An ode to honest men, to men with strength
Men who heal and nurture
Men with magic in their blood and love in their hearts
Feminists, and creatives, and artists
Romantics who look out at a rainy city and see beauty amidst the dark and despair
Men who do not run from what they feel, what they think
Who they are
Who fan the fires of their passion but not let it destroy what they yearn for, but rather bring warmth and light into the lives of those who need it most
Men who think of women as goddesses, queens, suns and stars and moons
Who see women in the white foam of a crashing wave or in the deep, thickened roots of a tree hundreds of years old
Men who can take a women who is cautious, skittish, buried inside herself, struggling to claw through the dirt, men who take a shovel and find her
Grab her hand in theirs and lift them to the air
Who feed the souls of their friends and their lovers with kindness and tenderness
Men who aren't afraid of a woman with a roar, with long claws, and a sharpness in her eyes
Men who stand beside the wolf of every woman and feel graced by her howl
Clarity in their words and truth in their touch
Men who love without inhibitions, who can find intimacy in the quiet moments between friends
This is an ode to the honest men, to men who grow like trees
Up and up and up, stretching their branches and bringing life to the world around them

To the west was the city, towers of steel and concrete that dwarfed even the tallest man, and to the east was the end, where the air turned thick with the scent of hay and soil until you came to an ocean that stretches so far it seemed to fall off the edge of the earth. The salt burned your nose and turned your hair brittle, knotting and tangling it in the breeze that swept off the sea.

But I was not there at the end of the world, instead I had gone north to the sound. Following the twisting roads whose route I had memorized as a child. The radio playing Carole King as though an ode to my mother and the summers she drove under these same canopied trees, past houses of hydrangeas and dahlias until she reached the beach.

I sat along the fence that separated the public from the rich— where lilacs grew thick through the hedges and all I could see were the tiny huts of pale pinks and yellows and blues, a distant memory of the 60s.

The coast was a rainbow of umbrellas and mingled among the sound of the gulls crying and the waves hitting the shore was the laughter of the children and the motors of passing boats.

The cliffs of a nearby port town curved around me, a barrier from the rest of the island. And if I squinted, the grey line of Connecticut seemed almost within reach.

Cirrus clouds lined the sky, intermingling with the foggy blue that melded seamlessly into the water. I felt as thought I was underwater at times, the haze from the heat and the sun blinding as I looked up through the blue to the world above.

I am a little village surrounded by trees that ignore me
Surrounded by cities with bright lights and woundrous tales
I am a little village surrounded by the lush spring flowers that tempt the winds with their scents.Telling them to carry them off into a forgotten land where they can share pieces of each other undisturbed
I am a little village,yes a little forgotten village with a tiny population I can count on my fingers and barely enough to feed my tattered soul
Yet I am a little village that sings the loudest at night

Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
  Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
  Alas! it were—unhallow’d bliss.

Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
  How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
  For that,—would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
  Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,—and why?
  I would not force a painful tear.

I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
  Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
  To make thy *****’s heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
  United by the priest’s decree:
By any ties but those divine,
  Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
  Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
  Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
  By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
  Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
  More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
  I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
  And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
  All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shall thou be free,
  No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
  No martyr shall thou be to love.

I heard in a song
that you’re only
as good as your
last mistake.

And I’ve never been
more thankful for
humans ability
to make millions.

So you’ll never
be my last,
because I’m better
than that.

Burning toast
and eating it anyway.

Buying shampoo
when I actually
needed conditioner.

Showing up late
to a meeting.

Missing the first
day of class.

Studying for an exam
two hours before it starts.

Not turning in an
assignment because
I just simply didn’t
want to do it.

Not leaving my pajamas or
bed when there’s
so much to do.

Apologizing when they
bumped into me.

Lying to people
who care, I’m okay.

Not locking my door.

Walking alone at night.

I’d rather be
defined by all
of these things
than you.

the dead of night
isn’t dead at all
it is a living mystery
born each day
of Mother Dusk