Will I ever reach you
when there are tides surging and sweeping anything in between?

Have you seen something on these stair steps winding within?

Wild-eyed hope scurry into the woods of the night to heed the call,

wasted so many years growing up to find nothing beyond these walls.

I falter hearing blood and friends are in their ways broken, but all I do is listen and pretend to understand,

decipher encrypted messages of fate engraved in their calloused hands.

We are spent being rogue satellites looking for a sign of life,

fledgling wanderers cut by thorns through age made contrite.

When time plucks us out of the tree I’m hoping to pop up somewhere where the sun is free,

unlike this place where the end is only thing guaranteed.

And you and I laugh about it, a reprieve from crying out of sight,

so we hide behind comforting lies,
for the hurt is in the try.

It’s hard to own a face
in a confined and crowded space,

quietly we must go
and in time, leave without a trace.

Yet, though there are waves between us, let me know when you find a beacon guiding you back to the shore,

that unseen in the great unknown, there is much left unexplored.

“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”

Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated  dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season

come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you

these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…

but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!

the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share

mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling

and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity


is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and  gained…

these hands,
more powerful than any other *****,
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…


keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write

A minnow that's forgotten it's in water
A buzzard who's forgotten it's wings
A primate with no hands and feet
A star with no mass

©2024

Given a hand to go hand in hand in the park
Only allowed to be enjoyed in the dark
And as I curse the idea of an always present silver lining
I notice it to be easier to witness the splendor of our spark

©2025

How do you talk to others,
Dark past haunting knowing name.
Virus killing our brothers,
Do you dare tell blood the same?
No, you cower away ranks,
Afraid from confrontation.
Fear not, mere poems are pranks,
I don’t care your damnation.
Your eternal life is dead,
Absolved a long time ago.
Not Fleance, you’re poorly lead,
It took me this long to know.
Still waiting for a sorry,
My purgatory starry.