She once told me
she was terribly afraid of
the 889 blades of grass
in the park down her street,
of the 889 worn books
in her local library
of the 889 gum-covered steps
to her bus stops
of the 889 looks
she must make over her shoulder
of the 1 778 pairs of greedy eyes
stealing looks away from me.

I missed her when she sent me pictures
because I couldn't bear to look
at empty frames of empty eyes
(red dows no match red
unless it is the scarlet of blood on broken glass
after a year and two months of tranparency)
and also because the things that slipped into my phone
could only remind me of moments that could never be
and dreams
that would never come true.

I don't know what to say to her
without breaking her
(like the broken glass)
(the image still hasn't left my head)
but she inspires me toward metaphors
and the adromeda galaxy
isn't so far away anymore.

How can I stay by her side
when she triggers me to want to fall
but how can I ignore her call
when she is the only person I feel safe with
to coincide

I am afraid to tell her
(or myself)
how I feel
because in a cliche
I don't know how I feel myeslf
but dear, together, we are formidable
and apart --
I don't know about you,
but I catch myself on the dry spells --
we are fort minable

this song has been stuck in my hear
since it reminded me of you
and this could be another metaphor for something heartfelt
and not altogether original

But I want us to be
the figures in the painting
you said you saw us in
I want to be
that feminist duet
(even if I can't sing and you voice is that of the devil's)
I want to be
the cats in the picture
with the intertwined tails
or the flowers tangled up
on a vine
(I was going to send you that on
but I thought against it
because you were too beautiful to be compared
to a simple petrichor-scented bougainvillea)

So I will be
the 889 poetry books
you dog-ear and highlight
and secretly slightly plagiarize
and I will be
the 889 plants growing
in your backyard,
sparkling for you like replacement diamonds
after the rain
(and better yet I will be the forest
of 889 trees
looming not frighteningly but protectively
over you)
and I will be
the 889 strides
of golden brick road
to follow to your favorite coffee shop every day
and I will be
the 889 innocent peaks
at a delicate pinkie finger or a nose
(because a delicate rose such as you
cannot be seen all at once and truly appreciated)
and I will even be
the 1 778 pairs of eyes
stealing my own looks,
and hopefully you will not be afraid anymore.

I will split myself
into
6 228 parts
to make you feel comfortable
and if this is not a love poem
then it is an apology
and gratitude
and anger/resentment/not really/how could I resent you/you are everything

what I'm trying to say is,
we could go so many different ways,
and what's one more expression of love to you
after all you've been through.

Elli had never thought that the walls were strange.  Really, she didn’t think of them as walls precisely; they simply marked where her world ended.  After all, they had always been there, looming grayishly about one hundred feet from her back door.  Occasionally, strange shapes would appear at the top of the wall, silhouetted by bright lights so that she could never say what they looked like.  The sky was a perfect circle of blue or gray, depending on the weather, and it hung rather flatly overhead.  Elli’s house had pristine white walls with a red tile roof, exactly like the other four houses in her little slice of existence.  There was one other child besides Elli, but he was a baby who barely spoke.  

Not that anyone else said much either.  The adults seemed happy enough she supposed and treated her with kindness, but they all looked at each other knowingly, with resignation.  

Elli couldn’t understand why that was so; they had everything they needed here: food, water, clothing, each other.  The weather was even cooperative for the most part, raining just often enough to keep the trees and flowers alive, and never getting cold enough to warrant anything heavier than a long-sleeved shirt.

She had to admit, though, it did get a little boring occasionally.  But, just as soon as she thought she would cry with boredom, a new toy would appear, or a new type of flower for her to discover.  When she asked her mother where these things came from, she would go tight-lipped, then relax, and say gently that they were gifts from Above.

What ‘Above’ was, precisely, no one could (or would) tell her.  So she made it up.
Elli thought that Above was quite mysterious, but it must be benevolent because it gave her so many gifts.  She would talk to Above sometimes, but it never answered; it only came with more presents when she had tired of the old.  Often, Above’s presents to Elli were in the form new discoveries, and very occasionally in the form of an actual toy.

One day, Above gave Elli a mysterious gift: a sketchbook and three pencils.  She was unsure what to do with them at first, but after some experimentation she discovered that one end of the pencil made a mark, and the other end could make the mark disappear.  That discovery alone delighted her, and for a while, she busied herself simply with the process of marking and erasing.

Next, Elli started to put the marks together in ways that pleased her, and eventually filled the entire sketchbook with abstract drawings.  She thought she would erase them all and start over the next day, but when she woke up that morning, another sketchbook and three new pencils were stacked on top of the old.  She squealed with glee.

Elli took the sketchbook out to her favorite tree that day, and as she sat in its shade, it occurred to her that she might be able to replicate what she saw around her on her paper.  
Elli began to draw.  

She explored everywhere for things to draw, and as she followed the curve of the concrete wall late that afternoon, she saw a strange object on the ground, half hidden by a large bush.

Bending down to take a closer look, she noticed that whatever the object was, it was flush with the ground and seemed to have space below it.  Elli thought that was odd; she had always assumed the ground was utterly solid, and to find that there was a seemingly endless hole underneath was disconcerting.  She set her sketchbook and pencils down and reached out for the object.

It was covered in a reddish dust that came off on her fingers.  She grabbed the grate and pulled a bit.  It rattled invitingly.  Acting on impulse, Elli grabbed the cover with both hands and heaved; it was heavy, but not unmanageable, and she soon had it off and found herself staring down a dark tube.  She knelt down, stuck her head in, and shouted.  The echo of her shout leapt away down the tunnel.

Elli backed away from the hole and sat down, contemplating her discovery.  One thing was certain: her little world was not as little as she had thought.

Eventually, Elli decided that the peculiar hole would have to wait.  She was getting hungry, and the thought of her mother’s cooking enticed her.  So, with some effort, Elli pulled the cover back over the hole and dusted her hands.  It would be waiting for her to explore tomorrow.

The next morning, Elli raced out to the hole and dragged the off the cover.  Again, she shouted and listened to the echo of her voice leave her behind.  

She wondered where the echo went.

Finally, curiosity got the better of her, and dragging her sketchbook and pencils with her, she lowered herself into the darkness.  

As her feet touched the bottom, she noticed that the hole had become tall enough for her to stand in.  Looking up, she realized that she would not be able to go back that way. She shook off that thought, and turned her face to the darkness.

The tunnel was damp, so Elli slid her sketchbook protectively under the front of her shirt.  The further she got from her entry point, the darker it became, until she could no longer see anything.  

For the first time in her life, Ellie knew fear.  

She thought of her friend, Above.

I don’t like this; I really don’t like this, Elli said to Above in the darkness.  Can you hear me, Above?  I’d like a gift to help me get out of here.  Please?

No answer came, but Elli knew that that was what would happen.  Above never spoke to her.  She felt wetness well up in her eyes, felt it trail down her face, and touched it with her fingertips.  Her fear abated a little as she stood in the darkness and nothing extraordinary happened.  Elli sniffed.

Picking up her courage, she continued forward in the darkness, feeling her way along the damp walls of the tunnel.  Suddenly, she heard a loud scraping noise overhead.  She jumped back, stumbled over her feet, and dropped her sketchbook in a puddle.  A sliver of light appeared in the ceiling, widening as the scraping noise continued.  Elli looked up, frozen, fear returning vengefully.  Light filled her section of tunnel.  She looked up, blinking at its brightness.  

A strangely elongated hand appeared, silhouetted against the light, reaching out for her.  Elli gasped.  It’s all right, the hand said, I will help you.  I am here to get you out of the tunnel.  Elli didn’t move.  Another strange hand appeared, and together, they reached for her, grasped her, and hauled her out of the darkness.  

Elli looked at the owner of the hands, into a face entirely unlike any she had seen before; the eyes were much too large, and the irises were an iridescent purple.  It didn’t have a nose, and its mouth was decidedly small.  It looked upon her with what she could only fathom was worry and concern.  There were others, standing, watching.

Who are you? Elli asked.
We are Above, it said.
And Elli knew nothing at all.

The last four years have been beyond comprehension but no matter what I have heard and experienced the words stay positive.
Many things have changed but having heart and calm saves the day.
Some things stay the same and for others, you adapt to the times and issues as best you can.
There is so much to see and do.
If you have given up, please don't think of taking me with you.
I will remain protectively positive.

C@rainbowchaser2023

I


"My dearest, sweetest love" the Baron said,
"Now that we two affianced souls are one,
What's mine is thine, for joy that we are wed
And through this house I bid thee freely run.

Enjoy the drawing room, the stately hall,
The bedchamber where thee and I shall play;
The blue room for each annual summer ball,
All draped in swags of blue and silver grey;

Enjoy the music room, my fine spinet,
The gilded harpsichord that sweetly sings,
With music to dispel all past regret -
Thou hast free rein of all my treasured things.

But go with caution to the library,
And only ever in my company."



II


With that, the Baron shewed her all around
His mighty chambers, all the corridors;
The quarters where the servants could be found,
The painted ceilings and mosaic floors.

The library he shewed her last of all;
The key hung on his chest, on a gold chain.
The secrecy thereof held her in thrall;
It seemed the library was his domain.

"Love, touch ye not the Book of Samothrace,
Don't venture to the pages held inside!
For when the sun hath turned about its face,
Malevolence finds shadow lands to hide!

The pages of our lives are clean and bright,
The Book of Samothrace is endless night!"



III


"My handsome sweetheart" Said the Baroness,
I'm humbled by thy generosity,
And when my maid has helped me from this dress,
Thou shalt discern how grateful I can be.

Thou gavest jewels for my neck and hair
That shine as well by day or candlelight;
And I shall kiss thee all and everywhere -
Prepare for not a wink of sleep tonight!"

With that, she led him to their master bed,
Undressed and pressed him down on sheepskin furs;
There proving true to everything she said
Till he declared his soul forever hers.

Anon, with trembling lips and blissful sighs,
Yielding to sleep, the Baron closed his eyes.


IV


How eloquent is beauty in repose
The Baroness reflected, as he lay
With lips half-open, like a dewy rose,
His night-black hair in tousled disarray;

And in the central furrow of his chest
One hand lay, as if half-protectively,
Next to the key more treasured than the rest -
The one that could unlock the library.

"Love touch ye not The Book of Samothrace"
She heard her love's words echo in her head.
Remembering, her heart began to race,
That such forbidden pages might be read.

Thus, yielding unto curiosity,
She let her fingers tiptoe to the key...



V


The golden catch was easy to undo,
Seconds before the Baron turned away
In blissful dreams of love. He never knew
How vicious time was leading fate astray.

The key was gone, while in the corridor,
His wife was creeping, ever-stealthily,
Drawn to the library's beguiling door,
Enchanted by base curiosity.

Only one lamp revealed the tall bookshelves
Which bore the most illustrious of tomes;
Huge hide-bound celebrations of themselves
Where God and science found unequal homes.

Herein her questing fingers came to trace
The cover of The Book of Samothrace.



VI


An ancient script met her enchanted gaze,
Whose Foreword mentioned a young sorcerer:
The fabled author of this book of days
And book of spells, unfolding now for her.

The spells were fashioned with one grand design,
To be recited in a secret place,
To call upon a spirit most malign -
A terrible demon, named Samothrace.

"...And mighty magick shall infuse the one
Who looks the longest in the daemon's eyes;
Undreamed-of power, burning like the sun,
With insights into Hell and Paradise.

Go to the garden seat and draw the ring,
Be seated and begin the summoning!"



VII


If hindsight were the author of our fate
We might find ways to live with less regret.
The Baron woke to realise, too late,
The secrets of his book were safer kept.

'Twere better had he mentioned not at all
The Book of Samothrace, so markedly,
For now she did not answer to his call
- He guessed she must be in the library.

He raced downstairs to find the door ajar,
The Book of Samothrace had gone astray,
Into the garden, yet it seemed too far -
He tried to walk, his legs would not obey.

Beyond the French door glass, a dreadful sight
Had rendered him immobile, mute with fright.



VIII


His wife sat rigid on the garden seat,
Her hair splayed like a sea anemone,
With a wine chalice lying at her feet,
Her mouth was open, screaming silently.

A doppelganger, like in every way,
Unto his mistress, with red splayed-out hair
Was screaming, still he could not turn away
To flee the image of her wild-eyed stare.

As time stood still, the Book of Samothrace
Floating on air, was burning by her side,
Eerie green smoke began to veil her face
The earth within the circle opened wide.

Out sprang the demon, withered, smoky-grey,
With cruel teeth and eyes as bright as day.



IX


Hereby the demon Samothrace was freed,
A great evil unleashed upon mankind,
That all life must remember how to bleed
Within a world grown dark and mercy-blind.

The terrible futility of war
Decay and all the tyranny of flies
Futility and struggle, all the poor,
A hidden curse on every new sunrise.

"Love, touch ye not The Book of Samothrace,
Don't venture to the pages held inside"
The Baron, frozen still in giving chase,
Watched and remembered, grieving for his bride.

The book, having now caused the demon's birth
Fell deep into the chasm in the earth.



-------END------


NOTE: This was inspired by a painting of the same title by the brilliant fantasy artist, Barry Windsor-Smith. I emailed the poem and was delighted to get a reply and positive feedback about it from him.

One broke her,
Into thin fibers of glass disarranging a once whole vase
A beautiful vase, multifaceted and covered in ornate beauty
Intricate, delicate, carefully carved
A whole vase, filled to the brim with life and love
But what does love look like? She knows not anymore.

Two found the vase in ruins,
picked up her pieces, mended her and held on to her afraid she would break once more
Carefully, protectively she now lived.
Given everything, someone who had mended her.
Yet she still felt a sense of a missing piece
A gap, a hole, a missing fragile piece, unfilled but by One who had broken her

Why does she love One who hurt her, who broke her who left her unfilled?
Two many times has he mended her back together
Yet One is still the missing piece, the gap, the hole, the Vase

We're laying here  with pillows on the floor, like where in the Sahara or some other exotic place just- watching TV.

Hold me while you run your fingers through my hair, caress my face as you look down into my sober face,  a smile breaks and i cast my eyes downwards knowing I'm blushing  cause your looking at me with that tale tell look.

I flick through the channels pretending not to notice your left arms laying right on my breast, the weight of it is refreshing since your left arms underneath my right arm and you've encircled the top half me protectively in your embrace.

I like leaning back on your chest as we watch TV, going through the channels together but you allow me to hold the remote, we settle for a movie we both like, "The Grudge".

We're all into the movie & been watching for a long while, it's scary and I shirk so loud you hold me tight,  even though I've now jumped a tiny bit & cursed out the scary girl crawling around on the screen,

I've covered my eyes with my blanket, I peek out from the blanket and look up at you, your holding in a laugh which seems so hard for you to do.

Kissing my forehead and loosen up your grip, then say to me baby are you scared?

Naw like really?,  of course I am & duh I say, you finally burst out laughing , its beautiful like sweet baritone- like music.

You bend & kiss me,  the kiss, I guess goes on for what seems like hours, it's only been at most a minute,.
Baby,- is what you say to me and finally I open my eyes, your looking at me with that tale tell look.

We kiss some more as we start ******* each other, fast and swift we get right down to it, no  foreplay  just the kissing, you enter me and unbeknown to me I'm moist, ready.

Your moving deeply, I'm moving fast, like it's a race, your aims to take your time,  but I'm heated, I've been longing for you, so I make sure without saying a word that I end up on top.

I'm grinding my pelvis as we mesh together, allowing you to move in & out of me, I'm climaxing rapidly, I told you I've been longing for you.

****** You've stop me dead, cold, and I'm looking at yo *** like what the ****, you smile those bright teeth with those amazing lips spread wide showing off your kool-aid grin, then say to me relax baby & don't move.

I don't know how you've done it but I'm on my stomach in a flash, and you haven't even taken your **** out of me,  rather your moving so deep inside of me allowing the pleasure from before to come back in such a force,
that I ******* bit hard down on my lip, not intentionally, your moving fast now and smack me on my ***.

I'm moving with you as if I'm a dancer in a ***** shaking video,  as if I'm a **** star pro and your the main star, I've always wanted to ****.,

I'm moving faster now, we've matched each other stroke for stroke, so much so it's like where  racing to some imaginary finish line,

but you slow your pace, I wish I could- but I'm already climaxing and my body's doing it on it's own.

You intentionally move even deeper, to where I can feel you hitting my ******,

It's all my body needed,  I cry out so loudly, you pick up your pace and **** me so hard, so deep, your holding on to my hips and slamming your **** in & out,  out & in
with such force & so much friction, once more my body's reacting.

You pump so fast & all I can do is take it, while I *** again & again,  you've yet to,

but I can feel it coming, with each stroke, each ******,  I feel the thickness all nine inches of you swell up.

You growl out; Ahhhhhayeshahhh, I'm *******, and erupt, right behind you is my turn, guess you knew cause you never stop.

This is crazy cause all this started just from us

Watching TV.*

Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1990-Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®

He pulls away, precariously balanced
above the raucous creek slicing through
the campground’s city-like togetherness

she protectively hovers, hands cupped
inches from his slender back, prepared to grab
honoring his need for independence

the crooked lodge pole leans
toward what little sun is bestowed
upon it by its larger brethren

a mother, a child
a tree, a stream
soft light.

I hope you know
You are worth it

You are worth the time and energy needed
To gently break down the walls you’ve built
Protectively around yourself

You are worth the quiet moments
You are worth the noise

You are worth the rage
You are worth the laughter

You are worth the painful tears
You are worth the face splitting smiles

Last night when I came home, I noticed a very delicious
fragrance enveloping me. The jasmine was not in bloom,
so I knew it couldn't be that stealing through window drafts,
and the incense sticks were long extinguished.

Was it Lakshmi? Her divine fragrance perfumes the three
worlds and I sensed an unusual lightness in the atmosphere.
This morning I still detected a unique aroma, though not as pronounced.

I went outside, in the backyard, to let the dog out and observed two orange speckled butterflies dancing near her doghouse. I shooed them away protectively.  As I did this, they moved over to another location, but one hovered near my hands.

It fluttered around my hands for a good minute. I was able to hear,
witness and breathe in the amazing oscillation of it's fragile wings.
Gorgeous mosaic patterns glittered between the rays of sunlight bathing
our golden communion. I could clearly see its ebony face peering curiously up at me.

Soon a third butterfly joined the party, and a trinity of sweetness pulsated close. After a while they all took off in different directions.

Later, I reflected while swinging in the garden jhoola how wonderfully connected we all are.

This Unity transcends the mental, emotional and physical barriers, preconceptions and dimensions of our ordinary awareness.  

Love has a lot to do with it, respect, peace, truth and right conduct too.

candles of fire and flare
balloons float high in the air
their way of showing me
they finally care

the end of the rainbow
my soul now knows
the end is like the ballon
I've seen where it goes

doves fly peacefully
protectively on my side
I lay asleep
Eyes wide

I dance and giggle
as people cry and wiggle
life was complicated
death was simple

violas laid on my grave
tombstone reads:
no longer a sinner
no longer satan's slave

It's summer here in Miami, Florida.  The Jacaranda tree has violet flowers that fall and float on the tops of the moist jade grass.  The Gardenia bush with bent branches is heavy with fragrant white flowers.  Parsley, basil and dill are tall and flowering with bees pollinating them.  

Numerous plump cherry tomatoes, with all their tingling flavor, hide among the leggy bushes. Green and scarlet bell peppers, smooth and crisp, hang on neighboring branches.

Several new baby birds are fledgling from nests while their parents protectively hover nearby.  Two families of scarlet Cardinal birds greedily eat from our outdoor feeders.  A flock of fifty Cherry Head parrots with their crimson shoulders and heads  crack open black sunflower seeds.

Toads at night call to prospective mates sounding like broken air conditioners.  Black wiggly bodies swim in clusters in the canal feeding on algae waiting to grow their legs and hop through the tall grasses.

Global mangoes growing and ripening on trees are large enough to sweeten the palette .

The sun is smiling warming the earth--the animals, plants and people.  Steady rain quenches the thirst of all creatures.  Nature is here for us to enjoy.

If I had to
I would paint him like this;
His hair thick streaks, shielding
Hidden face, arms placed protectively
about a shield of strings, his
fingers float out joy.
My Boy
Lies immersed in his own
Invisible sound,
Happiness hidden, and found,
Underground.
Silence Sings Out Loud.

I would paint him like this.

If I had to
I would paint her like this;
Her hair tangled in a golden kiss
against the mischief of her
face, all sorrow erased
by half moons of mirth
Hands of Nurture placed
deep in the Earth.
In stability she is
free, in life
she is re-born,
eternally stubborn.

I would paint her like this.

If I had to
I would paint them like this;
Colours clashing to complete
the cadbury brown of hair,
Blue and Red swirling and
stairing their way down
to Purple.
If I were to paint them, I'd
create a staple of
a third and final
canvas.

Both Him & Her,
Boy and Girl,
complete
_ _
This is their
similarity.

i.

In her silhouettes lee, I'm unscathed, unslaved,
Sheltered, free; tis she's mine sea, who guideth
me. Lief i'll cradle her, protectively, lief i'll be
the breath she breathes, lief O' lief; serenity.

ii.

In her presence I shalt bathe in her scintillating
albedineity, plenty O' plenty, shalt be in ourn
Cup; risen enduring creation's, just ourn love
Is enough, verily, verily, accumulating puff's.

iii.

Puff's of the holiness, surrounding ourn locus,
famigerating through the valley's; wherein we
Giveth epistle's for men's focus, that charity,
Forgiveness, and untainted Agápe, mayest be
a missive; for all humankind to copy.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome Poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedication

It’s Sunday morning, about 8am. My BF Peter and I we’re doing our laundry. Most of the time, we spent in my dorm common room, sitting side by side on a red corduroy couch, while our clothes washed, and then tumbled away in the dryer. If you want privacy on a college campus, or to do laundry in peace, avoiding the weekend laundry rush, do it before 10am.

"Why do you wear these," Peter asked, pulling and lightly snapping the hair-band on my wrist.
I pull my hand back, protectively. "If I don’t have a hair-band on my wrist I feel out of control."

There’s a new me. I’d decided - civilized, unemotional, clear-sighted.
"I've got a lot to do before summer,” Peter said earlier, “so I made a spreadsheet.”

I felt a shadow pass over me - our future is, at best, undecided. So, I shifted gears, the way the new me is trying to do lately.
“A Spreadsheet!” I said, like I approved, and he grinned. I’d made him happy. This is what adults do, I’d decided, they have civilized conversations where decisions were made or avoided - but there was a small, dark thing in my heart.

I got a text from our dryer saying our clothes were dry, so we headed down. I love the smell of fresh laundry and the feeling of shaved legs against fresh bed sheets - a luxurious combination no guy will ever understand. I made a mental note to shave my legs later.

The last couple of weeks I’ve been working on summer fellowship applications. A successful summer fellowship is one of those things I’ll need when I apply for med-school - like grades, faculty letters, physician recommendations, community service, a great MCAT score, bla bla bla.

My mom knows the 200 things med-schools use to cleave away pretenders and she’ll rattle them off upon request and sometimes over groaning protests.

What I need, ideally, this summer, are clinical experience hours. There’s not much at stake, just my future, the respect of the faculty, and the begrudging acknowledgement of my pre-med peers. My mom was quizzing me on my progress last night. I confirmed that all the applications were in and I ended with, “I haven’t slept with anyone yet, to gain advantage - but we’re still early in the process.”

She was not amused.

Did you lose your sense of belonging? Is it the way you know you don’t fit in, remarks on your skin, your partner, your friends? Is it that you could never get one; a general rejection from society always whispering your wrong? Perhaps its that not even the people everyone has told you should care most don’t at all. Perhaps you feel the ones that should care for you most lash out most of all and pull you down and push you against cement walls. Is it the feelings of building frustration that eats at you? Is it that you are stagnating in an unfortunate place or is it the terror you feel when you remember that you are trapped here with no way out except to wait. Is it that sense that you are completely and terrifyingly inadequate in the life you are in, in this situation you are surrounded by? Tell me right now what the hardest part for you is. Is it the sense of purpose that has died inside you like the delicate dreams you held protectively in fumbling hands or dose your desperation dance with all the things people can’t understand? Is it spinning and whirling and dipping with your sense of what is human with your sense of humanity? Do you shutter at their loss of compassion or the loss of your own? Do you think angrily of how they hate you or do you shudder in regret at the way you gave up on yourself? Tell me if you are angry for their wanting you to change or at your reflection for knowing that you can’t. Are you upset that you are aside from them or because in a moment of disgust you realize they are exactly the same as you? Are you mad that you alone are solely responsible for your sense of happiness while all along knowing it is all dependent on a wondering chance, some element you will need to accomplish it and allowing yourself to experience it while it’s there. Tell me I want to know, what’s the hardest part for you? Is it the pain, the terror, the dread, the numbness, the ache, the falling, the pressure, the restlessness, the emptiness, the cold indifference, the chaos, the cohesion, the awakening or your ignorance? Tell me what’s the hardest part for you?

I love you most with tension between us
You're sad, I'm mad,
Look at me.
And oh that stare
Makes my stomach churn,
With worry of what it means for us
Because maybe you'll never look at me how you used to.
I love you most when I fear I might lose you,
Gone forever,
With worry I'll never feel your hands
Make burning embers of my skin
Make me quiver
Shiver
Ashes in your arms again.
With fear your lips will never again gently,
Passionately, protectively
Meet mine.
I love you most when I get that edge
of the cliff
No breath feeling,
When it's all drooping sighs, angelic eyes
Balled up fists, wrenching heart
Aching head
Sick to my stomach,
I can't lose you, I love you, I hate you.
I love you most in the end
when we don't fight,
When, oh god, we aren't one of those couples
We become tense and worry
We lie, cry
Want to die
But never fight,
We just curl up and sigh
Breathe each other in and touch
Like we might fall apart.
But truly,
I love you most when you say
You aren't going any where,
you love me
Hold me close, won't let go
When I tell you over and over
I want you, I need you, I love you.
I love you most when we are finally together.
Alone.
And we sin,
I feel myself unravel in your bed
And breathless we cling to each other,
Come crashing back
And I bury my smile in your chest
And, at last,
I'm home.

We are a collection
Of mixed half-things;

i.  B i t s and b o b s that don't belong anywhere
But beside each other-
       that bent plastic spoon curled
                                                          r    
                                                            o
                                                               u         d   that stub of a candle
                                                                    n

Spine t w i s t e d like an aged ballerina,
Curled protectively over the red, red (red! like the blood that simmers under your skin) candle



ii. songs from different ERAS
One song from the 80s with their razzle and dazzle and neon lights,
                                                                    their advertisements in CAPITALS and exclamation marks
                                                                                                                                          !!!!
and; another song from today, one of those "hipster" ones as
the kids these days like to call them;
                sorrow spill-
                    ing out of them
                        like melting ice- cr
                                  eams on stairs

No one thought they would fit together
Until a mix,
A playlist on 8tracks was made.



iii.  abandoned              sets
                           swing
                                                     on a lonely playground
on a lonely park.

Swinging in t
                           a
                     n
                           d
                     e
                            m
                                   (but not quite)
                                   (but that's okay)

There will be regret, so much regret, I know this
          Yet
The alien thoughts of rebirth quickens in my gut, thickly moving with determined osmosis, to drive the very tides of my blood
To ultimately insinuate itself
Into the fibers of my nervous system.
Climbing up and into the pithy stem
To feel with my starry-ed synapses, to see with my own eyes
The parasite's willowy dendra
Protectively cupping the soft mass of my brain,
Tenderly releasing biochemical panaceas
   --The Mother of me--
I rise, a new creature,
Half of me mercifully dead,
Full of possibilities.

On a yellow-lighted main street we pause on a corner
For a moment, our companions lagging behind.
You set down the twelve-pack of beer by a lamp post.
I zip up my jacket. We both grumble, impatient.
I'm cold, you want to get drunker, we both
Shiver. You stand against a stone wall, we face
Each other across the sidewalk. Your hair
Flies into your eyes as you toss your head --
"Come the **** on!" -- at those half a block back.

A couple passes by us, the man in a dark tuxedo,
The woman in a white wedding gown and heels,
Hair in disarray. They stop their post-nuptial trudging, and she
Leans against the building for support to remove
Her shoes. His hand rests protectively on
Her back; none of us make eye contact. And then
Her shoes are off, bare feet padding lightly down
The November-chilled San Francisco sidewalk.

"Hurry up, you *******," I heckle backwards at our three
stragglers. "Newlyweds are moving faster than you."
We glance at each other again, you
Light a cigarette and shake your head. It hits
Me with a chuckle. "Man, those people
Just got married and here they are, walking
Down a street in the city at 2 in the morning."

"Right?" you reply, laughing a little. Our eyes meet
As if sharing a joke. And then we look away.
You cross the sidewalk in two long strides,
And bend to pick up your beer, handing me
Your cigarette. Within a block our quick pace
Has left the others behind again.

when i take a fleeting second to think on the rarity that is us,
there is no reason for me to be thinking about you
every second of every day.

they tell us from the moment we are born
until the moment we die that it is devastatingly useless
to want something that you should not have.

this is something that would be destructive to me.
this is something that would be even more destructive to you.

against the will of my judicious brain,
i spend half of my time daydreaming -
tracing the curves of your face in my mind.

against the will of my burdened heart,
i spend half of my time in torture -
convincing myself that i don't feel this way.

when i step back, though, the reality hits me.
the answers i have sought become as clear as untroubled waters.

it is the brilliant gold specks in your emerald and turquoise eyes,
it is the rush of warmth when your fingertips brush my skin,
it is the fact that your smile is brighter than any sunshine i have ever seen,
it is the cool, sweet whisper of your breath against my neck,
it is the feel of your arms wrapped protectively around me,
it is the rare occassions where i get a glimpse of the boy behind all those walls,

that keep me captivated.

i cannot say that this is love.
i cannot say that I know what love is.
i can say that this is a strange kind of happiness -
a common understanding between two dreamers -
two hearts beating in the same ¾ time.

this is the desire to jump - eyes closed -
into something i am unsure of.
this is the will to pick myself up off of the floor
and try to be whole again just one more time.

i want to tell you how i feel. i have to tell you how i feel.

Sharon posts a photo of her new baby
on social-media and
Nasty-Jim comments
“That’s an ugly baby!”
Sharon feels shocked, insulted, appalled.
She hugs her baby protectively,
feeling hurt.

Sharon posts a photo of her new baby
on social-media and
Civil-Sheryl comments
“Congratulations on your beautiful baby!”
Sharon feels joyful and happy.
She hugs her baby warmly
kisses him on the head
and says “I love you little one”.

I am hungry i think as i lock eyes with you
i tap my feet hoping your questions will be enough to spring forth the rhythm of a vibrant relationship
ask me how
care about the whys

and you do care for me
protectively

but i am struggling stubbornly with wanting to tell you how to love me
and the stubborn belief that i shouldnt have to tell you how

and this is the new chapter called the firsts
and i want you to be curious bout me
and jealous when you know
i want to tell you
but dont you see
youve got to be the one to ask me.

" I found one Mummy!!!"
says my  just about four
year old boy.

We are on our town green
at the, combined churches Easter Egg Hunt.
This is Tod's first big egg hunt and he does n't quite
seem to have the hang of it.

Tod my boy, who now sits with his plastic egg.  
Happy as can be!!!

"Honey don't you want to go find some more ?"

"Can I ?"

"Why don't you go find one for Nanna & Da."

So off he goes, just about quivering with excitement,
Dad trailing protectively behind.

He comes back with four more eggs, so five in total.

One for Nanna,
One for Mummy,
One for Da
and one for me.

We ask, the obvious,
Tod, who is the last one for?...

It's for her,
he says pointing to a lady, sitting alone,on a park bench
watching the children play.
She is a complete stranger,
to us,  and looks a little bedraggled, not a street person, or drunk, just beyond caring.

"Why her ?"  We ask, just a tad alarmed,(Stranger danger and all that.)
because, " She is all alone and sad, with no eggs
and everybody should have eggs on Easter.

Gobsmacked much!!!.....
Our little man saw to the heart of it.
While we looked at the shell.

We took the egg over to, Anne, for that was her name and asked, if she would join us for a picnic lunch of fish and chips.
It turned out she was travelling through and had broken down .... was stuck till early next week(until her car was fixed) and was missing easter with her family. She had come to the
park, to see children play
on Easter Sunday morn.

As we parted later, with address's exchanged.
She leant over and said in my ear.
"You've done well, such a thoughtful little fellow."

I just beamed through my
welling tears.

Then she walked away.
and Tod gave her his cheery little wave.

The moon stares down at us silently,
yet we cannot tell if it is in judgement or adoration.
Her hollow eyes and full lips make up an illuminate silhouette.
Your glowing porcelain mirrors her China cabinet.
Maybe she is jealous;
your off-white shine is holding my attention
more than hers ever has.
Maybe it is narcissistic of me to assume
that Mrs. Moon craves my affection.
Maybe it was wise of me to realize that your mahogany shutters contrasted against the dark green earth in your backyard
are encasing me with a sense of safety that I have not recently felt
and I should clutch on to that warmth and comfort
as tightly as your right hand clutches onto the fistful of my hair
or the strength your left arm carries
as it winds protectively around my waist.

I take that hat That you gave me
And I sleep with it
To remind me of what I want

I inhale and a scent dances around my nose
It plays with my mind and creates you

It pretends that you are next to me with an arm protectively around me
It pretends that I am upon your chest and That you kiss my head gently

I snuggle closer to that hat
I pretend I am on top of you and that we are just talking
I pretend that I kiss you sweetly and kiss your neck gently

Then I fall asleep and dream of you
More pretending
But maybe it could be reality
And no more Pretending
I don't know yet

Head tucked in his chest
She’s rolled into a ball
Forgotten all her stress
Sheltered from it all

His arms draped down her side
Protectively contained
The stillness of the time
A stranger’s look exchanged

The trickling Sunday rain
A shy look to the floor
A pounding head of pain
Sorry, have we met before?