There's an empty place at the table
in front of an vacant chair.
There's extra place on the couch
right beside mine.
There are plates and cups that have no use
and my closet has more room.
there are too many pillows
on the bed
and the house seems to echo
when I walk.
You are gone,
I'm missing you.

Dreams of you haunt my nights;
they seem more alive than I am.
I'm so lost and confused;
I feel something beside me,
it smells just like you.
Sleepy;
I put my arm around it,
ready for your loving.
I wake in tears though,
it's just your pillow.
You are gone,
I'm missing you.

There's a hollow place
inside me...
but I don't know where.
My hand is empty
when I walk,
and there is a space
in the crook of my arm
shaped just like you.
My life feels lifeless
with only me in it.
You are gone,
I'm missing you.

The infinitesimally small
becomes the infinitely big.
The Universe seamless,
like a Mobius strip.

Your face reminds me of old wood.
Full of cracks and crevasses,
each one a memory.
Its your life story.
All your sins,
all your blessings.
Every laugh
every tear,
is carved upon it.
Ancient and ageless
you are beautiful.

I dare not offer you
a chaste poem
full of lofty platitudes
proclaiming
a more spiritual love.
To do so
would give lie
to my desire.

You will live so long as my heart beats
etched upon my flesh.
I’ll hold you close in memories ruin;
until the light fades,
flickering from my eyes.

How is it this swirling,
tumbling mist of atoms and particles;
organize itself well enough
to write poetry?

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 single leaf upon the wind
against an azure sky,
year's end.

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

Her thoughts were on eternity
as she took me softly, warmly
between her thighs.
No goddess this
but a woman in her hour.

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.

Sometimes
like a black cat in a dark alley,
my heart wishes it had
no memory of you.

The old stories
never die.
A new baby will be found
in the rushes...
A fresh coal between the lips,
another soul
commanded read.
The stories will go on
in other forms
for other audiences
huddled
lost and lonely
around their
digital campfires.

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

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.

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.

No hell is needed above us
nor heaven far below.
No judgment day required,
to sort out right or wrong.
The earth and living
is far more precious
than any rumored divine.
The gods envy us our lives
and this joyous earth;
they long to join us,
just to wiggle their toes
in the sand.

We never
walked together
beneath the falling leaves.
We never
made love
in the evening dew.
Now... We
never will.

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

Wear out my body
love me till I am ruined flesh...
milk me dry.
Our souls merging,
together as one.

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

I feel you
laying close beside me;
flesh to flesh,
our heat like arms entwined.
I breath out
and you breath in.
You breath out
and I inhale.
Two hearts beating
beat to beat.
I in you
and you surrounding;
this is what
the living's for,
only love
and nothing more.

I lap up your wetness
like a kitten its milk.
I wash my face with your moisture,
you wiggle and moan.

You swallow me whole,
like some carny performer.
Emptied, I sigh,
You lick your lips and grin.

The great planes roll past,
airport windows.
Their tall fantails
like the dorsal fins of giant orcas.

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.

A cool morning breeze
sunlight on dew...
a child's laughter
and a lover's smile.
The physical pleasures
of work
good food,
maybe fine wine.
These are the end days
this is the first day...
There is no future
only the ever changing now.

Women don't have straight lines.
Their ways are oblique...
they dance the paths that weave.

Pay to be born.
Pay to live.
Pay to die.
***** that.
No matter what
the ******* say or do,
no one owns your body,
nobody owns your soul.
They did not say Be
and it was.
We are free.

Time heals
all wounds
they say...
but
time takes time.
Meanwhile
the broken hearted,
pick
at their
sores.

For the briefest moment,
at dawn's first lighting...
The world was pink.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

The rain taps against the window
an old soft shoe.
The air rich
with the damp earth smell of spring.
Street lights are fractured
by droplets on the glass.
I take a sip of wine
and think of you.

There was that camping trip
I watched you dance naked with the moonlight.
You were so full of life,
and a joy to be with.
Rain woke us up pattering against the tent,
I don't think we got dressed at all that day.
We stayed in each others arms
and fell in love that weekend.

A warm June morning
of drizzling spring showers.
As you slept, I went out
and stole flowers from the parks.
Lilac's purple and white; Tulips and Daffodils,
filled the house when you opened your eyes.
As we said our vows
the rain gently offered applause.

Ten years on
a cold bitter rain of winter falls.
I beg you to stay,
to give us one more chance.
I walked alone for the first time in years,
grim and soaked.
I'd left the umbrella behind
along with my heart and pride.

October rain runs like tears down my window,
the phone rings, I answer.
An old friend informs me that you are gone
tears like rain run down my face.
I don't know what to say...
I loved you, I held you, our bodies joined as one.
I cannot imagine the world without you
even if you were no longer mine.

Now many years on
I am long past young.
Still the rain falls down
and whispers memories to me.
I finish the wine, put on my coat
and walk out into the night.
Rain and spring like love renew,
rain fall down and cleanse my soul.

You really don't think
you're just your ego,
do you?
Reality isn't very solid.
just a mist of atoms,
themselves mostly empty space.
Reality is what we think it is.
At one time,
the stars were the campfires
of the ancestors.

You know the spot.
Where the flesh
curves downward, up
and in...
Yeah, right there.

She flows like a river when I love her,
a true Mississippi of passion.
She moans like the wind in her rapture,
and shudders like trees in a squall.
She flushes like the sky at sunrise,
and sighs like the moon as she sets.
I need no God in the heavens,
nor Goddess Mother Earth,
I have my lover and in her,
all the songs of creation are sung.

Enlightenment comes quietly
like a lovers gentle kiss
in twilights fading light.

Clouds snagged
on mountain peaks,
the air cool, and fresh.
Giving directions south
to passing Monarch butterflies.
Geese down the river...
hawks soar high.
Nothing much to say
seasons turning
summer into fall.
world spinning,
life changing.

Oh Dear, dear Shaggy,
your time with us was brief.
But you will live on with us,
etched upon our hearts,
so long as we both
shall live.

More humid
than sin on a Saturday
night...
your loving.

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.

A gentle breeze blows
through your window
the smell of spring fills the air,
I sneeze...

I kiss the nape of your neck
and inhale
your sweet perfume,
I sneeze...

Your cat jumps up on my lap
purring,
begging to be petted,
I sneeze...

We undress and climb into bed
our naked bodies press together;
where the dog usually sleeps,
I sneeze.

You are beautiful and I want you
but I fear my dear
I am allergic to your world,
AH...AH...ACHOO!

Yeah, you're special.
So am I.
So is everybody.
So what?

That moment.
Opening a new book,
or a lovers first disrobing...
So like Christmas day.

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.

The cat slips by
a floorboard squeaks...
time moves at a glacial pace.
The pillow's hot with sweat,
midnight fears
and 2 am resentments.
Thoughts don't dance,
they stomp through my head
like some rowdy upstairs neighbor.
Dawn trickles through the window
weaving its ways between the curtains...
Now the eyelids get heavy.
Insomnia.

Your buns
so nice and firm
look good enough to eat.
You giggle.
I spread your cheeks
and admire the view.
You know what I want to do.
Gently;
you whisper,
gently.

16 March 2010