for

    once,

   i would

love

      to be

         the poem

and

     not

         the poet

Through the forest of trees from your lips

   I can read your unspoken words.

       As each leaf falls

   the view becomes much more clear.

       Words that once reverberated through the forest

   seem as lifeless as the fallen leaves at my feet.

        I await a rush of fresh air

    to stir and animate the dead silence around me.

Autumn
   my love,

will you
   marry me?

We are
  hand in glove,

I'm on
   bended knee.

I am breathless
  in your
    beauty.

If I were blind,
   you would
    make me see.

Intense
   would be
the love
  we share.

Together
   forever,
a lifelong pair.

A physically saturated pluviophile is a soul that craves to intertwine themselves with the very deepest parts of thee.

In the eyes and heart of a pluviophile,
the rain is sunshine on an otherwise grey and cloudy day.

Make no mistake;

I am a pure breed when it comes to being/representing a "pluviophile".

The rain elicits the very deepest part of me without one moment's struggle.

It's a cleansing.
It's an act of purification.
It's a new beginning.

     A feeling of     new skin
and afflictions
  washed away.

A few still moments
  to breathe in
    the roses of
life.

  If you can not
=connect= with a
  "pluviophile"?

You're not
   'all wet'
but rather,
  as dry as the
saharan sand.

Come get
   wet
      with me...
        in
  the
     p
       u
         r
           p
             l
               e
   rain """""""""""
              '''''"""""""
    """""""""""""""

"""""­""""""""""""""""
        ' ' ' '    ' '
           '  '   '
               '

in the
days of
my youth.

a young lady
once asked
of me,
to be
"her valentine".

all that
meant in
reality was,
"please
be my
*** slave".

needless
to say
as a
young lad,
i was quite
encourageable.

with her,
i became
a man.

A fractured spirit as a child.
Divorced parents.
A Saturday father.
A jealous mother of happy time spent with our father.
What very little time that was.
For me it was never close to enough.
That precious time was reduced even more.
I missed and needed my daddy.
But mom didn't care, her feelings were clearly more important than a fragile child.
After being dropped off by our father there were times of mental and physical unwanted unnecessary uncomfortableness.
All I wanted was time with my daddy but it became scarce, because our father did not want us subjected to that type of behavior any longer from a jealous woman.
Fractured spirit led to a fractured heart.
Part of my heart was so loving and warm.
The larger part was so cold and so bitter.
Which has led to a fractured tormented soul especially after losing my daddy a few short years ago one March day.
Watching my daddy suffer first hand from stage IV lung cancer opened up old and new wounds.
It fractured my mind.
It fractured my very essence of being.
Why is my existence completely fractured ?
Why was it after watching my father get so abusively tortured by cancer did I and do I feel so broken and unrepairable ?
Perhaps it's because I want the same fate as my daddy and I won't feel whole ever again until I do.
I've never been a truly happy person since my father left us as children.
I've never been whole, ever, and I never will be.
I drag my fractured existence through year after year since my daddy's passing.
Never caring, even a little if I myself was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer
tomorrow.
Selfish?
Perhaps.
But that cold and bitter part of my heart doesn't care much about selfishness.
It only cares about the exhaustive numbing pain it has dragged around for nearly 50 years.
As other layers of guilt with other separate affairs of my fractured heart have been added throughout these painful years, life if I am to be honest, has almost become a nuisance.
Crowds of people I avoid because my cold bitter heart trusts no one.
Outside of my home I venture only because I have to, to support the family I created.
Otherwise my fractured being I would keep in my home away from a world I almost despise and sometimes loathe.
Money does not make me happy.
Love does not make me happy.
Nothing will ever make the bigger piece of my fractured heart happy.
It's north pole cold and it will never be warmed until I suffer as my daddy did and I finally leave this place called Earth that I look at as hell.
I only need to leave my home for one day to realize that this really is hell on earth.
Until I can get away from the ignorance...
the I I I I I ...
the selfishness of just about every human being I encounter everyday I will never be happy.
When I see my daddy's face and Jesus's face is when my fractured heart will become whole once again and when I will finally allow myself to be happy.....at long last.
I can't wait to know even something as simple and taken for granted as being/feeling whole.... I can't wait to know how that feels because I never have.
A whole heart from me would be absolutely angelic.
A heart that Jesus has longed to see whole too, i'm sure of it.

i mean,

  let's be frank
here.

you haven't
   sipped
from me
  in a lifetime.

nor have
  i wanted
or wasted
   my moments
drinking
    in you!

i know
   what we are
and what
   we should do
but....

  just put
more makeup
   on that pig...

but eventually,

  you too
will realize that
  no amount
of makeup
  can pretty
what is ugly.

'Yours and everyone's concrete-poet'

i
wish
that
i
could
tell
you,

like
soured
milk,
so long
overdue.

like
birds
that
fly
south
before
the
snow,

i wish
it
had
flown
from
my lips,
long
long
ago.

like
a
rose
in
full
bloom
and
the
bee
that
buzzes
above,

i'll
have
to
fly
away
in
peace,
just
as
a
graceful
dove.

some
things
can
never
be
spoken,
some
things
can
just
never
be,

some
thoughts
get
treated
as a
lifetime
prisoner,
...

never
to
be
freed.

a
  poet's words
are their
    organs

   that

they
    donate
to

    the world

I tossed our pictures into the fire....

the symbolism of it all,
almost knocked me from my feet.

as you
   brush by me,

we attract-

   pull to one
another
   like magnets.

our gravitational
   pull
has me
     rigid
as we....

  

unintentionally/ intentionally
   orbit
one another.

  and like
neodymium
  magnets,

once joined
  together,

it will
  take
heaven....
    to pull
us
    apart.

as poets,

  we breathe in
the universe.

while others,

   breathe in
themselves.

On the night that we met,
like a mid summer's torrent,
I fell for you.

You, bathing in a
full moon's light,
I was powerless
it's true.

Your eyes were
one with the sea,
vast and deep...
I was drowning
    in you.

Arrest me
and take me
to live
in your paradise....
where all that's
left is to
  woo woo woo.

Yes, I dreamt
   of her
     once.

And that once,
   just wasn't
       enough.

Oh rose of blue,

I've only seen but one, your hue.

You delicately weep the morning dew,

from whence a seed your uniqueness grew,

as did my fascination for you, this much is true.

Oh rose of blue you stand with few,

your petals bathe in tomorrow's sun new,

at night the moon smiles and bays back at you.

Oh rose of blue,

my poem for you has been long overdue.

Pieces
Of
Every
Me

Carry me down into that liquid place again
where we meet without talking, even though
sometimes we're talking, where we laugh
without making a sound, the punchlines
floating off untethered and the corners
of yor mouth tilting up like commas
around some beautiful phrase we don't
have to try to remember. Wedge your knee
between my thighs and slip your fingers
into me again, let them be glazed
with human light and lift them to your lips,
let them tell you what they found.
I'll kneel before the sunset of your skin,
its pale tone beginning to blush, evenly,
every cell inspired to read, pushing toward
that ruddiness of purpose, that sigh.
My hands will wrap around the tendons
of your wrists to hold you here, lowered
over me like clouds before a storm,
the enormous thunder and then the rain.

i still haven't
  found what
i am
   looking for is
much more
   complex,
much more
   profound than
just a few things.

   unrewarding
is a life
  asea that
lives and breathes
  within one's
dreams.

   exhausted;

what i look for
  may not
even exist
   except for
what lies in
  my subconscious
mind.

dubiously
   just living
and seemingly
   wasting time.

why do
squirrels
try to
cross our
streets
and die?

why is
life seemingly
taken away
in the blink
of an eye?

why do
green leaves
turn yellow,
brownish copper
and reds?

why do i
feel life
so DEEPLY
that sometimes
i would
much rather
be dead?

it's a
balancing act,
wanting to
live
life,
that is.

sanity and
insanity,
God's and
the
grim reaper's
kiss.

my struggle
each day
is as real
as
these words
that with you
i choose
to share.

i'm happy,
i'm unhappy
and...
my poetic
bi polarness,
just doesn't
care.

most of
my days
are toiled
through
and,
few
feel
worth living.

my poetic
verse that
i share
with y'all
is all that
i feel
like giving.

words of
   advice to thee,

never judge
what you
can't see.

they may
be a
soul...
as tortured
and wounded
as me.

in a
  mirror,

your eyes
  are the

hungry
    language
of love

born in
the cold
month
of november
rain.

born on
day 24
and
shackled
to life's
chain.

chained
to a
tree
like an
ornamental
dog.

everyday
just
struggling,
to be
seen
through
the fog.

left out,
alone,
to suffer
and die
a slow
death.

he's not
really
sure what
any of
it
meant.

his chains
are now
broken
to stray
from the
tree.

a birthday
gift
to leave
his tortured
existence
behind ...

and at
long last
his
unchained
soul
can
playfully
be free.

from
  life's chain
sadly and
happily
  at long last
   released.

Words
often leave
us hypnotized

their grouped
truth,.
validity
or relevance
to selfishness

words are... ..

couriers of
seduction or
couriers of
war

words describe
seasons they,
they describe
uniquity

words descibe
actions that
have been
left seasons
ago for
dead

words are
unnecessary
as we
plunge into
darkness on
the frills
and lace
of your
bed



"I am just writing....

you are
a flake
of snow

a feathery
ice crystal

a delicate
sixfold
symmetry
of beauty

a winter
wonderland
is what
you are

walking away
  from the
sun,
      you will
always have
   company

wet are
the
winds of
missing,
of...
sadness.

the winds
speak of
pain,
of
throated
screams.

the winds
blow on
by,
the winds
return
like boomerangs.

these winds
travel
over land
and over
sea.

but
make no
mistake,
these winds
of change
always
make it
back
to me.