Lectures on conjecture don't secure a future.
It's almost "Au Revior" american cars and mortgages, hype puts the scarred afar Stars and Stripes Bail Bonds Czars in business.
Meanwhile billions are spent to rebuild the countries invaded without consent.
The Banks are saved but don't repent.
Far enough away to keep my iniquity a bay for today.
I clearly see what is before me, but respond not to my thoughts as I was taught.
Septed in guilt,
wept in filth
kept in tilt
loss is coming,
should have flossed.
The long term costs tossed aside.
Just another day I drive away from the driveway rarely driven to lie longer or lie down somber,
striving for stronger days lost,
feels wrong though.
I still go.
Pay the tolls.
Stop and go.
Fill the daily paying role outside my dreams and goals.
Play generic background music while my soul's on hold waiting for the next available operator.
Just another day, a way to stay alive and not lie down in hunger,
paying for my blunders,
staving off my heart's quiet thunder,
my dreams and wonders.
I still get up. I still go. Bills to pay. Traffic's slow. I mute the radio.

-R. Craig David-Copyright 2007

Your warm, bold soul rolls over my controls.
I miss you the instant you’re beyond an inch of distance.
I miss your face.
I miss your waist.
I miss the space you incase around me.
I miss the towering, profound grace you use to shower and ground me.
It rapidly rises to the top of my head, but doesn’t drown me.
Sleeping silently in that dark, soft space engulfed by warm embrace,
my chased heart silenced by all that you are and surround me.
Quivering, shivering, your sultry curves swerving and curling in the dark.
Each new embark,
a spark of soul fire between us,
clinging beyond the confines of “never apart;
never the days; until our hearts depart; never shall they part"

My thoughts are of you, day and night.
My conceived intrigue, every clue, stays firm my might.
My mind pines.
My heart binds.
My soul combines.
My meaning defines.
My purpose refines.
My limits resign.
You define purpose in me.
You curve perfectly.
You inspire creativity.
You correct gracefully.
You are my sanctuary.
Please bring with thee all you were,
all you believe,
all that you perceive to be,
because I believe in all you can be.
My heart pines,
My mind aligns,
My soul grows warm in thine.

Sometimes when unsure souls are apart, hearts go dark,
finding bitter-sweet sorrow in the depart.
Unconsciously staying far away from "them and they" who filled and smashed then cast away our jars from back then to present day.
In all despite,
in a moment of might,
You walk into my sight,
Suspending the win of "them and their" sins.
It's effortless for me to give in,
the chase begins again.
In spite, it doesn't feel like a chase,
it just feels right.

Smile so sweet,
our eyes meet,
it's like a lightning strike...head to feet.
Hits me like a glowing, white hot flash of tingling electricity,
blinding bright,
striking right down from the heavens like a craggily branch of pure flowing energy piercing my heart and soul,
then surging through every electrical current-driven nerve cell my body holds.
I magnetize to the earth, unable to move, frozen in time…
Grounded as thunder following clasps in the distance.

Staring at your sparking seducing silhouette,
then hips,
then lips,
then surmising eyes,
then smile advancing pace towards me in the street.
A rare chance for us to meet.
The same Lightning strikes twice.
I feel the tingle spiring up to my face,
the sly and subtle serendipity strike setting the pace, the time, the place.


My fears are flushed,
I feel heat blush,
I wish you to rush.
Race,
closer to touch.
The instant innocent "Crush" is much.

You enter my personal space,
Smiling a mile wide.
You close in until my place is touched and encased by your hair softly falling around your eyes and face.  
Lightning strikes thrice.
I sense my helpless demise as my heart takes the stage,
Opening night,
Act one,
Scene one,
Cue the thunder.
Will I be undone in this serendipitous theater of surprise or hearts unwon?

Dropped from the highest point,
the largest stone smashes down and holds back all that once made me feel alone.
My soul runs unto to your connection,
our necks connect.
I smell your skin's convection.
Time alignment correction.
The earth is shifted.
My eyes naturally close as I fold into you.
My natural emotion is selected as I hold on to you.
all sounds drown,
our heads tilt down in concert,
seredipty conducts,
a symphony erupts into minutes as though everything I want goes through yourself.
So subtle is the soul-to-soul magnetism adherence, a transference beyond appearance.
Anticipating thunder,
the next minute of our meeting begins.

By R. Craig David-Copyright 2017

When do we start feeling hope?
As is with most complex emotions,  
babies do not feel hope‘s notions.  
As children, we feel our need to construct the foundations of love and  fear.  
The fail and the fall more painful each year.
Once we have a simply grasp on either or both of those,  
we then begin to form basic concepts of hope, I suppose.
As a child , when I hoped something would come to pass,  
I left my heart open to trespass.
What is possible?
What can be achieved?
Hope forms ideas about what our future life will look like and what we believe.
Who will love us?
What fears we will have to overcome or even concieve? 
This hope is not constructed in a time frame, day, month or year.
Hope is a whole concept of our future before it appears,  
before the way it will become a reality is clear.  
This formed hope, despite is origin, can subconsciously influence every major decision we make.  
Where we live, the jobs we chose, the reasons we work and live, who we date.
When in our lives does our hope change from things for ourselves vs. things for the greater good.
Why is the difference important and are we responsible once it’s understood?  
If you have never been suppressed, stripped of freedom, knock on wood.
What if we ignore our human need to be motivated by hope?  
What if we never established the construct of hope or struggled to keep it afloat? Hope’s value is tied to physical and emotional pain, hurt and sufferings.  
Complex constructs about Hope for the greater good born from the worst things.
The greatest accomplishments after starting with nothing.
What does this mean?  
Societies suffering under the rule of a ruthless dictator that don’t but could,
will have the highest number of people hoping for the greater good.  
Freedoms forsaken, worth taken, wills shaken, Conclusion…Revolution

by R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2012
Written about the riots in Turkey

Sparse in the chase,
for life, not death.
scar on my face,
lump in my throat.
gasp in your breath.
My breath, clasping chest, I
guess my last.
Thumps in your sweater, I hold together.
tingles in your clothes and toes,
a fever atop your head,
we swim away from where we should have tread.
The things I should have said.
The word "Love" too much..my best guess, I suppose.
Dreading words not said...but the response they spread...best left unsaid.
Money rents lust and fun, but not “True Love” and "the one" that comes on the cusp, off the cuff.
A true heart never captured, but on the run, is open and undone.
In the absence of sound,
you frown turns to the ground,
it drowns me.
Only fit to see my heart flambeed and fricasseed.
**** first dates...I survive. I proceed.


June 2013 By R. Craig David

"Love Conquers and Conjures a Fall"

What do I do?
Could it truly be my ordained duty to this one of beauty set before me?
Not allowed to be proud,
to scream out loud that a cloud has been lifted,
that I've been gifted.
No longer the obsession of confusing my once unperceived deception.
The very essence of her presence reels my will from surreal to real,
revealing a feeling of peeling apart my concealed heart.
Under divine direction,
with opulent affection,
and your eyes reflection,
my heart gains protection,
my life direction,
my soul connection.
It's hard to conceive belief she could alleviate the gated fate of my forsaken heart.

By R. Craig David-copyrighted 2001

Where I was then?
Where was I when I decided to “be” according to where I thought I wasn’t, but should be seen or be or had been.
Who was seeing me and why?
A stranger’s approval superseded my own deny...but why?
Doesn’t matter now, the story’s “how”, driven by eyes not mine, saw me there then, not now....
Don’t remember the why, where or when....
you get the picture, the state of mind I was in.
A situation, a moment, a scene,
Where I thought I would “mean”, make an impact or at least when I thought I was making efforts to intervene.
“The Scene”, alas, conveniently never convened to pass because it was not of truth-tried substance but flammable gas.
Whether my “right here, right now” approach would be enough for the price of smell, taste and touch....too stubborn to be coached,
too proud to see myself beyond reproach...
A rhetoric heretic riding coach facing every new horizon I approached...
Prime for being poached.
First, I crater.
You’re a target for more abuse if you cater.
Later I learn, earn, burn, know better.
Bitter, I turn hater.
Sell your self now to matter later...
Instead I try to unplug,
to be better.
Isolate yourself just to make a difference.
Creators that steer clear of best interests,
bent to mechanize.
We consent, but don’t recognize.
The “Society-interests second” dance?..fat chance,
their intent to capitalize so you can look good in tight pants.
People consume more processed salt, fat and sugar.
Drunk youth dance to music made by “industry entrepreneurs” that never played an instrument.
“You make how much??? Here are the 10 neighborhoods, restaurants, cars, clothes and other some-such you can identify by...I mean afford...I mean identify with.
Sacrifice a category to move up in another, the gratification will root in your  instinctive brain,
recreating the same situation like a bad joke,
ever-riding the razor thin line of addiction and cope,
correction and hope,
direction and scope.
Men can **** it or **** it or brag about someone else who did.
Women can socialize, feel, share, dance or share about someone else who did.
It’s well researched, they know the instinctive needs
Only opinions allowed, the truth carries too much responsibility.
I can always change my mind later, the truth does not change.
Funders will shake any baby or kiss any hand to get you to say yes to “this is why they’re bad” but never change brought in “this is how we can”.
Thunders will quake any wonders if they’re felt without Lightning’s blinding flash to closed-lash eyes.
Sliced, Spliced, Splintered and splendidly split.
Thrice not twice I was hindered to commit to give but not get.
Crises without advice,
a soul’s Tendency to admit quit, at least, so is writ.
Heresies cost,
scarily tossed across the lost sea’s vast length crossed.
You only drown if you leave the shore, better not, how dare you want more.

Perception can raise the highest bars.
Tiny, large, indifferent or common,
We all fight to fill the jars.
Loss and fall, stumbles and awe fail us all, jails to the lowest bars....
Until we crawl
"Stuck, struck and dependent" set the bar.
"Shrunk, drunk and indifferent" closes The Bar.
A hole is dug cause we're "toast" or "below par"
or dug out of, cause we're "so close" or have "come so far"
We cross a path Just or justly taken and bare.
A cross to bare is just a path once taken we say, feel or swear.
We all fight the feeling of the cost,
Or the aftermath we all have to share, gain or is lost.
R.Craig David- July 2014

Looking away from your eyes,

I realize the size of the rising situation.

In your eyes lie no lies

that give rise to despise or desperation.

I dare to compare anything unfair

with that glaring stare you wear.

Bright and full of wrong-less right,

their bright white glassiness contrasts the night.

Sincere fears rearing near tears

by the mere peering on clearly seen "dears" of yesteryear.

Eyes despising the realization of past situations.

Be bold and unfold your reservation.

Only good truths shall be told.

No lies spoken.

Old molds broken.

Sympathy and empathy and things causing the heart to flee.

Breathe.

One...two...three, lift your lids and see.

Hates once realized,

words you once despised,

glances once causing your very demise,

shall not be recognized in my own eyes.

If we again allow our eyes to close,

and the world around us slows,

and our instincts move us nose to nose,

we shall realize a sizable rising situation just arose.

by R. Craig David-Copyrighted 1998

“Ten Life Lessons I Learned from My Mom, OK Eleven” by R. Craig David

(1) The truth is an absolute powerful force in the universe. It will remain so despite acknowledgement, understanding or respect for it. So be careful when you seek it, because you may not be prepared for the responsibility of knowing it.
(2.) A good chef always cooks as an expression of himself to others. We eat thousands of times a year, but when you share a meal that tastes amazing with people we know, we are forever influenced by the chef who made it, not the package it came in. Unrelated to when I once proclaimed to her "Best Bologna Sandwich I ever ate" at age 4, that was simply love.
(3.) You taught me that it takes more than creativity to yield great works. You have to respect the process and the amount of dedication required to get results.
(4.) You don’t always love what you do, even if you're good at it or do what you love, even if you're bad at it. You must balance this with hope and love or you will fail being good at either.
(5.) At some point in your life, you’ll need to reconcile your inability to control God, Death, Time and Love. Best to deal with these absolutes, and our powerless influence on them, early in life, though very few people do.
(6.) Unless you are self-aware, you will spend most of your life trying to make people proud of who you are, have respect for you, acknowledge your worth, and give your works value. Outside of family, fear of rejection often pushes us to spend this time on people we are not proud of, have no respect for, have little worth and whose works have no value, yet we seek their approval. Recognize this before you ask someone to rate the quality of anything you feel is a major accomplishment.
(7.) When your health is weak, one of three things is wrong with your body's systems internally:
You do not have enough of something.
There is too much of something.
Something is present that is not supposed to be in your system.
Determining which one it is takes time, hope, patience and a sense of self-preservation. Please note, building a foundation in these values is easier when we are strong, so stock up.
(8.) Choose a mate who encourages you to be a better human. Usually, a girl who only wants you to always pay attention to her and her alone in life, will rarely influence you to do anything else and ultimately you will become a stranger to your own heart.
(9.) Tons of high tech software, faster creative tools, new media outlets and new mediums are invented each year to communicate our ideas. However, you still have to have an actual, original idea to be communicated... as such, spend your time accordingly.
(10.) Learn to respect the time, energy and effort needed to take a thought provoking, complex, creative idea from inception to fruition before trying to gain an audience.
(11.) Also have respect for the patience, perseverance and commitment required to positively influence others to exchange something of value for this complex idea. This can be just as challenging as the energy it takes to create.

Atrocities, pain and loss watered down by the last iced libation tossed.
Sun-brightened poolside I testify my own shames and glossed-over accomplishments.
Stranger danger no longer a social cost.
In that moment, my essence is captivated by a pair of hazel green sparkled soul-catchers,
a fleeting glance,
an alluring stranger...Her soul says I look familiar and took a chance.
It has to be in this moment,
She calls to explore me,
but still has walls to ignore me, before I know the depth of this moment...an angel falls before me.
This unfathomable deep breath of chance,
she waves to shore me,
a hand to keep me soft from loss that has me off.
She looks past my conditions.
Lips betwixt, hips bewitched, this mysterious mistress in my time by the sea.
She, like a siren, calms me,
gently calls me witness the start of a new day.
Her freeness bonds to me,
I can't stay away.
Freckles on every inch,
her long lines, auburn waves and soft smile,
struggling to touch as much of us together as can be done during a clutch and clinch.
My heart's guards throw down their arms and abandon their post.
I am left with all the things I want to say about how I feel and who you are and what matters most.
This shall not be and does not come to pass.
We stay up too late and drink to much.
Our hearts are silenced by the coast.
We know so well who we are,
and can see we will not break our own hearts to make it last.
Like two wildly different cut jigsaw pieces,
we fit together well,
but from them, the big picture of the puzzle,
still too hard to tell.
We don't believe the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus exist, but that amazing first touch, dance and kiss was and did, none the less.
During this leeward part when the storm dropped,
my heart pressed against your heart, time stopped...
flew the sparks before the dark.
We left our marks, but in the end,
a pin drop and a bag full of question marks.
Because our lives, our hearts and our experience are so tightly rolled up into an abyss,
life has taught us we hit far, far less than we miss.
You never truly define what you think about me or how you feel.
And looking back, perhaps not me to thee.
I do know it was quality time,
was real time spent,
you were present...
I am still driven by your scent.
I only hope, for now, you smile a lot,
the time we spent is not forgot,
and all that was captured between us, remains caught.
For me, it was all that comes attached to 10,000 freckles, 4 softly-scented curves, two emerald-gemed soulcatchers, one spontaneous smile and a sunrise…
For me, that's a lot.

By R. Craig David-Copyright 2017

"5 Steps"
.. ..
Step 1, I was having fun,
I was cunning, I was on the run
Just no telling how many hearts,
I left undone.
I wish someone had told me,
"Son, your life has just begun."

Step 2, I had all the right moves.
I was sly, I was slick, I was cool.
Well I laughed and I smiled and said the right things,
just to set the mood
Wish someone had said to me,
"Don't you know the joker plays the fool."

Step 3, in the comfort zone,
I didn't love her, but at least I wasn't alone
Couldn't bring myself to look in her eyes and tell her,
tell her she's not the one.
Last thing she said to me is,
"One day, someone will do to you what you've done."

Step 4, slammed the door.
I was drunk as my body hit the floor.
Just never knew a breaking heart
could cause so much pain.
No one had to tell me,
I only had myself to blame.

Step 5, I was half alive,
as I stumbled into the local dive.
Closed the door, my heart hit the floor,
as her hair fell around her emerald eyes.
Never knew a stranger's glance,
could make you feel so alive.

Wish someone had told me,
I would have been waiting for step 5.
Wish someone had said to me,
"Wait, step five is why you're alive."

by R. Craig David-copyright 2004

The corn stocks shocked across the field,
and pointing to the sky,
like Indian teepees in a row,
watched the world go by.
The distant hilltops wrap themselves in robes of smoky haze.
Trees leaves painted,
red and gold.
These Indian summer days.


Comments:
(Driving through the Ozarks when the leaves are changing...well you just can't beat the feeling, especially when you're 9 years old)

Cleft open by the very notion of your presence.
My heart is yours to do with what you must,
I trust you will satisfy your own heart...
Fame, shame or bust.
A most dangerous game, only myself to blame.
The beating of your bold heart's touch unfolds the cold rolled steel of my old soul.
Alas, grant me access and I will build a kingdom to house it.
The grasp of “At last” lapses and alas,
I’m cleft open by the very notion of your indifference.

Given the chance, I would advance all the love I have left in life.
My Love was once lost in rifely strife seeking a wife and the trappings of suburbanite life.
Fear not appeared knots fraught by my heart,
its was taught not caught so the pieces wouldn't fall apart.

Hesitate not! Be.
Plan not in fear. Be free.
Pity not those whose planned purpose perpetually perishes the thought of dreams.
I dream for you, of you, dream you may dream too.
I long for each moment that sees you gain strength.
It brings me strength.
When your eyes rise and size up my heart, may it bring you strength.
Don't protect your heart only to burn in
your own held back truths.
Fear not to question, correct, influence or encourage.
Hesitate not to say what needs to be.

My heart may be yours, but your heart is still your own....
yet to be given freely for reasons only to you are known.
Give me your heart and it shall inspire all my dreams.
Your eyes flutter away.
You do not stay.
My swayed heart left alone.

Cleft open by the consequences of your senseless indifference.
Steel replaces feel, soul rolls up again.
My dreams stay seamed together until fairer weather come.
My dreams are to build a kingdom, thy will be done.

By R. Craig David-Copyright 2010

It was a colorful town on the river down.
Full of promise, white fences, green fields and rainbow trout.
Pearl snap purple striped shirts and shiny silver belt buckles.
The sound of classic twang rang aloud from speakers abound...
Seeking ever-present pink cheek disguises and marigold sundresses,
Light's intent never bent by heaven-sent country curves so supple and round. Repent.

No surprises to speak of,
No stresses less be told.
No rumor-fueled chuckles,  
No sleek compromises,
No barely fair careless hot messes...Yet to unfold and demise us.
The night calls,
The sun falls,
the moon's face crawls high into the above dark space.
All is peaceful and quiet by the day's review and so defines this place.
On cue, old is devoured by new.
Dawn again.
So abruptly & suddenly skews the universe.
Every curved dress is swooned to pine and guess.
Roy G. rides in, out of the blue,
painting the whole town red,
in the yellow high hot of the day,
with a country mile bright white smile in kind
and black heart, leaving a broken heart pile behind.
Mr. Biv slips out in the black of night.
His indifference blinding beyond the spectrum of light.

by R.Craig David-09/2015

I miss your lips’ bliss on my lips.
I miss your hips pressed to my hips.
Like guiding hands sliding ships,
our curves tighter together... ocean waves flowing.
We slip into one another, both of us knowing,
it will never be about where we came from,
the cost,
the loss,
the impowering a now past superstitious albatross,
but whether in fair or in dark, stormy weather,
together where we’re going.
A purpose-driven direction in life
Beyond measure,
by our hearts’ design,
beating, hidden,
in our chests like buried treasure.
Your warm, bold soul rolls over my controls.
I miss you the instant you’re beyond an inch of distance.
I miss your face,
I miss your waist,
I miss the space you incase around me.
I miss the towering, profound grace you use to shower and ground me.
It rapidly rises to the top of my head, but doesn’t drown me.
Sleeping silently in that dark, soft space engulfed by warm embrace,
my chased heart silenced by all that you are and surround me.
Quivering, shivering, your sultry curves swerving and curling in the dark.
Which each new embark,
a spark of soul fire between us,
clinging beyond the confines of “never apart, never the days, until our hearts depart, never shall they part ways.”
our eyes locked on my eyes,
your thighs to mine,
in this soft, slow, passionate moment,
I know truth again,
my love to thine.

ByR.Craig David copyright 2017

I love you....
my fiery sweet,
my hot and spicy,
my savory heartmate
full of chili heat.
Sleek & long bottom to top,
soulmate underneath,
my breath against your neck,
"I love you" I softly speak.
The way I wish to start and end each minute,
each hour,
each day,
each week.
For all my time, this I seek.
Brightness beyond bleak years,
shed tears,
lifelong fears,
my heart is clear
to forever taste,
to touch,
to hold,
to seek.
It is You,
with you,
wrapped around you
to dying breath from the very 1st second I knew I Loved You.
Always have,
always will,
just as now,
I do.
I truly do my muse,
my heartmate,
my soul to forever love thee.
Without your spirit,
your love,
you pressed against me,
my future I cannot see.
Your ways,
your praise,
your loving gaze.
You amaze me,
so sweet are my days with thee to be.
No longer cowering sourly over times past,
but towering powerfully to bask in every ray of light you cast upon me.
We are now the roots to a legacy treasure tree all will measure and see true "happy".
Thick Twisted tall and blooming bright at high noon or moonless night,
All will know our bond,
It's might,
Strong and tight,
By its mere presence and sight,
Our love was true and right.

Copyrighted By R.Craig David-April 2018

I miss the scent in the nape of your neck.

The bent intent of your shaking curves as I press against your shape.

Tasting every speckled fleck,
every tightly round corner,
every hidden inch my tongue can reach.

My fingers slowly, lightly touching every place they can breach,
some, all or each.

A slave to every line,
aligning it's sensuous design with everything my mind hopes learn, share and teach.

I descend and breach.  
Stretching myself to touch that place just out of reach.

I cling close,
searching,
seeking to find and place my face against every space where your heat is secreting most.

I find my way down deep.
I stay until your bare form quivers and quakes.

I wrap around you tight until you breath slows and all feels right.

It's the way I Dream to start each day and end of each night.