Which other side would you reflect
If you turn?
What kind of change could you affect
If you turn?
Something new to learn?
Turn.
The world’s your concern?
Turn.

What would be your new direction
If you turn?
You would overcome rejection
If you turn.
That to which you yearn?
Turn.
Live the life you earn.  
Turn.

I’m aware of my awareness of you,
Of my absorbing everything you do,
And wonder if you are aware of me.
But you are not real, so how could you be?

I’m loving the feeling of loving you,
Of investing my heart in all you do,
And hoping inside that you’re loving me.
But you hide your heart, so how could you be?

I’m aroused by my arousal from you,
Of the lust I feel watching all you do,
And aching for you to make love to me.
But I am nothing, so how could you be?

I’m needing those needs I have for you,
Of needing to live in the world you do,
And needing to dream you also need me.
But you’re just my dream, so how could it be?

She’s a figment for vulnerable men
Who see beauty through self-loathing windows.
Her beauty is far too much to take when
It pierces the heart where passion’s sin goes.

Ashamedly smitten men curse their eyes
For beholding beauty they don’t deserve.
They seek her attention, she ignores their cries.
They grovel on their hands and knees to serve.

Her nakedness sows men’s basest skin’s need,
For intimate contact with lurid thought.
She is the temptress, they’ll follow her lead,
Through gates of despair their lustfulness brought.

She strikes men dumb just because she is there.
They have nothing real and pure to compare.

In your coming and your going,
Feel the love my soul is knowing,
The gentle zephyr through your hair,
Should remind you my love is there.

In your pictures or in the flesh,
Each time my love wakens afresh,
Incomparable imagery,
Arouses love inside of me.

In whispers or your written word,
I dream that mine’s the voice you heard,
You’re nothing short of living art,
Writing your poems on my heart.

In fantasy or in my bed,
“I love you” shall not be unsaid,
You may well be a dream unreal,
But truth is in the love I feel.

Last year blessed me like no other,
Though past sins need absolution,
In my hoping for another,
I offer these resolutions:
Continue to write to inspire.
Keep after curiosity.
Win Powerball and then retire.
Adore those who inspire me.
Take pride in watching my sons grow.
Love them through the mistakes they’ll make.
My books featured on a talk show.
Act with intent for Heaven’s sake.
Achieve integrity in love.
Try to see more without my eyes.
Get weight down instead of above.
Tell my faithful heart fewer lies.
Resolve traumas at years ago.
Listen more closely to God’s voice.
More west coast to avoid the snow.
Don’t waste a moment to rejoice.
So thank you for the things I’ve seen,
Keep in touch in Twenty Nineteen.

Which is the skin we must outgrow?
Walls we push against hard and slow.
To knowledge we’re afraid to know.
Restraints that keep telling us no.

What limits are holding us back?
Things we have we think that we lack.
Closing our eyes to turn light black.
Compassion feels like an attack.

What pressures are keeping us small?
Expecting we have to please all.
Afraid to jump in case we fall.
Ignoring doors built in our wall.

What good comes from our comfort zone?
We’re still while friends pass us alone.
Growing our fear of the unknown.
Destiny no longer our own.

What have you paid for this nothingness,
This refusal you have made your own,
Wearing discontent like shamefulness,
To be greatest at being alone?

What satisfaction your martyrdom,
Your stubborn turning the other cheek,
The Queen of the loneliest kingdom,
Self-loathingly bragging she is weak?

What appreciation have you earned,
Playing the role of unlovable,
Who knows more than the lessons she learned,
Too scared to be discoverable?

What’s worth being unworthy of love,
Flaunting beauty as only a tease,
Fallen from that pedestal above,
If you smiled once you’d find love with ease.

Static with words that speak the familiar,
Narrowest thoughts spoken so many ways,
Bare novel spark in the particular,
A tireless writer with nothing to say.

A thousand new words are no less banal,
When a writer is content just to be,
When the compulsion to write is his all,
He writes with no responsibility.

To lose that will is to lay down my pen,
To no longer betray the written word,
Writing not a thing until the moment when,
Something new inside deserves to be heard.

Unique thought must precede what is written,
Needing to write is to seek depths to plumb,
That awesome task with which I am smitten,
Is never to be, but always become.

Howsoever you shall now enter me,
I still shall not know what to do with thee,
You of fearsome spirituality,
You beauty! Stuns and paralyzes me!

Wherefore placed on Earth you of stolen divine,
Who numbs me as intoxicating wine?
You are unique to me but are not mine.
You beauty! No Sun shall ever outshine!

Who is the artist to whom you belong?
Drawn perfect lines and no color wrong!
I was born wanting and for you I long.
You beauty! Who makes weak knees of the strong!

Kiss me through the day and into the night!
Without you what need have I for my sight?
But for you I’d have no poems to write,
You beauty! My inspiration! My light!

My entire world is lying next to me,
Adoring me gently, and sensuous.
Together in a nakedness that’s free,
With passion devouring and virtuous.

My love is in the body beside me,
And in the soul, seductive yet so sweet.
Our bodies safe as they are meant to be,
In anticipation of when they meet.

All I ever wanted is next to me,
Wanting finally the one that I want.
The moment she kisses me so gently,
I lose self-control I’ve wanted to flaunt.

I love her lying beside me in bed,
She’s as much in my arms as in my head.