Some days are meant to be wasted.
Maybe the classic summer day,
hot and sweaty
with the threat of storms.
Or the warm and rainy
spring morning...
when the Apple blossoms fall.
Perhaps a pristine autumn afternoon
with all the colors at their peak,
or time spent sitting in the window
watching the snow fall.
These are the perfect moments
that cost us nothing.
They are not added
to the tally of our days,
nor detract.
They are a time all their own,
a kiss blown from the universe
to me,
and you.

No straight line led me to you...
only crooked ones
would lead me astray.

Chasing fairies up the wall...
the cat
on Christmas night.

Never has something so small
held such a promise of pleasure...
your *******.

I want to immerse myself in you.
The fragrance of your hair,
breath upon my lips...
your *** scent,
the odor of sweat
and the deep musk of your ***.
I want to roll in your stench,
bathe myself in your smell,
wear you proudly
as my perfume
for all to inhale.
I hesitate
to wash you off of me.

Well it looks like life
has run out of trees for you
this walk through the world,
little buddy.

You were so very good
all the days of your life...
such an open heart;
mine is breaking.

This walk;
our last one together,
I will carry you
though I do not know the way.

There is sorrow
at the heart of the world,
beautiful and precious.
Rooted in transience,
it whispers why... why...
now slipping by.

There is darkness
in the soul of man,
cold, cruel and blind.
Rooted in fear,
it whispers lies and shadows
ignoring the heart.

There is light
at the root of all things,
brilliant, radiant and true.
Centered in love,
it shouts out now...
now is all there is.

I love the light of winter days...
shadows are never so crisp,
and the sunlight... sharp and relentless
refuses to warm.

The year ends
with one last sigh,
a glance away
and its gone.

Your smile
was the calm eye,
in the storm of our life
together.

Poetry has no
****** preference.
It will love you like a woman,
and take you like a man...
it will milk you dry,
make you cry, sigh, laugh and scream.
When its done,
you will never be the same...
more open, more alive
more fully human,
accepting your ravishing
by words.

Low lights, harsh light...
air thick with smoke,
alcohol, perfume
sweat and the scent of ***.
Some guy on a saxophone
wails the blues, baring his soul.
A snare drum,  a piano
a bass keeping time.
Written at midnight
with breath and a backbeat...
what it means to be alive...
Do you need more?
Smokey Jazz.

Summer falls
like a dress
cascading down
to reveal
the autumn of her beauty.

I will follow my own muse...
and dance to the music in my head.
I'll wander down the garden path
to find where it leads.

You are welcome to join me
if you wish,
but make your own footsteps,
do not follow mine.

I want you in the morning,
I want you in the dark of night.
I want you in the afternoon...
I want you always.

I want you on top of me,
I want you underneath me.
I want you bent over...
I want you beside me.

I want to come in your mouth,
I want to come on your *******.
I want to come in your *****...
I want to come in your ***.

I want,
I want.
I want...
I need.

I need you in my life,
I need to give you all I have.
I need to drain myself dry... into
I need to lose myself in you.

Already darkness comes sooner,
and the days pass so quickly.
Nights last forever
in the coming winter, yet my own.

Old friends and acquaintances fall behind me
to disappear in fading dreams.
Others will long endure this journey
towards the westering sun.

I feel the approaching winter,
in the biting wind,
the taste of snow
bitter on the tongue.

Passages and transitions;
the seeds of tomorrow
lay deep in summer's ruin,
while New Years day may find me...

...soaring in the sun.
Maybe New Years day will find me
waiting for the dawn
maybe, maybe not... in winter, yet my own.

In a parallel world
we're still together...
hand in hand;
we never walked apart...
and you never died.

But there are no parallel worlds
and you're gone,
ashes to ashes
my hand swings empty,
living devoid of light.

Is there anything
more heartbreakingly ****
as a lover walking away?

The way they sway,
your knowledge of their loving
their moans no longer yours.

Is there anything
so heartbreakingly ****
as a lover walking away?

Their morning smiles
and rumpled hair...
tears and stares no longer yours.

This is not a love poem.
I cannot say with honesty
that I love you.
Words of praise
fail on my lips,
no song fills my heart.
There is only dread...
a shadow over my soul.
That pall is you.
This is not a love poem...
I cannot say with honesty
that I love you.
Words fail me...
you move me so.

There was a man on the bus
today
with hostile eyes...
steely blue and suspicious.

The thirty something woman
across from me;
with black eye and split lip,
her's were wet with tears and fear.

A young couple
only had eyes for each other.
Glistening
with love and desire.

The bigot’s eyes
were all a glower;
hostile and condemning...
The couple was interracial.

The old woman’s eyes
tired with many years,
looked back with memories
and forward to release.

The little child’s eyes
wide with wonder
took everything in,
grist for the mill.

As I wander from
face to face,
I wonder what stories
my eyes offer?

The world ended yesterday,
for all those who passed.
It begins for all those born.
The end is just round the corner...
creation near.

Listen deeply...
teach love,
touch gently,
breathe justice,
give without expectation.
express gratitude,
live peace,
practice mercy...
be compassion.

Forgive us Lord for we know not what we do.
We know not what sins we commit,
or what blessing confer.
We know not what we corrupt,
or what we make whole.
We know not who we damage,
or the souls we heal.

The topography of your body...
Is the landscape
I call home.
Scaling your heights
plumbing your depths...
your wetlands
and peaks.
If I were blind
I could find my way
by tracing your form
with my greedy hands.

You drove me to it.
Its all your fault,
and no other.
I had no words to express
my love,
my passion,
my anger,
my emotions
about you.
You drove me to it.
Its all your fault,
and no other.
You drove me
to poetry.

Let my eye
linger on you...
taking in your beauty,
your form,
tracing every curve
peak and hollow.

Let my eye
linger on you...
the color and shape
of your eyes
and the moist curve
of your lips.

Let my eye
linger on you...
your turn, your glance
lingering on me
like a deer in a headlight
caught by your eye.

I love the sounds
we make.
The squeaking bed,
our gasps and moans,
the whimpers and sighs...
of grunts and growls
and skin slapping skin
or that wonderful
churning butter
slurp slurp slurp
of *** well done.

Her *** was made for regrets,
the way it wiggles
as she walks away.

I love the dark places
of your body...
the warm moist shadows
pungent, **** and sweet.

I love the dark places
of your body...
the curves, the openings and hollows
moaning come closer.

I love the dark places
of your body...
the way they swallow me
coaxing me out of me into you.

I love the dark places
of your body...
the way they let me play as I will
until the little death embraces us.

I and Thou
Eye to eye
I and eye
I to I.

****** are the greedy,
for theirs is a paucity of spirit.

****** are the callous,
for their hearts lack empathy.

****** are the pompous,
for all they can see are themselves.

****** are the self-righteous,
for their faith is shallow.

****** are the merciless,
for they shall be denied mercy.

****** are the bigoted,
for they do not know love.

****** are the warmongers,
for they shall be called the children of hell.

****** are they who persecute those who are different,
for they shall never know peace.

When I think of you
I'm reminded of your eyes...
pools of brown drawing me in.

When I think of you
I'm reminded of your lips...
moist, hungry, demanding.

When I think of you
I'm reminded of your *******...
soft pillows comforting me.

When I think of you
I'm reminded of our ***...
how nice it feels inside you.

When I think of you
I'm reminded of home...
where I need to be.

The same I look's out your eye as mine...
the perspective is different,
that is all.
We are one...
so close
no words can say.

When we are young
all paths are open to us.
Then as we age,
one by one
they close
until we are left
on the only path
that matters...
our own.

A great expanse of northern sky;
Cirrus clouds,
faux marble blue and white.
Late afternoon’s golden sun;
red autumn leaves,
fire on fire it seems to me.
Tall, silent, Mast Pine forests
haunted by Owls,
ancient Indian spirits
and dreams of sailing ships
on wild Gulf Stream rides
across the sea.
Waist high fields of Ragweed and Clover
rippling with the wind.
Clear, crisp days
geese in flight.
Iridescent dragonflies zigzagging overhead
like jet-fighters
hunting mosquitoes.
Noisy crows squawking the news,
people in the back forty.
A deep blue, Lapis sea
sparkling in the breeze
just beginning to chill.
Ohh…what a feeling;
these late summer
just a blush of autumn
cool New England days.

Scenes from a marriage
lay scattered on the cutting room floor
of memory.
Our passion,
your lies, my lies,
separate truths never one
mingle and moan
when just the right sore is touched.
Do you have any idea what we were looking for?
I don’t.
Why won’t you answer me?
Do you care?
You wiggled and squirmed
holding me tight
whispering “I love you” in my ear.
Now you claim nothing happened.
If this is true
then why the emptiness?
If you’re not going to respond then go,
close the door
and let in the cold.

Buck naked November,
cold, aloof and alone;
her seasons garments
in tatters at her feet.
The wind howls through
her empty limbs.
The southbound sun
no longer warms,
much like
a lost lovers stare.
There is a quality to this month
like no other,
an austerity of spirit
bitter yet stoic
as if to mourn
years end.

Coffee and words,
always more words.
Lost between youth & mid-life
listening to others read their work
applauding quietly while
muttering about doing it better yourself.
Dribbling words like splattering coffee
on empty pages,
stains on the sheets.
How do you **** your muse?
I like ****** notebooks
Myself.

Shuffling through the ground fog
like fallen leaves.
Beneath a rust orange dawn,
feet damp
from autumn’s morning dew.

Footprints in the sand
wandering like ripples on a pond.
or skipping stones across the water
like dancing or a life.
Sing to me songs of moonlight and madness,
of a lover’s waltz spinning;
going nowhere
but for the dancing
like footprints in the sand...
but ahh...
the dancing.

and punch the wall.
I cry out her name sobbing...
she's gone
slamming the door.
she storms out
my face stings
SLAP.
Hurt expression...rage
recriminations
wounded hearts.
Angry words, petty jealousies
my insecurities her indignation...
Confrontation, accusation.
Where have you been?
She comes home.

Sweet New England;
its where my heart is, and where I belong.
I know,
the day I left I buried it deep
on the western prom of Portland Maine
to call me back someday
though I may be old and frail
when that times comes.
And though I am southern born
it’s scents, moods, colors and cold
have etched themselves like scrimshaw onto my soul.
I now want my bones shattered by frost,
not left to mildew in the humid southern heat.

For me New England’s like warm light
shining through frost covered windows,
or a cozy, cluttered old room
filled with the bric brac of a life long well lived,
an attic garret maybe,
confined yet comfortable.
The rest of the country’s expansive and open
except parts of the south
where the heat & humidity will smother you in your sleep;
then hide the evidence
in swamps of ancient illusion like southern hospitality,
smiling to your face while sharpening the knife.
Offering another helping
while grandpa finishes the grave.
Ya’ll come back now ya hear.
Give me the hidden heart of New England any day;
chilly and cool outside
but warm as a glowing wood stove.

While memory tends to shade everything
in afternoon’s golden light or midnight blue and gray,
I’d rather hard scrabble times up north
than easy living in a place that says nothing to me
even if this place is home.

I miss Maine so very much,
I taste her like a lover in October air
rich with the season’s smells
of apples, leaves, sea, smoke and pine.

Sweet New England;
where I belong is where my heart is.
And though I wasn’t born there
I’ve walked that land as a pilgrim
singing its songs as my song
until they became my own.
My heart reaches out now
longing to return,
to the place I called home,
until the end of days.
And my bones not left to mildew
in the humid southern heat,
shatter with the frost.

A cloud of gulls passed over Back Bay
this morning.
Nothing unusual.
Riding the wind they resembled a tornado
the way they wheeled and spiraled;
out above the brown grass and driftwood
sticking out of the snow,
tidal flats
and shimmering pools.
               *
Sixteen Canadian Geese
stopped by for lunch today
on their way home from winter vacation.
Nothing much to say
but when they left,
Oh…my!
              *
The sun blasted my window this morning
at 6:30 am.
Zero to twenty the radio said.
Cold.
A fine day for walking and thinking;
waiting and hoping
for something to happen,
a reason to get excited.

How can heaven
be home for us now
when our hearth’s ashes are cold?
Stoke the fire and fix a meal,
the stranger at our door
holds our hearts in his hand.

Spring’s beautiful down south
but brash and sudden.
Up north she tiptoes up
and peeks through the window
then timidly taps on the door to see if she’s welcome
(still easily intimidated by winter)
before settling down for a spell.
When spring arrives in Maine
we cautiously peel off our outer garments
like the petals of an artichoke braised and well seasoned
savoring each discarded layer
until we reach the delicious, tender heart
and discover once more
we’re not just a pile of animate clothes
but bodies,
sensuous, delectable, playful bodies
full of trembles, shudders and precious sighs.
Down south
it’s jackets to tee shirts overnight;
no luscious dropping of winter clothes
one by one
into seductive piles on the floor,
no ******* gasp
as the first warm breeze gently caresses bare skin,
scarce any renewal.
But then,
subtlety has never been
a southern trait.

The moon last night
with clouds for veils
dancing like a gypsy maiden;
moving cross the waters deep,
Salome never looked so fine.

Oh God,
what have we done to this world
and our souls?
Show us your hand;
let your love,
your mercy
rain down upon us.
Please O Lord:
I beg you,
peace.

Ever walk a birch wood
at autumn's peak;
on a dark gray, overcast day?
Their leaves are so yellow,
gold and bright
it’s like walking through
captured sunlight.

I chisel words
from the spaces round my heart,
giving shape to longing and desire.
Touch me I whisper, then cringe
fearing, yet not afraid
of that exquisite torture,
merging into one.
Tell me who you are,
I will show you my wounds
if you’ll show me yours.
Stigmata,
the holy cross of love,
hanging on the crucible of self.
I’m tempted sometimes by the void,
to step off into the silence.
It doesn’t take much,
no angst, loneliness,
despair or pain,
just a good day to die.

Sometimes...
in the cold squeaky morning
while the heart's still naked from the night,
despair looks out from the mirror
and speaks of things
we fear or know
yet dare not admit.
And when she sings her siren song
with no mast to bind us
the void ever present
is just a misstep
away.

05 March 2010