Water Beauty Love

(Saundary Baanee Pyaar)

I find her bathing in the waters of life,

her saffron sari floats in the holy waters, the Jazba drifts there between

us. 

She does not see me for I am 

unseeable, I am in the wind, I sweep low

across the expanse to wrap myself

around her like a choli into her embrace. The softness of breast, the rise, the fall of her chest, a faint smile crosses her face…

“Go where you want” whispers the Arjunas to me, lift her arms, as the trees, touch the sky, Intezaar, a blessing

for hope as she floats in the currents,

sun-kissed a blush on her smooth skin

the soft sighs, the water shaping her form, caress the flick of her fingers

the scent of us like iris lingers.

Burn Witch

Burn Witch

Subtle Wind Gone in 2 forms.

Solstice and others.

Winter's Heart

Along the windswept road

a long way from hearth and home

I stand adrift, I am alone.

the coldness creeps into my soul

I am bereft, I am so old.

Some poems are of truth, 

the vitality of youth.

some are of love, some tears

the wisdom gained from all those years.

the snow is soft, deceptively bright

I am in the thick of it, on the road tonight.

 I will not say bah humbug

nor will I grinch my way to bed

I will wish you all well & fine

be equal to mine

that said, may all your joy

Is it ever Christmas of the Hoth?

Frozen snow, freezing ice, zero degrees

sugar & spice

My hot chocolate is cold, the marshmallows

are lumpy ice.

I wished my fellows a happy holiday,

they threw snowballs at me all day

we made snow x-wings, we sang 

some carols about stormtroopers

until Solo proved to be a party pooper.

The princess is pretty cold but nicely brave

she yelled at Han, but Chewie she forgave.

That goldenrod droid told tale & talked

while the trashcan beeped and squawked.

We hugged and exchanged our gifts

Is there Christmas on Hoth? Probably not.

Desire & Consent

Fly Away

Queen of Thorns.

Here she lies, the Queen of Thorns,

There she lived, no one would forgive 

the crimes done to her, the scratches 

the scorn. She learned to hide alone

 in her room a sanctuary where

she could weep. Promises to keep, before she 

lies down to sleep, 

With each tear, the petals fall down

her blood is on her dress, her crown.

Here she cries, the Queen of Thorns, 

Where she slept, the pain under the rug,

sufficiently swept. The pain from a 

thousand small cuts, the shame from

anyone seeing them, the game of no ifs,

ands, or buts. 

A star is falling in the moonlight

red on pale skin, crimson silk white.

Here she dies, my Queen of Thorns,

Her life a portrait of passion, no one 

remembers to mourn, She was my one

true love, the one who was supposed to

become my wife, She exists only there

between the moments of joy and the darkness

of strife.

Her lips purchase the air she breathes

my lies, our love, which one did she believe?

She tries, the Queen of Thorns,

To stop in the gallows, with a nod to rope,

I will die in my curse, cowardice without hope.

She pauses to listen, she turns to the east.

Her rescue will come from the villain, the 

Beast.

A tale is told, almost as old as time.

of love and sacrifice, suffering for joy sublime.

Speak of...

Equilibrium

Twitter Verses.

I have been writing most of my poetry on and for Twitter.
Today, I am going to post several of them for this blog.
Also, am starting to experiment with gifs/video formats to be blended with poetry.
This building up to my ultimate form... Sand Dance. Stay tuned.

Cloudwalking

Cloud Walking

The winds roll down across the cloudless skies,

a lone plane drifts out into the blue searching

for clouds, no one knows what she will find

this day, no one knows where she will be when

she finds it, but the children stop in their play

to yell and wave anyway.

The world is wide, the expansive ocean’s hue

reflecting on the wings, the Lady’s Luck rides

the updraft, a lone seagull, the swallow’s cry,

she squints out through the sun filtered screens

looking for her islands, looking for their hope

looking for love in the heavens above.

Soon, the oceans of air give way to coasts 

so soft that when the mists reach out to tickle

the air-streamed body, her laughter is whisper

quiet, as the sun fades in down in the ghosts

of the night.

Dreams spin away, Her pilot sings the lullaby

to the children who wait down below, the stars

peeking around the clouds, as the rain begins

its descent, this is why she walked here in the

clouds, heaven sent.

copyright Mv2Studios 2016.

Morgan's Lament

                                                                                                                                                                   I was born to become a princess not another man's spouse.
live in a castle, not a cave or a windswept ruin of a house
I was going to live as a lady in a high tower safe from harm,
I was to be married to a gallant knight, my hand on his arm. 
Destiny be damned, if I must be the villain, then that is what I am. 

I had a father until your father betrayed and murdered him.
Oh how could the feys be so cruel, so macabre, so grim!   
I had a mother until you father deceived and stole her away,
He called it love, while I call it rape, what's more to say?
My mother wept, her children orphaned while we slept.

I had a brother until that mystic stole him from her breast.
Changed him into something I would grow in time to detest.
I had a brother who would come to be everything I hate,
All that should have be mine, His- ironic twist of fate!
The Age will come to an end, nothing left to defend.

I will have my revenge, for all that has been taken from me.
My name will be whispered in corners as children cry, flee.
I will have justice, the scales will be balanced eventually
No one will escape their doom, just you wait and see.
The crown will slip then fall, the bastard returns proud tall.

The loom will falter, the mirror cracks from side to side,
blood on the needle, the trickle will become the tide
traps were laid, plans carefully made and then betrayed,                                              
let the storm come over the battlefields dead and grayed
let the waters wash away my regret, I am determined, set.

I have never known what is was to be loved or to love as well
hold someone in my embrace, captured in a singular spell
I have never been touched with anything softer than a switch
having been called a whore, a wanton fool, a conniving witch
There will be no more tears, no more hope, no more fear.

I Remember You by Nightt-Angell, ©2011-2016 Nightt-Angell Deviant Art

Credit to Heather Dale for Mordred's Lullaby and just being an awesome Arthurian Songwriter.

For Teri Wilcox.

Teri, 

She is the moment between I love you and the echo of I know.

I want to say I cannot live without you in my life, but I do.

Whisper my name her eyes tell me, say the words I still hear

these are the breaths in which I am with her, this is her 

song, I want to hear.

Something like fate that pulled us together, the way

she held her hands around the coffee cup at the cafe in the

late evening air, a movie past, too brief a window to miss,

my own fears warring against my nature to engage closer

the shadow of doubt creeps the chills vying with the thrills

aim then ask, the rest of the night to come, I will remember this.

The song resounds in my head, "it was only one kiss," I 

reach out for consent, patience, be patient, let her make the choice

soft silken images, filter through my hesitations, the laughter

is there in her voice. 

Take the time, tell her, that it's all subliminal happenstance,

moving around her chair, the seconds before the music stops,

the table rocks, then she there with you, the return, the smile,

the touch, the idea, this is my dreams come true, drifting to

and fro, the twirl, the dance.

A Prayer for All those who have passed.

I will remember you, my love
when the moon is down, 
when the sun is behind the clouds
when the day falls into evening
when I feel the brush of your hand 
on my shoulder, the murmur of
your voice in my ears.
I remember you, my son
the sound of your feet
in the hall and kitchen
the shadow you cast 
in the morning light
as you came in from play
the cards you gave
these precious pieces
of paper that I save
I remembered you, mother
the flowers on your grave
the leaves turning orange
silences between the stones
the iced tea on the porch
long talks on the telephone
your wisdom when all else
failed to soothe my fears
I will not forget you, brother
the sacrifices you made 
for us through the years
all that you fought for 
how you lived and died
all the times I forgot to cry
My father, sister, friends gone
this is how I choose to hold
your memories, closely
like a locket on my chest
above my heart, the place
that I will remember all
those who made me try
to do my very best.


mv2studios 2016

Whisperwill

Twill the wisps, then twas not the silence at all,
the night slips slippery sloping as if the twilight
thus falls along the moonbeam that was not
as it once was but now creeps lavenderly 
by the soft satinish copper tones of sleep.
These words imagine themselves to print
the rain drop splotches of ink dip, dip 
sendings like the ripplerills ebbing away
into meticulous dreams shivering softly
across the ice cold sheets. I twon't tell
a soul she whispers along to my ears-
drum song a thumb thumping pong
to the tub tumbling trill I get when
her voice like lavender tickles my 
inner pollywongle something to twitch
I asketh my heart strings to reverberate
her warm repetitions in my sane
as if I can resuscitate the shadow
of activity that plays out in the 
diorama that is my brain.


copyright mv2studios 2016
  

Words and Lyrics

Was she playing a Uke? I asked as we glanced back at the stage
I think so, he said, I nodded and made a note of it on the page
Was she singing in tune to the drummer or that guy on the keys?
Perhaps it was both, her lyrics held me in check, weak in the knees.
like a rumble of emotions, the words ripped a hole into my soul
the sticks beating in time to the foot tapping, my fingers on a roll
floors shaking, it's the music we are making, walls quaking
the words meant more than the scratches on the paper are taking.
This is where I lost track of who was listening to who,
the writer and the Ukelele singer are one where we were two.


copyright
Mikev2 2016

I have a Patreon now.
Please take a moment to visit and see how you can help me to continue doing the things that I love to do,
According to Mike's Patreon

thanks for reading

The Artist

She sits at her studio bench, careful consideration
on her face, the reference sketches lie under the
paint swatches, the acrylics unopened arranged in
order of layer, the sable brushes, the minute tools
waiting for a decision to be made. The aluminum
casting is done, the rough miniature awaits the knife
for the finite details, that will follow.
She could get a 3D printer but the amount of money
wars with her lack of computer skills and the idea that
somehow she will not be able to create the same magic
in plastics that she has managed with aluminum and lead.
"The old ways are better instead," she mumbles as
she pushes her bangs away from her head.
The faded Tomb of Horrors tee shirt splattered with old
paint marred by the new strokes of drying paints
the small tears honor her favorite shirt, her small handles
turn the HB2 pencil in her hands rolling it back and
forth as she considers the final details before she turns
back to the paints.
Our hero awaits clasped in the alligator clips, the shavings
lie scattered below him like discarded armor. The artist
selects the base paints, setting to work, a mildly curious
perplexed expression writes itself across her freckled
cheeks. She adjusts her glasses, clips back the rebellious
bangs, massages the crick in her neck, remembers she has
a cup of coffee. She sips at it realizing that the ever
curmudgeonous Gaming store owner has reheated it while
she was lost in her meditative trance. Thankful she gives
him the blessing of light and hope that Talos will be more
forgiving the next time he call down his name in vain.
"The coffee is good, may the patron saint of miniatures
bless this peice as I already know she should."
The hero awaits the birth of face as the primer is washed
into place, the artist smiles to herself as her art takes shape.

The Next Step

Imagine,
A foggy stream in a wilderness unknown
the run of water, the song of distant birds,
the early morning air, the absence of man
everywhere.
The silence that is not silent surrounds
the crush of pine needles, the swish of
the grasses, the delicate steps of the deer
as the morning passes.
The softness of light, the downfall of dew,
the hallowed moments between the present
and the next, a movement in shadows
the bear splashes into the stream, the flash
of the trout, the minutia of this
dream.
The silhouettes stark against the water
softened sky, the smell of cedar, daisy,
oak and time. The feel of the wet rocks
slick in the water, the rush of the chill
the quick swim of the otter.
The twisting paths through the trees,
the clearing nearby, the shelter of the glade.
the whispers that you think you can hear
the complete loss of fear.
The rustle of the underbrush as some creature
moves to retreat, the crush of space, the
next step comes when the picture
becomes complete.

copyright mv2 studios 2016


credits to Virtual Dreamer and Brad McBride for the video.

Gravitas

Strains restrain the streaming lines in my brain
repeat the refrains of the words scrolling through
the blasted remains segued like a crossfade, this
is English remade,
raw, unmade, repaid.
misunderstood, misused
like grammar, frequently abused
forget being brief, talking with your
hands, elegance demands that you stand before
your judgement, countering with reprimands
is this where you shall stand? Defend your
definitive state, posturing to reinflate that you
are, in fact, the expertise that defines release-
are you complete, did you say it succintly, is this
necessary to repeat, be replete, pretend confidence
reposiution your stance, this is Webster's show
go get your hat and dance.

A waking dream, Point of View, Harper's Ferry, September 19th 2016

I awoke to the gray soft cotton wisps surrounding the house
the silence of slumber over the foliage, the wisps spriting
the shallows between the trees, like teasing ghosts
tendrils snaking throughout my memories, once upon
a dream I walked down the side of this mountain of
thought, watching in the places where the mist has
been brought, like the leaves fallen from the branches
the mazes of webs where these mysteries are caught.
I am akin to the pleasures of the spirits that haunt this
northern wood. All that I am, all that I would want to be,
all that I was before I came here under the veil, under
the hood, the cover of night that slips away in the invisible
dawn, the secrets of starlight, the placement of the moon
from the wells of midnight, the water of life is drawn. I walk
awake as my body sleeps on the cotton sheets. I pull the blanket
of the darkness around my shoulders, the chill is in the air, I
count the meteors falling, their bright flames as if they're calling
down to me, come home, fair child, there is no rest for you down
deep in the shadowy lands, be gone from those forgotten places.

This is what a Dream Feels like.

The desert streams by in flashes of memory and wind
softly seeming, the hair on my arms moves in the currents
the idea of standing in motion, the semi-satisfactory momentum
the balance disturbed, the awkward hint of absurd notion.
The darkness rises, the fall of stars out of the night
the dream of sleep, resting in between the phases of moonlight
casting shadows down onto the landscape like the shattering
cacophony of rain, drum beating rhythm in repetitive strains
wracking the the calm that once was to be found in my brain.
Am I that remains?
The sun kisses the beach, the water rolls in until the two meets
can anything so smooth ever be just as sweet, infinitely complete
I feel the need for flight, for the vibrations that come with speed
as feet find the air, the meaning of words, the prophecies to hear
the writing coming off the wall, ideas to random to find purchase to
catch, berthing on the rocks, the touch of iron strikes sparks
tiny glows adrift in flight, burning like drops of fire floating away
out of sight, the return to the soft regular grains woven into the bed
sheets, the place between I and my lover come to meet, soft,
willows, the duplicity of another sad sweet refrain as the song plays
out to the ripples fading away down into the abyssal deep.
I return once again to the memory of sheep.

Mixing Metaphors

Well we could have stood there all night talking until the cows turned blue
She was watching like I was a hawk, It was what we owed, it was our due.
She whispered that I must be a wolf in cheap clothing because her heart
was racing her brain to a tied finish . She said I want me to need you.
You could have knocked me over with a fender. I will get you by hook
or ladder, It wouldn't really matter, I could read this moment like the back
of a book. It was almost all it took, just a nod, a kiss, and another long but
quick look.
Love is as easy as falling off a piece of cake. She just stood there and shot
the wind out of my saddle, She blew me a hug as she turned back to go.
It was so real even if it was just for show.
It's like this, I want to get my curveball love straight to her heart.
I want to step up to the plate by laying all my cards on her table
If I am able, I will audition my desire for the part, if I am able.
It's like wanting a microwave when all I have is satellite or cable.



A secret nod to Mister Jim Carlton for a little big distraction on writing this whimsy.

Reading between the Lines

I find the secrets in the subtext as my fingers trace the keys
the hidden gems buried deep below the ripples of the seas.
all the words I wanted to say, all the things I wanted that way,
all the feelings that I have felt, all the cards I have been dealt.

I find her whispers between the lines she should have said to me
the unsaid, unexpressed disasters that were never meant to be.
all the times, I could have admitted that love was enough
all the places we should have gone, life was just too tough.

The pages crumple, then twist, then smoke and turn to ash
the forgotten connotations, every action racing into this tragic crash.
all the books that could save us, all the advice that I could take
all the fears that made us ignore the one thing we could make

Why couldn't we have stopped before it was too late?
why did we forget the love, remembering only the hate?
why wasn't it our time? wasn't it simply sublime?
this is the misfortune of reading too fast, iconic, a crime.
this is why we can't have nice things, this is all just a cliche
what does it matter if you get the context anyway?

On Coffee and Toast

Thursday morning, a cup of Dunkin Donuts Chocolate Glazed Coffee
with Peppermint Patty creamer and whole wheat toast with salted butter
and Strawberry preserves, the butter just beginning to melt. These are
the moments that I cherish the most. I am eclectic and eccentric as
I pause to sip, collect some thoughts, the moment is as static and staid
as time slides out of view, micro electric.
The sun plays shadows into the screened porch, the song fades away
as the music from iTunes throbs out into the vacancy left by the silence of
what I am about to write. The vestiges of all I am and have dreamt slip
sliding away into the memories of last night. I look for words, the chirps
of birds, the barking of my two dogs chasing the elusive squirrel up into
the trees that are all about surrounding the house, the sentence that
complicates my life so resoundingly.
Perhaps, I digress; Perhaps, I should just confess that I am in love with
the words that spill out onto the screen. Perhaps, I should just admit that
is just the effects of caffeine. Perhaps, I should walk away into my
imagination, leave this world so deceptively peaceful and quiet.
Perhaps I should have another cup of solace, perhaps I should
offer my thanks to this place, my creation, my palace.
Can I finish this thought, requestion everything I have written?
Should I play with the dogs or just get another kitten?
The toast was tasty and sweet, another cup of coffee makes this ponderance
complete.

Revising Poetry for the collection: a peek.

The Breakup Poem

Like a surge of emotion as I felt tears in my eyes 

every time I see her, hearing her heartache in her voice

as she tells me no.

Truths that cannot be told only secretly whispered to my heart.

In denial of emotion, that cries out in time with the drumbeat

thundering in my chest as I try to remember to breathe each

time I see her.

Like the sorrow at the distance between my hands and her touch,

the gulf of thoughtlessness, the ideas of what love should be 

or might be but is.

Lies untold never should have been mentioned, emotions take hold

screaming out in the whine of a steel guitar stroking out in the

pain that I feel in my stomach as she walks away.

Originally Love Song

published Friday, April 26, 2012.

revised July 31, 2016.

I have been going through the last 4-5 years of blog poetry (which actually contain poetry I wrote many years before) and revising as needed. I find myself cringing all over again at some of the things I wrote back then also finding that I have published 168 poems with the word love in them. 

Yep, for someone who has never been in love- it's kind of scary.

What's worse is the abundance of basic grammatical errors that run amok throughout all that work.

Yikes.

On Love.

Stop trying to define it.
It won't work, even when you think you've
got it down, the meanings will slip away
like mists in the morning light
leaving you feeling empty
out of mind, out of sight.
If you have got it, then let it go
love dies in captivity, nothing survives
if it cannot grow, you want to
remember the rain, you want to see him
smile, you want to feel her skin
once again.
If you don't have it, you play the loneliness
game, you look out the windows
or sit in the doorway to your
room asking the walls to remember her
name.
When giving up seems to best thing to do,
quit searching for the one thing that
makes you smile whenever the world
slides out of view. The hint of a giggle
the curling of toes, the scent of cookies,
butterflies tickling at your nose, the way
he makes me feel, the look in her eyes
when you are sure she's real, the moment
when you both understand that love is
all that matters in this world, throw away
the conventions, forget the limitations
let your imagination unfurl.
Question everything, accept nothing
live in the second, looking forward to the next
the secrets to it's mysteries have just been
written here in this text.

Untitled or whatever else you could call it.

It was as if I had just heard a song on the radio,
although it was just a dream, spent some time
asleep with the memories that aren't my own
riding all night listening to Christina singing
her all her songs, we stayed up all night
watching the ghosts come and go, Da Vinci
at the Quickie Mart, arguing about carrots
with Michelangelo.
Times spent counting stars, naming planets
after former lovers and idols, like Marius
and Janet. Working up an appetite while
walking back to our cars whistling riffs
comparing funny gifs, idly hinting that
what really matters in life is more fun
when it is who you're with. Listening to
Sam Jackson rant at Sly Stallone on the
philosophical equivalence of sensual
verse or the legs of Sharon Stone.
It was one night, the distance in between
falling into sleep and the ever present
wakefulness of the omnipresent dream
a hallowed moment when all the
world is in the sheets, sharing a cup
of coffee at the donut shack
comparing notes on what to wear
with Elianora and Zoolander
confidences without tack,
dunking frosted chunks as the
sun rises over the platitudes
of Major Tom and Theolonius
Monk.

Just a note or two. Then Poetry!

1. I do a silly facebook poem about 2-3 times a week.
you can find it here.
According to Mike on Facebook.

2. I do a daily Social Media Poem on Twitter, the facebook page and google+
my twitter is @mikemumbled
it's written within the 150 character limit.

3. Then Poetry!

When I was young.
Pop songs were written for everyone;
those days are in the past, the interest
in being general didn't last.
Now people believe that pop is an elite
kind of thing, after all- we can't all
dance and sing. some things are for the
few, just pretend to like everything
as if it were Facebook, it's the internet
so it must be true.
Now I am older,
the music is confusing, not nearly as
amusing, everyone is ready to be offended
this song is awful, that genre has ended.
I wish I could say the world grew colder
but the climate continues to smolder.

That was one crazy storm to be out driving in!

That was one crazy storm to be out driving in!
She said, turning to me, a mad look in her eyes
like a spark of electricity misfiring within.
The trepidation at war with then need to conform
had driven me to come to here through this storm.

What drove you to do such a foolish kind of thing?
She whispered over her coffee, giddy with caffeine 
I long for her smile, the repartee that she brings.
I feel warm and churlish, wet and chilled to the skin
I would brave any obstacle just to be here again.

I wanted to be with you in the mad summer rages
I answer, shivering like an overexcited hound
to be daring, her hero from out of a book's pages.
She laughs at me, the thunder rolls in her voice
She knows now that I never really made the choice.


a little bit of credit to my pal, Stefanie Brock Stanford
for a tiny bit of inspiration.

The Walls we build

All around us, four sides to frame my reality
picture perfect prisons defining you and me.
They are so thick, wide, dense and tall.
I am within, you are without, against these odds
we are insignificant, we are so very small.
Time drifts while I wait for something,
anything to happen, as if I had not marked
each day, vertical scratches keeping score
I isolate and dream of escape until I remember
that in these walls there is no door.

Father's Day

We went for a walk, the trees were tall, the grass was green.
We stood at the gate, I was so very small, it's the seconds
that count, the time in between.
He looked down at me, I back up at him, at his crooked smile.
His hand was placed on my shoulder, so young, so thin.
we stood there for awhile.
All this someday will be yours, he seemed to say, the sky so blue.
We looked at the world, in the remains of the day,
I thought that because he said it- it must be true.
We went for a walk, the trees were old, the leaves are falling.
We stopped at the gate, his hand so cold, time fleeting,
memory fails, all that remains is my father's calling.
Come away from the past,
It was never meant to last,
In this life, we are bound to roam,
but at my father's door, I know
now, at last, I am home.

With Sylvia in the Morning

"Did you ever think that you would be anywhere other than here with me?"
She whispered across the rumbled sheets that morning, before pulling it up
across her chest, recurving the landscape, the satin smoothness rounded by
the presence of her breast. my mind wonders as I contemplate the right words
I should say, how can I tell her that I never dreamed there would ever be a way
that I would find myself in her bed, nothing more than a few inches away from
her lips, the silver bangs framing her head.
"I never would have dreamed that there would be any other place to be."
I respond knowing that our sudden plunge into this affair finds us now here
on the shared mattress, our feelings and desires laid bare to be considered
in the way my rough fingers caress her own, the spots in her once smooth skin
tracing all my doubts, all my fears, no regard to the apparent abyss between
us, the unspoken taboos we have knowingly shattered, the tapestries within.
"All those years, we knew each other- never guessing that it would lead to this."
She says looking away from me up towards the ceiling, with the loss of her gaze
I watching the shallowness of her breathing, remembering again the press of her
flesh on mine, the way her stomach felt under my touch, the soft sighs,
the absence now fills me with a certain trepidation that nothing else will ever do
as much to satisfy that deep yearning I have always felt every time I was near
her not knowing that our mutual desires would take so very long to kindle
my ambitions to make love to the woman I have, for years, admired.
"When I forced myself to admit it, you were always the one I wanted to kiss."
She rolls towards me, the smile playing on her lips, joining together in the space
between, she places her right hand on my hip, eye to eye, nose to nose, I know
now, as if for the first time, that love has no boundaries, that age and space are
but illusions that we allow to tell us that she was too old for this, I was so young
that it seemed impossible, that we let others keep us apart, not willing to listen
even then to what was in our hearts.
"Where do we go from here?" I hear myself say, not wanting to ever leave her side.
I am not new to oldness, the bone ache only matched by the way my nerves beginning
to shake, have I left it all too late, a moment more then my heart breaks.
"Nowhere anytime soon." She answers as she grins, ideas revealed eyes opening wide.
She traces the arc of the curve of my arm, over the map of my life dispalyer under
her fingers, time has caught up with my youth, I am here before her beauty, realizing the
truth.
"I love you." Escapes with a rush of breath, all the doubts pushing away, regret is now
just something else I will soon forget. A tear slides sideways down her left eyes
splashing like a great wave on her upper arm, the happy sadness on her cheeks
leaves me wavering with relief.
"I love you too, my heart." she whispers coming closer into our embrace, our faces meet
fragrance powdered and sweet compounded with our heat, the romance of statements
almost complete. the laugh lines are like maps tracing her design, the moments pass.
I am hers, she is mine. This is what joy can be, this is what finally set us free. we made
a choice, we have done what we did.
As she moves to kiss me, she sighs softly and says: "Now what should I tell my kids?'

I would lose it all for love

Doubt,
You're just a lie I let myself believe
a means without ends, nothing to achieve
the very threat all mouth no clout
lacking confidence action undermined
taking the time to know that is not how
I choose to be defined.

I want to be kissed
I want all that I have missed
letting my fears drive me away
I didn't talk, I thought I had
nothing to say.
I want to be embraced
to understand that I am not
just something someone
replaced.

Silence,
You're what I thought I should fear,
living alone, no one to even care.
someplace without anyone to hold,
now I know that there is a life out
there with warmth away from the cold.

I want to be kissed
I want all that I have missed.
I want that song to take me far away,
I want to stand by you at the close
of the day,
I long for your embrace,
a moment alone- face to face.

The song says,
I don't care if my heart breaks
I don't care what they all say,
my response is- well if that is
all that it takes, let me find my
own way, I am going to pay
what I want to pay,
and if my heart breaks
then I can say that I did
it all, lost it all- for love.


credits:

Motherhood

Seemingly undefinable definition of how much a human can love another,

the feeling that you should know something more than you did before you

were born into this world, as if the Creator told you to remember that there

would be one person who should always love you; whether you succeeded or

failed, if you rose to the occasion or ran away from a crisis back into the arms

of the one person who can still wipe away your tears. The one person who you

will remember before you die, the same person who held you when you 

came screaming into existence, the warm darkness deprived, cold crisp

light until finding that safe place under your mother's wings.

Epitaphs.

There are empty chairs in my memories, my friends are gone
no one is left to forgive me, since I have long since moved on.
There is no space in my narrow bed, no one to love me,
no one to remember how it made them feel when would kiss,
only the vacancy waiting, only the ghost-like absence
of what it was supposed to be.

There are empty tables I no longer can recollect or recall,
someone should have shared a cup of comfort, but that is all,
There is no place for pity, no words that can make it alright,
no one will look to where I stood waiting, my shadow
against the light, the abysmal disappoint, only the void
stark against the wall.

There is no room left for regrets, no epitaph to engrave on stone,
the graveyards stand in silence, the grass and weeds overgrown.
There is no face to behold in the mind's inner eye,
no pronouncement of mercy, just the loss of pace
to mark that we are passing through this life,
no answers are given, no reasons why.

I wish upon a star, I pray in cliches from afar
there goes the long black car, should funerals
take place in the rain, the sun must abstain,
the words are read, the blessings are said,
no one returns anymore, to whispers
these secrets to the dead.

The Funeral

We walk amidst the stones and the green grass cut to a certain length
we wonder if the widow who leans heavily on Uncle Tom's arm will
fall away from him, the slump of her grief draining away from the
removal of all she loved, the loss of his quiet solitary strength.
I find myself wishing for a gentle fall of rain, misting the black coats
of the funeral party as we wander through the sentinels of the deceased,
some engravings call out, demanding the focus of our roving eyes as
we struggle to maintain the sobriety of that this occasion denotes.
My thought is this, as the men with their long steel shovels begin,
is this all we are reduced to, a coffin, some tears, a few flowers soon
to be gone, disappearing into the soft brown loam of the ground,
was it all for this we live, to survive living, some renown to win.
Who will remember us longer for more than how we ended up dying?
no one will recall our obituary or eulogy or that story from cousin Saul,
fading away like the hymn that we will all try to sing in tune at the hole
everyone will be recognized for caring enough to attend, thanked for the
effort, the love, the words, even if for some of us it was just lying.

We walk away from that we all feared more than this his death,
wanting to be elsewhere, far from the silence that permeates the day
the remembrances of those things he did, more than the words that
he may or may not have said, with his passing, his final breath.
What was the bitter truth is no longer as important of what there is to save
of the scraps that he left behind, who gets what, we go on without him,
dividing what we think defined him, missing the importance of what
happened as we walked together as one to find his grave.

Puddles of Sweat

I feel the bite of the steel as I thrust it forward, until
a limit is reached, the grunt that makes me the beast
rushes out all at once, the strain surpasses the pain
as once again I force myself to face my fears, this
is what it is to push past the couch, past the tears
of self recrimination, past the doubts, the midnight
snacking, past the stacking of regret.
I stand in the middle, the weight of iron is in my hands
the tension in my muscle, I become one with the effort
this is what little bit of life I can command, this is what
my credo respects, this is what repentance demands.
I will take the chance that nothing will come from
this extremity, this dance of stretching bands, this
repetitions of sets, the ante is up, time to bet.
I crouch in the corner, bottle of water in my grip,
a prayer of from the former slob, take another sip
from the wells of respiration, finding purpose in the
effort, feel the chalk on my skin, take all my anger
within, push away exhaustion, sloth, drop into
the zone, find your mindset, remember what they
should say: Nothing is accomplished without
a puddle of sweat.

It hasn't happened yet.

I feel her ghost whenever I come into the room,
the presence sends chills, melancholic gloom,
wishing for whispers, echoes of my own regret
I want to get over her loss, I want to move on,
I want many things, but none of it has happened yet.

I hear her voice, in  monotone, inside my inner ear
as if enunciation is too intimate for me to hear,
words are just too cruel, sounds are a better bet,
she's inside my head, I know that she's really dead,
I know might be going crazy, but it hasn't happened yet.

I feel her warmth whenever I lie there waiting for sleep
I touch the depression in our bed, soft and deep,
tears are now dried, this is as bad as it will ever get,
the fairy tales lied, happy ever afters denied,
I want to forget her face, it would be the safest bet.

I try to talk to her, expecting no response, anyway,
we're like ships passing in the night, drifting away,
I should have said goodbye, I just wanted to forget,
now I am haunted by my own guilty suspicions,
I should move on, but it still hasn't happened yet.

Sleeping with Gwen

The soft sad song plays out from the speaker beside my bed,
I lie there awake the refrain repeating inside of my head,
the wait is long, a sweet, endurable, pain, the delay allowed
for the dream to enter my brain. The night comes creeping
silently onto my sheets, warming the blankets, pressing
the pillows, filling the space I vacate underneath.
I feel her press her head against shoulder, entwining
our fingers, tickling my palms, she is there as the darkness
grows colder. She is more of a woman than I ever dreamed
she would be, I wonder- not for the last time what she sees
in me, is this all illusions of dreams that never come true?
Am I going crazy living alone, hoping without a clue?

I wake with her still clasped inside my arms, do I open my
eyes or just ignore the alarms sounding off in my brain?
She is more of a presence that a wad of bedding could allow
her heart beats against mine, I would remain here forever
in the now. If I wake up and she is gone, how can I go on
knowing that reality has won, that I am still sleeping alone
doubting that she ever was real, that she was flesh and bone.
Can I go on believing, or just stay her knowing that one way
or another I am still deceiving myself that its truly her I feel
and not just another lie lying with Gwen making all my fears
delay, hoping that is not sunlight telling us that all good things
must end at the breaking of day.

12 Things About Being A Woman That They Could've or Should've Told Me.

1. No Mumbling, did she say something or am I imagining that she even wants to talk with me, should I be funny, or kind or both? Should I try to kiss her, tenderly? She should just say what she wants instead of looking like she's digging her fork into her leg, in order to close her lips to the sarcastic eventuality. She rolls her eyes, bites her lip while I struggle to take the moment seriously, it's just that I find lip biting so appealing that I find myself in mimicry. Then she blows out a sigh saying something under she breath as she tries to smile sweetly. We're filling the awkward silence without saying much yet telling it all if you can read it in our mediocrity
2. The Man. Not men or you or anyone other than the invisible presence that makes itself known but without consequence or conscience. it is more likely we would both be happier to leave the reference in quotations instead of reentering mindful renegotiations, the mind field of socially impassable situations in which she feels repressed, depressed, and forbidden to even acknowledge that I am only guilty in the broadest definitions of gawking like a penguin at a funeral for all my true intentions misplaced, replaced by what we both think HE wants from she and really, unavoidably me.
3.  Periods. I am lost between sympathy, empathy and wanting to flee. It's not much easier to run than remain giving her space without entertaining the elephant in the room as she cringes at her sudden yet expected uncomfortability which is to say "No, I have no idea" then wait to find out if I am dead, forgiven, or was it something more than a misfortunate misinterpretation of irony.
4. Abortion..... no winning here, unless you think that the decision is ever fair, that yes or no is not damnation enough without being directly involved as I try to think of someway to change the subject without appearing to because the thought of explaining myself terrifies me and then as if I am staring into the mirror I get it and say "Oh" and I will walk you in while the world rages chaotically.
5. Talking, should be easy enough, just keep telling yourself "Don't just talk about me" and then take a breath sit back and wait and see if she will understand she is expected to put in 50 percent between cups of coffee, pointedly ingoring the cell phones on the table between us while I remind myself that her eyes are more appealing then the idea of her breasts, she takes a peek at my chest, our eyes meet, guiltily about to confess all that went amiss and then she brings up Firefly and just like that our conversation is saved, we can admit our mutual attraction, without a sexual distraction or the pressure to conform to some rules of social interaction written by a lost generation, I find myself grinning like a fool with no real explanation needed to be given as long as we both feel equally numb without either one of us feeling dumb.
6. Fear, the creeping doom, the sneaking suspicion that only a few men can share, that sense that the worst is about to happen and that she'll be blamed for dressing that way, that she was really asking for it, and despite all of the damage that she really liked being treated like garbage, a rag doll, an object, a commercial ad, a robot, a toy, a thing that only other men are expected to enjoy, that she is now unwanted, unappealing, unchanged by the experience that comes with walking alone in a parking lot after dark, or a car garage surrounded by the rest of us willfully mute and deaf and ignorant as she lives in the fear that she cannot avoid what might be coming since there is no agreement what will keep her innocent as if the rest of us can define the words that would make her feel safer without the ever constant need for the pack, the herd, the strong manly defender who won't be there when all the fear comes to fruition and she is all alone lacking the words that could make all the difference. No gun or weapon can change what the price will be, what she must endure without anything happening except what that the fear separates us eventually.
7. Tired, so tired of all the cliched redundancy, the expectations that end in rage-quiting because some ignoramus refuses to see what is so obviously there and blames it all on her period as if that explains away the pain, the evident shame, the destruction of her good name because she's just a woman without respectability that is not earned  or given but can be taken away mercilessly. 
8. Wanking. Yep, I said it since I am hoping it will rhyme with something easier than masturbating could, I am not inebriating or self congratulating since this is not about where she is up for dating anymore than I am making plans for porn hub, during the night or day, ah there, there is the rub, not really having anything to doing with love unless we are tlaking about self love then pass the oils, praise the heavens that it's not just men who need to get the junk in line, that a woman can be driven insane with desire, chunk by chunk, while she desperating thinks of something more boring than baseball or golf, feverish for release in her brain, everyone does not find the need to abstain or deny that imagination and or books and porn perform the same function as the bodies into which you were born, What can I say, but God has a sense of humor or that would leave the world without the satisfaction of the post orgasmic grin. Let us both admit that sex is really about win win,  whether you admit it or not, scrambling about in our lives of quiet desperation, screaming that wanking is not even a sin.
9. Clothes, no I am not going into the science of "does this make me look fat?" Rather it is just another way the woman must pause in front of her mirror (if she has one) to decide which mask she will take on today or that her clothes will judge her or will those jeans make potential sex and awkward jumble of struggling limbs flailing to stay upright while looking appealing without the obvious moment of clownish despair since, like the fear that never goes away, will she be able to fight in this one, or is that one better for flight, do the shoes match, men claim that their wardrobe choices are simpler, but mostly they refuse any similarity as they sniff their jeans to determine if it's still clean enough to wear, then swiftly arrange all their carefully purchased gear cause you never know when it will happen this year.
10. Male Feminists, despite what they tell you we do exist, it's not a women's only club unless you are going to deny that you believe in empathy, wanting the world to be an equal opportunity place, we might not make it as the feminists purists want us to be, but having patience as we stumble along fighting centuries of genetic training, cultural stagnation with only the stars to guide us as some women scoffs at all our attempts for equality in favor of her denial that I will ever understand what it is to really be a woman while missing my point of same that we are sharing the same humanity. It's not obscenity that separates us, just as it is not that only a few can join or succeed, it's not the marines, you don't want it to really be about the few, the proud, but everyone stopping once in their lives to say I get it, a head slap then glorious unity.
11. Carbs and by carbs she means diet, and by diet she means all she really wants is someone who will amuse her, love her, and understands that relationships are more about being there than what you think she should say or wear. So go relax on the couch, take another look and say is it just the sex or can I get beyond it to reruns of Friends, Seinfeld, Buffy or Mad Men, a joke, a friendly poke and a compliment that has nothing to do with my waistline just make me feel that everything I am is doing fine. Now pass the wine.
12.  Trainers, or to be clearer old shoes, yes they might be comfortable but they stink so much that they squelch her desire, then she must come up with some miraculous story to explain why some shoes and habits should be committed to the eternal fire, or as I should quantly put it, don't blame me dor this entirely, I read it all in Esquire.

I dedicate this one to 

Caitlin Moran, who made me think this through 2 blogs, some moments of wholly uncatholic confession followed by the thought it's probably that I am single, likely condemned for life,

here's is my otimal source material

http://ow.ly/ZJC8A

Playing with Fire

The small of her back, the rise of her rump, sends shivers through
me, I am the wanderer lost in this soft muscle, behold the shoulder
observe the deltoideus slope, it gives me goose bumps, I am agog,
I am aghast, is this my fate, am I at home at last?
The arch of her eyebrow as she turns to find my roaming fingers
tracing the lines of her laterals down the valley of her spine,
the cliffs of our desire, the soft sweat, the musk of dandelion wine.
I am filled with so many words, the verbatim of fire, the angst
of longing to touch the palm of her left hand, flicking her
fingertips gently like blades of tanned grass, worn yet still
feminine grace, her whimsical smile at my naivety, the enduring
wrinkles that make her my immortal love creasing the corners of her
lovely face,
She breathes in shallow breaths, wisps of mint dreams, raising her
pectoralis major rolling her biceps, triceps, resoundingly  familiar
intimately respectful memory where all her virtues would be, she
is laughing softly up at me, should I be this fortunate, are we still
all that we wanted to be?
No expectations, no reservations, no enunciation can capture all
that I wish to think she is as we lie there in her bed, waiting for the
inevitable interruption that will drive us apart from such musings
out into the world, away from this clarity of thought, sight and sound,
back down into the mire of sexual misfires that are so infinitely confusing.
I am a man or a woman or someone who just wants to remember that
moment when she woke up to the sensual situation locked somewhere
between biological configuration and my misplaced need for imagination.
Are we not all we want each other to be? Am I this lucky or is she just
happy enough to sleep next to me? 

Rachel Weiss at thirty nine

When Rachel Weiss turned thirty eight, she stood in front of her mirror
before going on yet another internet date. She admired that some of her youth
still remained, her hair- at worst was mostly tamed. Her apparent lack of
traditional things like the absence of children, the lover-man, and wedding rings
only torments her when she's home with her family, friends or pretty much
anywhere that kind of logic ends.

No, it won't upset me, I am single, I am free to do what I want and be who I want
to be, nothing else is as important as this.

When Rachel Weiss finally got her cake, the date was just another in a string of
minor disasters, another mistake, another risk not to take. I will sit here alone
next to my cellphone, holding my plate, eating the frosting first, denying the
desperate need to not browse back to the fishing hole of romance. I am not
into that kind of haphazard chance, I will not make another "Disney - I wish!"
There may be plenty of fish in the dating sea, but right now there is nothing
but frustration for one such as me.

No, it won't upset me, I am single, I feel fine, now change the subject while
holding my glass out for a new kind of wine.

When Rachel Weiss realized she was about to turn to thirty nine she did not go
on another blind date, she did not even hope to consummate or make herself find
some other way to validate her status as a single woman. I will stay home, I can
binge watch Netflix and eat Chex and be happy without the promise of sex. She gave
this up by a quarter to six, and went back to the usual game, it's never the same
I wonder if I will see old whatshisname? What am I doing with my life, this isn't
how you become some body's wife,

No, it won't upset me, I am my own person, everything is fine, I just have no one
to call, I talk but no one is on the other line.

When Rachel Weiss was thirty nine, forty was no longer as scary as it was at thirty
eight,  I feel fine, it's not how old you are that should define your own sense of wonder,
it's not how much Ikea you can buy at Bed, Bath and Beyond-er. I can like what and who
I want to like, I am happy with being alone, in spite of what my married siblings think, it's
not what you all think, no it hasn't made me desperate enough to drink, yes I will
probably die an old maid, no burning out, just a slow fade away, no more gold, no
hope of a lucky strike. She was committed to this course of action and then she met
Mike.

Yes, that's butterflies and yes I can't feel my feet, when he kisses me, he makes me
feel all Jerry Maguire kind of complete.