The years are passing by.

Without fail, we watch
a timeless passage into
tomorrow.

Daily I pray for
our love to remain
strong.

Without fail, we make
mistakes, causing hurt
grief
sorrow.

We forgive.
We forget.

Time moves on,
and we grow
together.
Passion does not fade,
our own brand of romance
keeps our hearts warm.

Without fail, I realize
the truth.
If not for you,
there is no me.

All that I am
is for you,
because of you.

The years are passing by,
and we are watching
their passage.

Hand in hand,
in love.
Together forever.

lady, lady i love you,
this could be truth but mostly undoing.


Sahn 10/16/2014

You have left me alone,
surrounded by darkness,
my heart starts pounding,
my breath quickens,
palms slick with sweat.

I am cold...so cold.

A hair falls from my head,
hitting the floor,
a booming thud.

My old grandfathers clock
calls out time,
midnight has struck
a fearful chord deep
in my soul.

In my bed
there is no warm place
for me to hide…
you are away
(only for a short time).
Please come home,
so I can sleep.

Mysterious footsteps echo
down empty hallways
of our deserted home.
I am alone…
alone with whoever
(or whatever)
lurks in the shadows.

Unreasonable fear
pervades my being,
I wait for dawn.

Waiting for light,
my mind plays tricks.
I cannot sleep,
mysterious sounds whisper
thunderclaps in my room.

Please come home,
so I can sleep.

Please….
come home.

My painting is colored
with words.
Shapes of emotion,
caressed into pictures
of passionate love,
become my personal
Picasso.

I wear a cloak
held together by
the thinnest thread,
barely keeping me warm.
Yet I will write a fire
into my heart,
surrounding me with
life-giving heat.

My blood flows
from fingers performing
a dance, staining the page
with smooth routines,
gracefully conveying
a message of hope.

My mind spurs me on,
to achieve heights
of creativity
never before seen.

My soul is laid bare,
knowing that every word I bleed
is my very own
reality.

He sits on the carousel wheel,
her lover neglectful-
looks over the night as the neon illuminates the shiny people.
He sits on the carousel wheel
and loves to get stuck at the top
so he may contemplate jumping,
so to contemplate swinging with madness
from one
cart
to
another
and then
safely
to the
cart that
holds her. Hero, him.
He looks over the crowd as they swish around him-
sway around him
moving by him as if they were dancing to a song in his head
but he is not dancing.
He's looking for her.
He pops several balloons with a fiery dart
walks away from the girl with the silken stockings held to her
thigh by violet bow...a violent blow to his lustful ways, he looks firmly down
to the dirt on his boots, kicks rocks, kicks air.
Stops at the man who swallows fire from a stick,
"answer me, answer me"-
the man spits ember lies.
He's looking for her in each clown
pulling their make up down with his finger
and it looks like they're crying
so he can't really know
if it is her he has found?
Oh neglectful lover.
He busies himself by winning a prize
for his beloved, his lost
A prize- his reward for believing in true love.
He busies himself, knocks down milk bottles-
and punches the punching bags
insults the slow and disgusted carnie hags,
He moves from gate to gate
and it feels more like Hades
inside
where he's lost her
so he's been lost.
When he's lost her he's scared
that she will not feel, lost but found.
And he will not feel found-
but destroyed.
Teacups to twirl around
the dance he will swirl her around to
the day that he marries her,
if he can find her,
nay- when he can find her...
he'll put her in the teacup ride and
never let the spinning stop.
He'll fill her life with lights and sounds
and cotton candy
and he'll marry her he will
right on the tiptop
of the ferris wheel
where he sits looking round.

sahn 10/19/14

I don't believe in fairytales
it's really not my thing,
I've never told my children tales
of dragons and of kings.

We’ve watched some shows
on the T.V
of Rubbles and the Stones,
we watched them drive around their cars
of ***** rocks and bones.

I’ve read them poems
of ancient deeds,
they rode a trojan horse.
Those bards of old
could tell a tale,
words of truth of course.

We’ve sung our songs
of buses wheels,
and Irish unicorns,
but now we hear
the beating drum
marching until morn.

I don’t believe in fairytales,
it’s really not my thing,
I will not teach them, I’m too prim
they really are quite Grimm.

I've counted them all,
five in total.
Five hundred perhaps five million more after that.
I've counted them to get them solid...
Solid for to eat them up. Line them up like peas on a spoon.
I've run from them.
Fast, and my feet burns underneath.
I've run to India.
I've run to Mars.
They key to outrunning is not to look
back.
There, I just did.

I've colored them with periwinkle and yellow moon-glow crayons.
So carefully in the lines, I stayed.
Bright cheerful hues
to banish out the dark.
(You can't color out the dark.)
Oh, I've faced them,
****** foolish.
Face them, they'll multiply.
like a drop of water expanding
into a bucket of water
into a creek of water
into a river of water
into a monsoon.
Face them and you give them life.
Now you'll know they're real.
Now you'll know
that it holds hands
with
what can be.
Slick and satisfied, devouring mirth.
On it's back I climb stealthy-
ride it like a crocodile,
it can't lick you way up there
satisfied smile...
Oh, lover lover,
You can't bite what you can't reach.




sahn 10.11.14

With-
my bites so small they are almost
kisses
lined up like the dead: hands tied, blindfold blinding.
With-
lips that miss a touch by the width of a breathe...
just by that much-
the amount of air it takes to gasp your name.
With-
moist that rushes out of me-
all parts of me
to grasp your parts of you.
Moist from my perspiring shimmying lips-
moist that forms in a valley between my *******
and meets the moist like dew on the hairs of your chest.
With-
tiny bites on your neck right in the soft spot
right below
and right behind
your ear,
mirror to the place I tuck back my hair
nervously
like I do
when I  am
With you.
**** your bottom lip like a
honey crisp in tiny bites-
and
savor all the juice that drip
drops
drips from your tongue.
With you, within.
With you
Within.

Sahn
10/10/14

I never thought
to write again,
after self-doubt
and a loathing
for my words
infected me.

Knife wounds left
me scarred,
negativity to my craft
left me adrift
on a sea of questions.

But I healed.

The bleeding was stopped
by a true passion
for that creative sequence
of thoughts which leads to
poetry.

I healed.
I became strong.

I no longer feel
a need
to justify my work.

I write because.
Just because.

There is no such thing
as perfect silence
in my normal existence.

In waking hours,
thoughtful cacophony
fills my head,
filtering out the sounds
that really matter.

In my sleep,
dreams shout aloud
all the wonders
I recall from
distant memory.

But I came close
once
to attaining such
silence,
such aloneness.

Strong boughs held
me up, keeping me safe
from the dangers
below.

A broken grip,
losing touch with
the support
I forgot about.

Deafening pain
roared through
my very being,
muting my desire
to listen to reason.

I heard nothing,
except for my own desire
to live
in silence.