Monthly Archives: August 2018

The Kiss

Maybe there will never be
the unexpected, the look,
the intensity of the eyes,
the arrival, the invitation,
a walk, a city, a drizzle,
a contemplation,
that leads up steps,
a quaint but old apartment building,
the sound of keys
in a door that swings open,
nostalgia while it’s poured
over rocks from a bottle,
a turntable pressing
vinyl to a needle,
the low light from the window,
the couch in the living room,
the cold of the glass
as it’s handed off to you,
the proximity of legs,
the taste of amber,
the glass, how it touches the mouth,
how the liquid languors,
and then with eyes that say all,
as though already a lover,
the kiss.

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How quickly September approaches,
and how much later the light
now wakes me in mornings,
as though a thought
slips in-between,
where I am wrapped loosely
amongst the sheets,
to pull me in closely,
to kiss me from sleep,
while eyes adjust to who and what,
I know will one day arrive;
here, in this quiet morning,
in this fading of the night,
from what is to what will be.

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Maybe I am all heart song,
sliding myself into
dusty pockets, full of lint
and rarely noticed,
as if I could, I would,
be a trinket to the world.

With all these words
unseen and folded, stuffed
down deep inside of pockets,
in all these jeans
worn used and jackets,
purchased from Goodwill.

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Of Rain, Of Roses

And what romantic notions
were laid for us here
amongst this city
of rain, of roses?
Where brick by brick,
the Masons who built,
with trowel, with mortar,
so carefully lined
with binding hope
such walkways,
where lovers feet
might one day meet
to lean against such walls,
till pulled to covered archways,
where in shadow, love, first grows.

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The Heights

And if I might succeed,
might silence the insanity,
then I must learn of you
to close my ears, my eyes,
must find within myself
that yearning which was lost,
what longing waits
to be revived,
the self who I once was;
a fire not yet died,
but there amongst the ash
still, an ember glows a light;
my soul, my breath within,
the person I am meant to be;
the person who I am; before I
forget; how I have always been
as free to burn as high as the heights.

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Love Of A Sociopath

He makes my mouth bitter,
and yet, still,
I consume the words,
though rotten,
where in heaps
they were thrown; the waste
of his heart;
a barren landscape
I once walked
to map
the topography
looking for life,
for something, anything,
to make sense of the dichotomy,
but could never find it;
the reason my mouth
always revolts at the taste,
or the reason why I loathe
what I continue to eat;
consuming like an addict
everything he writes,
of this false, inability to love.

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Rest Instead

And what of all the sleeping words?
We had forgot to awaken,
and so they go on and we allow them
dozing, day in, day out,
while you wring your heart, your hands,
in hopes to at least bleed one drop of ink,
when I’d rather you do nothing but
“just rest instead,” and try not to think
of walls, or shackles, or even if there is
a dragon guarding the castle. But lay
your head down and “rest instead,” with all
the dozing, sleeping words, and
wait like them, for what kiss might come
to break all spells and awaken you at last.

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Amongst The Threads

Maybe all this feeling
would be better
if I were to fold it,
pack it away,
and not bother
to allow my fingers
to linger there
too long
amongst the threads.

Or my eyes to wander
the paths each has
managed to weave
into the other,
contemplating the colors
of where one stops
and the other begins,
or even the small
imperfections; the rubs,
the pulls, the snags.

Or the temptation
to simply bury my face
into all of it,
to take in whatever
scent remains
there in the fabric
that was once
so deftly and tightly

That I’m sure if I did;
if I lingered too long
in the process,
that I would somehow find
all the beginnings,
or all the ends,
and would start pulling
until nothing remained,
until nothing was left.

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These Dogs

I know I must,
but why?
Why should I?
Continue to perish,
and will I not?
Continue to keep.
Amidst and hidden,
and was I not once
For surely
I must have been,
in the Garden
of the Gods,
where still
I’ve not
been picked,
as though,
these gods
are jealous dogs,
who so diligently
manage to keep,
to guard
their beloved,
pruned to such
an exactness,
to such a degree,
that I continue
to produce,
and produce
in abundance,
awaiting always,
this vision,
which only
I have seen;
Dear, Daughter,
who awaits
your arrival,
who waits for me.

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Sound of Music

Maybe I have lived too long
listening to the chiming
of the Grandfather clock
every fifteen minutes
on the hour; its song.

A reminder,
like a soldier on a Cuckoo clock
who comes out and marches
to the tune, then changes
direction, until he is quietly
housed again behind the
closed doors of Time.

And maybe I am like him?

Or maybe I am the girl instead
dressed in the sound of music,
hair in buns or braids, the soldier
has dropped his gun to chase
but never catches, because both
are on a course they can’t change.

Or maybe I am neither,
and I find my feet are free to walk
in however much Time allows me,
in this love I have for clocks
with all of their reminding.

And as another fifteen minutes has passed
again, it’s Grandfather I hear who’s singing.


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Wishing Well

Maybe in the garden
I will be,
to sit with my heart
so silently,
and find my face
staring back at me,
from the well in which
I peer.

And there at the bottom
does a penny sit,
its shiny face
no longer lit,
for how long
has it been there
with that secret wish?
I know was thrown by me.

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Maybe Then

If only we could have
failed at reason,
or failed at thought,
the tongue,
always waiting,
always ready
like a pen,
for its chance
to speak
before knowing,
or decide
on whim.
Outside of presence,
or outside of being,
always trying
to say all
without ever
really saying,
how much
we’d loved
in distance
and loathed
in proximity.
Never fully understanding,
never fully understood,
and with all these words,
and we could have
said nothing,
we could have let be,
or we could have forgot.
Maybe then.

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And how shall
the heart open?
Could it be
as though the rosebud
slowly flourishing
in light?
When overcome
by the sun,
its petals fold outward,
until no place is left
the sun has not seen.

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Three Words

In frenzied thought,
in movement,
in resistance,
in fight or flight,
the mind at war
with the heart,
the body
its own device,
at times,
that drives all
making light
of the maniacal,
and cares not
for reason,
and cares not
for want,
and houses and
most forgotten;
the soul,
draped in
fine linen, unseen
and hidden,
and perhaps
at times
will stop at
to drive us
to dashes
upon the rocks;
and ruined
till together
in pieces,
a culmination!
a mere utterance;
to be destroyed
at last
by three words
as they roll off
the tongue.

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Beyond Reach

We were drawn poorly at first,
like how one sees a mirage
shimmering on the asphalt in August.
Always, just a few yards ahead.
Always, beyond reach,
as the hot tires of the car would spin
towards what could never be caught
in an endless cycle to catch,
because no matter how fast
the speedometer moved the needle,
the water kept sliding farther and farther out,
like a destination we could never get to,
to park the car, undress, walk to the end
of the pier and dive into the deep.

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I wake in early morning,
uncertain why,
but what a lie that is,
for how certain I am
for all the reasons,
alone, I watch
the sunrise now.
So aware of the missing.
So aware of a presence
not with me,
and so aware of how
all the words,
now good and silenced,
how all the words
were all so meaningless,
always, and how the one thing
you could never master,
was the only thing
that ever mattered,
in all this distance
you could never travel –
between us.

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To Love

And how long had I not allowed
myself to love?
Where in the corners of my mind
you had always stood
as the faceless shadow,
though how I knew
the contours of your face, the lines.
How, with my unseeing eyes,
I traced the shape
of your forehead,
down around the jawline,
then back to the sunken places
where your eyes had only seen
my true reflection twice.
Your nose, like the gentle slope
sliding down to where the soft
petals of your mouth had spoken
how many lilies?
Which had sprouted, grown, and died
there to their own remembrance.
And you, who was never the stranger,
never to I, but always
in the corners of my mind
waiting to stand at the center,
where my heart was pushed and pulled
in what endless struggle?
My arms receding like the waters,
the tides, only to want as much
as the moon desires
to illuminate the night, and now,
finding myself again reaching,
for all those places
where the land calls back
the gentle lapping,
and even the fierce passion,
to take upon itself all
the waters cannot help but give.
Allowing myself the words,
allowing my heart the feelings,
to feel all that I have tried
to keep in vain from feeling;
this pain of love,
and how I have always known
it would leave me; my shadow,
in the struggle of staying
or coming out into the light.

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Love, I have collected all the words,
labeled them
and put them in jars.
Be sure to keep
the lids on tight,
as they are often known
to escape and land
on tips of tongues
that you might not even realize,
until so unexpectedly
the words will and do come forth,
and you find yourself
saying things,
for the life of you, you thought
you never would.

And so this jar here,
this one is labeled Love.

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So Very Different

Even animals feel love
and so, perhaps we aren’t
so very different.
Perhaps, they might teach us
a thing or two.
In how they keep company,
in how they delight in nearness,
in the touch and smell
of close proximity.
And so, perhaps we aren’t
so very different,
except that only
in cause of reason
do we find ourselves without
this very thing called love.

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Mirror Glass Pond

In how many words
had I failed to find you?
That had languished
in my heart, once raged
like a river, but now quiet,
like a mirror glass pond.
And have they settled
to the bottom, amongst
the silt and forgotten,
here, where they rest
in the dark. Where the fish
do sleep to dream of love,
in a love that was never
ours. Is this where all the
words have gone? At the
bottom of a mirror glass pond.

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