"Love of the day" (trg, 8-18-2002)
Love of the day
is love of a way that one makes you
feel, falling
in love, day after day
in various ways on various days, saying
the unspoken things that friends and lovers
need not do more than whisper aloud; though, for me,
I've never backed away from such expressions,
either by way of euphemistic allusions
or metaphoric illusions. Some days
it's more than nice to embrace
the mere Beauty of it all.
On other days, it's not; at least
until another day like today.
"Love kisses, even when there are no answers" (trg,(6-24-02)
Cries rise up, again;
yet, to no one's surprise, no one responds.
Jesus died, is risen and lives;
this God hears the Creature yell, "Why?"
Angels cry, "Oh virgin Mother, please incline your ear."
She holds her Son, even as Michelangelo carved her sorrow;
who would wipe her tears?
Maybe this is why she still weeps?
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She still soothes my soul's podvig;
this Mother never hides betrayals, yet
this Lady understands...
Betrayal, real or really felt, she reminds me
is known by those of us who have done the same.
---- Sweetly this Most Lovely Mother whispers,
"Your, and my, God needs your embrace
even as I, and you, need this God's hug."
This Beauty pauses, leans down and over, presses
her lips against my forehead and says,
"I have wept loudest when my Son
cried out, 'Why have you forsaken me, my God?'"
'Friends and Lovers' (trg, 12/19/02)
Friends are Lovers.
Lovers are Friends.
Friends who are not Lovers
will be blind to what causes a tear to slide down your cheek.
Lovers who are not Friends
are unable to be happy with a conversation.
Not all Friends who are Lovers
are the same.
Some can say or seem to do
the right thing at the right time.
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Other Friends who are Lovers
need not do anything in particular.
Not all Friends or Lovers
can make you smile.
But those who can
need not be close by.
'No greater Love has one
than to lay down their life for a Friend,'
a certain Beloved Friend once said.
'I love' (trg, 7/17/03)
I love your looks,
your gazes from across the room,
especially your curled up grin
which raises your petite nose.
I love your walk,
both feminine and boyish,
calling attention by not saying a word.
I love your voice,
the way you read aloud your favorite poem,
your phrasing and intermittent breaths,
even the way you extend
and brush the air with your limped hand
and raise and lower your voice,
this I love when you're reading aloud.
I love your fair neck,
more an aphrodisiac
than all the fruits in the world,
leading at once to the place where wisdom comes
and to the place where life blossoms forth.
I love your company,
preferably face to face,
but I can also indulge in such fantasy,
all that I know of you takes no effort to arouse.
I love you, my friend.
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'Embraced by a lover' (trg, 11/19/03)
Embraced by a lover,
over a hundred years this one,
lingering upon my chest throughout the night,
if anyone would sneak a peek at three o-clock a.m.
they'd see the same,
us hanging out together on the couch
so close that it appears that we're an appendage of each other.
We choose no gender here,
yet sensuality could not be more intense.
To hold each other,
the feel of each turn,
I love the odor of this ancient page.
An old soul is more desirous,
youth is no judge as to whether they're one or not.
We sit together,
looking back and forth, ready for a new page,
loving that its no more new than old.
Do we turn the page
or need we find a new one,
one that we'll both desire to be held forever.
This might allow a shared affection
but never a release from our recline.
I run my index finger down the spin
until we're ready to open up,
here we'll know the embrace of an inward journey,
an old soul walking where others have strolled,
all the while finding our own path.
Do I tire of this path?
No more than to be known by love
as well as its passion.
In time we do read aloud our favorite refrains,
Discovering the beauty of the ancients
and the novices,
both having an input that will not be forgotten by us,
who love to turn each page slowly.
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"Most Lovely Yellowing Pages" (trg, 4-22-2002)
Books show discolour over the years
even those on acid-free, Indian-inked, sewn -- not
merely glued paper;
Yet, I have found
that these slowly worn beloved, enclosed pages
to take on a life within me; maybe
one even of their own -- not
unlike an elder memory of love
and, or lover;
Browning's "Let me count..," or
Whitman's "Captain...," or
Walt's "From pent up aching rivers...," or
Hughes' "A suicide note," or his
"Bee-Bop Jazz in the night," or
Dorothy Parker's "I hate...," or
Plath's "a knife into my...," or
Poe's "Raven...," or
Shakespeare's "Midsummer night's...," or
Dostoyevsky's "Elder Zozoma," or his
"Beauty will save the world...," or
Bronte's "Jane...," or
Twain's, Nin's, Arthur Miller's, D.H Lawrence's,
Kafka's, Virginia... and
the list goes one;
These beloved friends
are remembered as are former lovers, who
evolve into passionate eclipses, permeating
a need with lush beauty
allowing one to smile -- and to
feel warm; though unlike passionate lovers
or friends, these beloved, most lovely
yellowed pages
can be picked up, embraced, held, opened
and read; these damned lovely friends
are then both remembered
and reintroduced.
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"i love the way" (trg, 11-02-2001)
i love the way
that birds sing,
except crows
i love the way
that cats purr,
except hearing impaired ones
i love the way
that children giggle,
except when it's a screech
i love the way
that dogs play,
except when it's with my leg
i love the way
that lovers hold hands,
except when i find them repulsive
i love the way
that published poets write,
except when mine's better
i love the way
that bluegrass harmony's endearing,
except when it's atonal
i love the way
that Guardian Angels help us,
except when they're preoccupied
i love the way
that freedom's power,
except when it enslaves
i love the way
that beauty lures,
except when you discover it's misperception
i love the way
that Divinity takes notice of our every step,
except when Divinity's malcontent
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'Love making is anticipated' (trg, 5/19/03)
Who will step forward,
unveiling deep seated thoughts?
Lust before love is easily known,
takes no accrued affection,
no need to caress, pause
and say, 'Good-night.'
In a hurry, still adolescent desire
rules the absence of touch,
no need to discover remote amorous areas.
The obvious places to linger
takes no necessary intelligence,
but to find the places of luscious tastes
-- this takes due diligence.
Love making is anticipated,
here lust is conceived and fallen into,
where early touches erupt into lasciviousness,
where each course is placed before the diner
to appreciate it's beauty,
only then are they partaken.
Too quick and there's no mess,
too slow and you forget why there's a mess.
Flirtation is a fun game,
with it's various tributaries,
must be with a friend or it becomes frustrating.
A volcano rarely blasts all at once,
it likes to spit out a little at a time
until the eruptive forces give into themselves.
Placed my lips against her lips,
where either of our lips began or ended
we were unable to find. Didn't care.
Her frame will linger in my mind,
no longer only her silhouette,
both disrupt my sleep.
I'm glad.
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'Love's song' (trg, 6/15/03)
Melodies are bouncing from my heart to my head,
melodies that are pleasing,
melodies that I want to sing along with,
melodies that cause my toes to tap involuntarily,
melodies that have their own harmony,
melodies that make grouches grin, humming along,
melodies that help you believe in a heaven,
melodies that bring together us and the blessed reposed,
melodies that do not narrow the parameters by anything but love,
melodies that never die even if those who sing them do,
melodies that are goodnight kisses on the cheeks
'Lovely' (trg, 2/08/03)
The morning's dawn,
her sun rising near blinding;
though I squint, I do so
desire to see through the white.
Pretty are my little girls.
cute is my younger son.
arresting are my two raised ones.
beautiful is any life beheld.
Alluring are the faeries.
Sexy is the one who is,
but doesn't try to be.
Amorous is the person who unnerves me
merely by being.
Lovely is when her silhouette
is disconcerting as her allurement.
Damned lovely, if you need interpretation,
then it's throwing sand up into the wind;
Louis Armstrong said something like, 'If you need
to ask me what jazz is, then you don't get it.
Lovely. Damned lovely.
I get it.
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'Do I ignore beauty' (trg, 6/16/03)
Do I ignore beauty,
do I embrace it,
or do I bask in it?
Yesterday I saw a sledge hammer coming my way,
the Devil incarnate,
or was it Hilary or S. Thurman,
one of them had it in for me.
I do think that I may have an inflated ego.
An evangelist proclaims in hymn,
'Just as I am, I come, I come.'
What if I go, I go?
Lovers pray for yet another bed,
this is their heaven, 'Oh God, oh God.'
Warriors pray for divine aid in their battles,
'Damn thosedamn them to hell!'
Evil doers are given a pine box,
their stories nail them shut, no voices for a contrary tale.
Beauty is smothered by layers of raiment,
while elsewhere it's covered by little raiment.
We sing of freedom
yet lock people up outside their safety zones.
Sing a song of freedom
a song sung in maximum security,
'No one's free, only to be hung from a tree.'
He trampled upon death and the grave
throwing aside the cross like tooth picks,
pride and self-serving indulgence builds it again.
What'll be nailed on the door,
a thesis of ignorance gone awry?
Beauty I embrace and bask in it.
I see it everywhere.
Death row, those not allowed for their DNA
to be examined for a match;
someone wants him dead, why?
Someone's not able to see beyond hate,
to behold beauty anywhere.
Slice them, dice them, throw them into the trash;
No.
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'Beauty has no packaging' (trg, 10/07/03)
Beauty has no packaging
save for those who don't appreciate it.
Lovely is lovely
whether dressed up and made up or not.
Love is not blind as the saying begs to differ,
love sees what few have beheld.
Singing songs first seen as poetry
penetrates a melancholy heart,
heals what the TV healer misses.
Jesus saw in a whore
what his peers were oblivious,
hiding from their ugliness.
Susanna, a near youth, shone through a prism,
her chocolate face not intending to call attention,
accused by two old bastards who wanted her -
truthfulness was attested to by her clear eyes.
Blindness feels the package, smells its contents,
hears the words and other sounds.
No shortsightedness stands in the way
of the silence of her walk.
I see because I cannot see,
I can do no other,
imagination isn't needed where there's no packaging.
Can nakedness be discovered
where there's never been hiding?
In the cool of the day we strolled.
Let us do it again.
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'Beauty's flight' (trg, 9-17-2002)
'Wake up,' little one, I whisper.
Lovely, not more, is that look of sleep's calm, knowing
that Daddy will come at a sound of slightest unrest.
Sometimes I have thought, 'there must be wings under there,'
marveling, beholding this Beauty, seen in the impish of faces, what
I have been told is called, 'Innocence.'
'Wake up,' young one, I persist, though not in a hurry.
Some say of these wee ones without guile, 'Born sinners, yes
one and all; from the womb we come fourth spewing selfishness,
screaming for our stuff,' both
baffles and infuriates one robbed, elusive it's been,
of this inculpable genesis.
'Wake up,' my child, I now insist, yet adoring this morning's yawn too.
Lovely, not more, is their smile, with a little disgust, knowing
that Daddy is simply getting them up for the day.
Innocence's gift missed me somehow, though I do reflect, marveling
at these little angels, who've held me within their tiny arms,
giving me beauty's flight.
'Beauty' (trg, 5/16/03
I fell asleep last night,
leaving a daydream incomplete.
How is beauty defined?
More so, how is she known?
What is jazz, some will ask,
not realizing that the question
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is known not resolved.
Jesus could behold beauty
in a whore,
who he didn't cast a stone.
Beauty does not ask to be noticed,
compared or known.
I've met her
and have known her immediately,
wondering only how to express my thanksgiving.
Beauty is.
Beauty aspires to more of the same.
Beauty smiles easily.
Beauty laughs with children.
I laugh with her.
'Why does beauty enchant? (trg, 5/10/03)
Why does beauty enchant?
Why is her melody already known?
Why do poets and hymnographers never tire of her?
Why does her song always seem familiar?
Why does her song always seem new?
Why is it that ugly is only known in her presence?
Why are the brute beasts tamed by her voice?
Why are the mystical creatures in her company?
Why does the Divine give her royalty?
Why will I seek her comfort at any price?
Why is it that there is no price too high to know her?
Why do demons hide when she comes near?
Why is evil petrified in her shadow?
Why does evil and ugliness want to exist after meeting her?
Why does she smile so gently?
Why is she better for her one dark hour?
Why do I desire her kiss upon my cheek too?
Why does her purity never mistake passionate affection and insatiable lust?
Why do all lovers of art and the night's sky write of her?
Why is that the simply stoke of her index finger heals the deepest pain?
Why are her gowns both purple and red as well as translucent gold?
Why do the angels bow before her while she requests no such thing?
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Why do all mythical stories speak of her?
Why is truth only known through her help?
Why does her exquisite loveliness satiate?
Why does she fill full the insatiable heart?
Why if I'm without her I'll find my oblique end?
Why do all men need her instruction, and more?
Why do all women need her compassion and her hand to hold?
Why do men and women only know peace through her cleansing tears?
Why does she who is so pure and free cry every so often?
Why do her tears mixed with mine become diamonds?
Why do children never run from her?
Why do they call her mother without any demand?
Why is her beauty more the expanse of the heavens?
Why is her beautiful loveliness more spacious than all of the heavens?
Why do I dare to call her Mother, Lady, Theotokos, Queen, Sister, of all?
Why desire this beauty, pure loveliness divine, salvific splendor,, love's twin?
'Return to Beauty' (trg, 8/23/03)
From the grave I hear her song,
'Come dance with me till morning's dawn.'
'Oh Death, where is thy sting,' has nothing
over this lovely thing.
My pillow I found to be soaked,
not by tears of terror quaking fear,
but for her kisses and mine in return
here I return to Beauty and her bed,
she never turns away her head.
She paints the evening's sky
with burnt orange and blood red, with a bit of purple.
Her chorus awaits the end of evening's transition,
crickets and their friends serenade till early morning.
Beauty never runs quickly away,
she takes her time just as when she came.
Under her I feel safe, in tune with all, safe to be me.
Here I find the breath of life,
her lips, locked limbs, her honest caresses.
There is that brief moment as dawn sneaks in,
when the horizon looks the same as it did at dusk.
Here I ask her to return and to dance yet again.
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...Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder...Beauty is. For what is it remains only that it is beheld. God did not 'create' light so that it would shine 'into' the darkness that was upon the face of the original earth. God said, 'Let there be light'...God 'commanded the light to shine out of the darkness.' Darkness has no life no more than evil of itself; it only has existence by our choosing not to see the light, the good, the beauty that is. ...The Beauty of all the uncreated and created world is known when I embrace the Beauty of the person in front of my face, or even to say -- the Christ before me. I see beauty and therefore love, am known by love and freely say, 'I love you,' to any who I allow my eyes to see. Here I behold both the 'who' and the 'what' of being without my own assumptions about what true being and therefore Beauty is. Here I see the true self, and in seeing another's true self I also see my own; I am not drawn into a 'You look so...' or 'I look really...,' the scales upon my eyes are cleansed down and away from my face. Here I join the ancient refrain: "I have beheld the true light." Here alone I know the timelessness of being. God 'is', not is like or practices what we know to be, love. 'I AM' is both the Word revealed as well us to whom the Word is revealed. I too am 'I AM', if only I choose to see the light shining out of darkness. When I know this, though for me it's momentarily, this metaphysical, physical reality, I have faith because faith is part of 'who' I am, a person who sees beauty in everything as well as the one. On other days I need to ask the questions that have no answers and give the answers that have no questions. I join the chorus and affirm my Credo, 'I AM.' Today, I believe....'Beauty shall save the world!' Timothy (2/03, trg)
Beauty is known in its knowing. She, always a 'she' in my mind's eye, needs not movement, or she may dance through and over the fall's leaves, is the one that opens the window for me to behold their hues. One mere woman said, 'Yes,' and nursed God. I pray that I nurture this Christ within my heart's womb too. Her minimal words, only the mere, 'Listen to him,' the Word, calms the fears of the children that we all pray to be. I look into her dove's eyes, onto her olive skin, her slender, yet with a slight hook of sorts, nose and the smoothest neck I've ever seen and know the comfort of a Mother to a Son, a Daughter, the place of refuge I pray to never flee. Herein is Beauty known, not by an exclamation, rather by a Word, 'Behold, my Mother,' and yes, 'Child,
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behold your Mother.' When I see this sensual exponential arm's embrace of all the lonely, those who've known it and those who've not been saddened by it, those who hide from it and those who acknowledge it, those who've prayed for it and those who'd never pray for it, those who've tried to find a place in the mountain's solace and those who think that the company of friends and the cacophony of voices is clear -- I know that their is no such thing, no such things that need be. We need only, only a poor operative here, see, look through the window into the prism and we will too behold her Beauty. A tear flows down my cheek, here I am baptized by love that almost, almost is rare for me I am well aware, brings me to silence. I am quiet. I hear her words, 'Walk with me.' I do. We walk for a bit, turn to each other, notice that we still each have a tear upon our cheeks. We each extend our fingers to wipe them away. Here I am baptized again. I see. ...Each time I look into another's eyes who allow me to see, but for a moment, into their soul, I know her again. Beauty to be known need only be beheld. I do. Timothy (trg, 8/04)
"Beauty Beheld" (trg, 1/30/03)
dry are the sockets of a man who refuses to cry.
worse, a person who holds nothing dear
nothing to cry either sad or happy tears.
What brings this thing down my cheek?
Bawling is never my thing, save for the day
I needed to pull the plug upon my younger brother.
The lone trip home from the hospital, that day,
it hit.
I did bawl, then laughed, then did both, and
then done, I felt like
I just got out of a steamy shower.
My sockets have not found it necessary
for such an extreme catharsis, save then.
Beauty. Beauty is what moves me.
The Beauty of the morning, children giggling,
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feeling the presence of my reposed Grandfather,
hearing the sound of my children's voices, or
of a simple word from a beloved Friend, the
mystery of union and unions of people, the
synergy of some folks who for a moment
transcend their unique or collective person,
well written words, brief or many, or
old or new music played with passion,
the mystery of the canvass covered in paint
with heavy strokes that somehow call your eyes
and heart to rest before and then within it's being,
and yes, Beauty in the beholding of Beauty.
Do these bring tears from a filled eye?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
For a brief moment, on the most delightful
of days, I forget that I'm looking for it, even
forget that I adore Beauty.
It is here where a finch surprises me,
flying right across my nose. ...I see.
Then I at once try to see more, and it's gone.
The Beauty beheld?
In the recesses of my soul.
I've seen Icons where tears
have dug canals for them to follow.
Beauty. Yes.
'Is there? (trg, 11/12/03)
Is there darkness that cannot be penetrated?
Evil that is unable to be eclipsed?
Ass holes that are not able to be wiped?
Big business that will facilitate mom and pop stores?
Impersonal stores that convert to caring stores?
Indifference that gives way to debate?
Intolerance and tolerance that becomes deference to difference?
Hatred that is swallowed by love?
Yes, I have beheld it to be true.
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'There once' (trg, 10/06/03)
There once was a girl so sweet
who thought it more wise to eat sweets,
thinking that some other day I'll go to Church,
maybe when they have candy.
Jesus all wrapped up in tinfoil or plastic,
poured into a chocolate mold,
fills your tummy just find;
you can wrap what's left
and save him to eat another day.
Next time she goes to 'the meeting'
she'll run down the sawdust trail, if
our Church had one,
just in time to add to her wrapper,
this time being full to the rim.
I ask myself, 'Why is it that this girl is so sweet?'
Hell, she's eating candy all the time.
"the moment's chuckle" (trg, 12-17-2001)
Jesus calls
from the precipice,
"come all who are weighted down"
Buddha says,
"whatever"
Vishnu offers,
"we will hold you
in our many arms of affection"
Allah warns,
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"not too close"
the Lady in blue reminds,
"the one next to you will do --
touch, feel, caress, sit, listen, learn,
cry, laugh, live together
and you'll know the meaning
of the present
moment"
the horned one suggests,
"take whatever you want
and I'll let you rule with me"
the Holy Mother chuckles,
"worship is desired from
these deities, while
what we all need is the same...
to learn the pleasure
of the quiet
and the joy
of the noise
when both are chosen,
shared --
blessed recline."
"Mothers and Sons" or, 'Struggle's Love' (trg, 9-28-2001)
there he hangs,
dehydration nearly finished;
yet, barely seeing through swollen eyes,
through slits to see weeping;
this Mother mutually consoles
her dying Son's boyish friend, unable
to stop his terror
has moved past the screams of, "Why?"
-- not because she's resigned,
rather she's exhausted from her
hands being tied;
suffering is normal, the cross
belongs to all; the difference
is found within our willingness to bear it --
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not merely to acquiesce; this Lady
has learned to accept
this message from her Son;
her cross, thankfully, will not be
having to be hung
up high for all to mock;
she is blessed with a sorrowful heart,
the struggle of a Mother
kept from saving her Son;
she'll always know him, her Son,
the one she nursed
and fell asleep with, while humming
ancient lullabies;
his cross in heaven
was to watch and wait
until she'd reach the end
of her temporal struggle, his hands
no longer tied, and take her
into a home he'd built for
all who do not simply acquiesce,
choosing to live within their moment
until the moments
give way to eternity's hug;
this lovely Lady, hand in hand with her Son,
is now able to behold
his kingdom, waiting for the day
when all could enjoy this stroll;
she still weeps for
all Mothers and Sons
separated by their struggle
until another day, when
hands are held, not tied.
'Do I' (9/09/03)
Is there a word that'll dispel all others?
Does my soul lift up my eyes?
Will I discount such experiences?
Do I hate as much as I love?
Do I pretend that I haven't heard you when I don't like what you're saying?
Do I care about rejection?
Do I reject others?
Will I live above the crap?
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Is there one person who understands and withholds judgment?
Do I want the bridge to be barricaded?
Do I act out stability?
Do I pray for intimacy?
Do I offer the same?
Will my soul be penetrated by someone?
Is there an act that'll suspend all others?
Do I smile with children?
Do I ignore most adults?
Do I love sports or the arts?
Do I know unexplainable love?
Will an angel come to my rescue?
Is there touch that gets into my heart?
Does my soul lift up my eyes.
'Passion, another' (trg, 2/26/04)
Gabriel speaks to her softly, asking
If she'd like to be God's Mother.
In silence she ponders it all upon her heart.
'Let it be done unto me, the Lord's handmaiden,'
no other person hears her words.
This lovely Mother, shy young Jewish girl,
The first to receive this Jesus into her being,
Nurses God, no apology, no fanfare, no regrets,
All ancient myths collide within her.
The God needs the creation, forever, now.
I've looked down into my five children's eyes
While nursing them, obviously from pumped breast milk,
Though if I could've, as some have told me, I would've, thinking,
'Here lies the creator of everything, my daughter, my son --
she held her Son, stroked his brow, kissed him and looked into his eyes -
what was this like?'
The Lady is his Mother.
Romans seek to murder her wee one before turning two.
Samaritans, 'half-breeds' - brushed aside by all others,
take note of this seer early on,
Her Son drinks and eats with them like real people,
Doesn't care if they're pure, whatever that means, anything.
Her Jewish religion had become known as a race;
It's a religion.(Moslems are not a race either).
Middle East Jews and Moslems are of the same race
Who is right between them? A stupid question. Christians? Any Better?
Her Son learned her lessons well,
No racism, classism, religious bigotry, prudishness, misogyny,
Learned to empathize with any disenfranchised.
Mother, known to him, Son and Lord to her,
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Most often I think that she understands me better.
From the Cross he looks down and forgives me,
My desire to live in my comfort zones with people I deem worthy to be around me,
My desire to make him into something other that who he is,
My desire to make him into an idol, talked about, preached to others - a new legend,
My desire to sentimentalize the life he learned from his Beautiful Mother,
My desire to marginalize what he learned from this pure Lady.
The problem isn't meit's you.
'Forgive them they don't know what they're doing.'
'My God! My God! Why have you left me here alone?'
'Mother, look at John, he is your son. John, look at my Mother, she is yours too.'
This Son did his Mother proud,
As she wept under his feet, he died, she lingered a while,
Her Son's tears, sweat and blood on her hands, she said, 'Goodbye my most lovely Son.'
As she walked away I caught a glimpse into her eyes, looking back at her shriveled Beautiful Son.
A look of hope pierced into my heart
By this Mother whose heart was 'pierced through with many sorrows.'
'Awakened by her image' (5/01/04)
Awakened by her image,
Icon of beauty,
I blow a kiss,
praying for a direct hit.
Her visage's window
vanishes into the evening's mist
-- I've seen this before
while driving through fog.
Right before me she stands,
refuge is promised, yet I pause,
hesitating, not trusting guileless offerings.
Do I believe her?
Is this a demon's illusion?
Will anything truly change?
To be held against this Lady
changes nothing, changes everything.
Pressed between where Divinity's suckled,
I look up into her eyes,
my heart slows back to 59, excellent for me,
my breathing is in step with hers,
for a moment, or an eternity,
a cessation of living is not desired.
Her brilliant dove's eyes
make me understand,
-- we're moved by morning doves' loveliness,
page 22
sitting with necks entwined on the porch's banister,
their eyes don't seem to be the same as pigeons,
their coos awaken a sleeping heart.
This Lady sees me for who I am,
I need not apologize nor does she request it.
I fall apart in her arms.
I am whole within her arms.
She strokes my forehead, saying,
'It's Ok.'
She says, 'So, where are you going?'
Words fall upon my ears,
not wanting to hear I cover them,
-- morning dew is not easily wiped away,
the more that you wipe the more you need to wipe.
No magic here, no hidden mirrors or swirling smoke,
here I'm called to open my eyes,
open them to the day,
open them to smiles,
open them to laughter,
open them to intermittent tears,
open them to see the sameness between old age and youth,
open them to kisses between lovers,
open them to children's gregarious play,
open them to see the Truth beyond my lenses,
open them and see.
This Lady's touch calms mania,
delusions from an enemy;
for a minute I see things as they are,
sobering and hilarious.
Pressing my lips against this Icon
a portal transports me to safety,
this window is not an illusion.
The Queen will not throw me aside,
I ask her to beseech her Son,
an audience requested,
shouldn't be too difficult for a King.
'He'll get to you in due time,'
embarrassingly she leans over and whispers.
-- People in line at a store's register,
wearied by the wait pace barely back and forth,
soon walk away, tired of the annoying, 'Next please.'
She knows my frustration,
feeling of betrayal;
she offers no excuses,
apathy and voyeurism makes no sense to her either.
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Do I believe her?
Is this a demon's illusion?
Will anything truly change?
She looks at me with eyes filled to the brim,
she knows the anguish of being forsaken,
she has no answers either.
A kiss upon my forehead,
with a smile, smirking, she whispers,
'It's Ok.'
'Her visage' (03/07/03)
Her visage is beyond
what I am capable of beholding.
I do glimpse around the corner
to see her cast shadow.
It was barely what I could stand.
Royalty without the need of
opulence, though
her sense of colour
is quite superlative,
earthen reds and deep purple.
The Lady was given
a twelve stared crown,
each for a people
who she's wont to nurture
as she did her Son.
A Woman
who is both protectress
and in need of protecting,
firmly planted
and willfully bending.
She turns
as the Serpent seeks her demise,
her seed crushing him
yet again, and again, and again.
Crawling is not her style
no more than cowardly back stepping.
My Mother pulls me in,
I remember this strength
from my youth,
when I'd run into the house
seemingly almost out of breath.
Once settled she would
send me off to her King and Son.
Page 24
She'd ask for him
to incline his ear
and all seemed to be well again.
Stately Queen, always
in the background, sweetly
kisses all who ask for aid.
I call her Mother and
thank her for her
pat on the rump
guidance.
'Passion' (trg, 9/03/03)
What drove my young heart
What captured my imagination
What raised me into euphoria
What slowly evaporated
What I share with children, especially mine
And one once known as the sweet wicked one.
There is a glimmer of this delight
There I pray to make my bed
There my heart needs no help to beat
There I'll give into the euphoria
There I'll scream or whisper, whatever is called for
And sing the song of aching rivers opened to be free.
Passion is called a sin by some
Passion makes most adults uncomfortable
Passion opens the door to your truest self
Passion closes the door to tight ass foolishness
Passion is as much a virtue as a vice
And here I am comfortable in my skin.
My skin shivers right at its surface,
My skin is opened to erotic amorous delights
My skin feels another skin too
My skin recoils at manipulation of the passions
My skin lusts for more as it should
And I pray, 'Please, fill me full, even over-flowing.'
'Embrace me, my love, and I'll fall with you,' I pray
Embrace me, my friend, and I'll walk with you at dusk
Embrace me, my desire of my eye, and I'll let go of more than I take
Embrace me, my soon to be best friend, and I'll linger on your words
Embrace me, my lover, and we'll be filled with each other's passion
And anticipate our next duet in the poet's melody.
Page 25
'Passion, II' (trg, 9/05/03)
Extending my hand out to you
I pray that yours will find its way into mine.
To kiss, kiss in an opulent way fills the insatiable.
Last evening I watched the Sun go down.
The multi-satin rays come to me through a prism.
I love its colours.
I slept all night under its blanket,
by morning leaving a canopy of dew.
You rolled slowly towards me,
your face seemed so innocent yet sensuous.
Even the dribble rolling down your chin I find lovely.
Incense surrounds the room, filling every corner with its aromas.
Jasmine and Frankincense find their bed between our desires.
God's name is whispered, sometimes loudly,
only attesting to the splendor of this oft forgotten gift.
Passion calls to me to follow.
I can do no other, for to walk with her means that I live.
'Passion cuts through' (trg, 2/11/04)
Passion cuts through the poorly written stories,
love known and shown,
never tiresome,
knows the pleasure of silence and conversation,
together.
A gift of being human,
divinity wed with humanity,
yin yang, balance of female-male,
entwined union sets us free to be who we are.
Passion allows me to see through a prism,
foregoing the single-vision of failing eyes,
the beauty of colour gives insight into the hues of your eyes.
Am I able to see?
Do I desire to see?
Will I look so that I will see?
Passion cuts through desire solely to be pleased,
-- pleasure, a gift of perception,
we do behold the beauty of the person before us,
eliminating all supposed competition.
Close your eyes:
Page 26
now imagine my hands, mimicking Reiki, following the path of your body,
not touching, barely touching at times, traveling over your curved frame,
not interfering with the presence of your being,
opening up your presence of mind,
you hearing my words, 'I love you,'
me not saying one word in this direction out loud.
I give myself to the unsaid words,
louder than any spoken,
these enliven me too
and I say, 'Thank you,' for the gift of passion.
I do see.
'Sex' (trg, 10/03/03)
Something we can't get enough of when we're teens
Something that many teen girls wished that we had already been full of.
Something religion makes sound dirty except in their narrow specs.
Something that rape and incest is called by the court system.
Something that prostitutes only ask to be paid for.
Something that involves more than masturbation.
Something that takes time and commitment to do well.
Something that you wish you could forego at times.
Something that, when we you're younger, you remember better than it was.
Something that movies gloss over as simply conquest.
Something that we are from infancy, growing into our selves.
Something that when we become elderly will be still fresh in our thoughts.
Something that one is wary about when the pursuer persists in calling it sin.
Something that is glorious when celebrated as our gift to each other.
Something that will relieve depression. Maybe here it should be more often.
Something lovers add to everything else they share.
Something that fills the mind with delicacies that will not be forgotten.
Something that at times grants us the gift of joy's offspring.
Something that some use as an excuse, not bad, to try to have a baby.
Something that some will not talk about in public.
Something that some will not cease to talk about in public.
Something that is best if shared quietly, thought sometimes it might get loud.
Something that poetry and paintings spring from.
Something that songs and even hymns inspire.
Something that loveliness, sweetness and beauty must first be to be delightful.
Something that is laborious when there's no intimacy or tenderness.
Something that is an extension of oneself when love of beauty persists.
Page 27
Something that a romantic never separates from love.
Something that, like this, might make some uncomfortable.
Something that, like this, brings nods and amens.
Something I could start all over again with these words but different ones.
Something that I could never do without being able to say, 'I love you.'
Something that some love and some don't.
I do.
'Sex II' (trg, 11/25/03)
No memory of a displeasure.
Thought I was going to die the first time,
it was a solo event,
no one warned me of the explosive nature.
It was great the first time, only a little quick,
didn't in the slightest prevent the next.
Interesting, when its solo,
you still think of someone else,
not truly desiring this private flight.
Once I tried without saying, 'I love you,'
thinking that friendship was sufficient.
it wasn't, we were both embarrassed and sad.
Met an old soul who knew the same;
sad for both of us, we listened to other voices,
thought that this would never be known again.
Met another old soul who knows more than either of us by ourselves;
neither sad or happy, we love because, not because.
'Do not speak of such things,' whispers a voice from my youth,
'Place a covering from above over the obvious,' said someone
who thought it necessary to give leaves to Michelangelo's ceiling masterpiece,
probably a Protestant who thinks Pope Leo went to hell, or
an infallible Pope who deemed Leo's instructions too sensual for the eyes.
Both had mistresses,
maybe young boys too who weren't their sons, but, please, don't speak of such things.
Men and women feel dirty,
first made to think this when a parent walked into a solo exploration.
Pornography wouldn't exist because of the programmed dirtiness of physical pleasure, would it?
(A need to pretend that sex is unnecessary to be human,
being taught that it's a choice not part of who we are.)
Why then do Monks and Nuns acknowledge their fast from it?
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I hear people say that it isn't sex that matters; Love is what counts.
Duhusually from someone who has neither.
Love is what matters, yes, with faith and hope too.
But while we're not angels, at least this is what we're told they're like,
Sex is a pretty damn important part of this life in this world.
For me, sex is the highest temporal sacrament.
'I love you,' is its epiclesis, where each one person becomes more than they are by themselves.
I like to hold hands too.
"More than merely a sex thing"(trg, 2-10-2002)
Oh Jesus, not the Spanish one
Oh God, anyone that might be one
Oh shit, hopefully a passionate expression
Oh no, an hormonal driven first-timer
Oh yes, an hormonal driven two-thousandth-timer
Oh no - not a again, one who's never improved the first- timer
Oh my, when the word's not spelled come
Ohhhhhhh, prayer at it's best
Ohhhhhhh, prayer
Oh please, not actually a request
Oh Buddha, not what one shouts at climax
Oh not now, not understood - 'less
the lover's a friend
Oh - Hello, when the lover, friend
walks into the bathroom after the Oh not now
Oh not again, not usually demanded
Oh - it's you again, familiarity worn well
Oh, not an exclusive filler, though
Oh works just fine -- I find.
'Kissing' (trg,6/30/03)
My first at six,
she was seven.
I fell in love with kissing that day.
Petting, making out, intimacy --
these are only inviting
if the kissing is good from you kisser.
Only thing worse than a poor kisser,
is when you're dreaming of passionate kissing,
only to be awakened by your dog licking your mouth.
Some of my kissers over the years
Page 29
would do well to take lessons from her.
This morning I awoke
to find my cat asleep on my face.
Let the metaphors begin,
but not by me, at least not at this present time.
'Hello' (trg, 8/26/03)
Hello.
A soft kiss on a cheek, or both,
suffices for an intimate greeting.
There are friends who may barely brush up against you,
who teach you the meaning of gentleness.
who help you smile,
who are baptized by your tears,
who share in your good and bad.
An amorous glide into each other
is more than a casual gift,
no accident here.
I bow at the waist and say, 'Thank you.'
A soft kiss on a cheek, or both,
not so much a goodbye as a see you next time.
Hello.
'She walked in' (trg, 5/20/03)
Walked into a large Church building,
a gathering of three thousand souls they said.
I sat down in the middle about three-quarter ways down.
She walked in, in the back of the auditorium,
no one took notice since there was a large crowd.
Well, almost no one noticed.
At first I didn't see her.
My whole person knew she had come into the room.
I didn't see her, didn't even know her,
but boy did I feel her.
My grandfather could do the same thing.
For me to feel a bit disconcerted, this is unusual.
For me to admit that some one could get to me this way, unusual.
For me to need to know someone who I only knew by intuition, unusual.
Sitting in this place meant nothing, not because it meant nothing.
Page 30
She made the place real, she brought redemption into the temple.
She didn't need to turn over the moneychanger's tables.
She kicked all superfluity out the windows.
My eyes had become blind but I hadn't noticed,
not until she opened my sight.
Sweat began to drip down my forehead and nose,
as well as under my arms. She unnerved me.
She sat down across from me in another pew,
crossed her legs and I couldn't take my eyes off of her.
Right then and there I knew that I was hers,
if she wanted me.
Time stood still when finally we were free to meet.
We walked towards each other like it was destiny.
We both smiled and said, 'Hi.'
We knew that we knew each other.
Then we introduced each other to the other's spouse.
'She wonders' (9/22/03)
She wonders if she's worth the descriptives,
whether flowery, prosaic, euphemistic or realistic.
For me, when it comes to written words
I'm rarely given to exaggeration.
Rarer it is to be gifted a soul of intense beauty.
She wonders if this is hyperbole,
perhaps one captured by their own fantasy.
Gods, Angels and Fairies I want to believe in,
I do believe in, even when I don't want to.
One hand extended out to give emphasis,
the way that her forefinger and thumb linger down into her wrist,
when I have beheld such splendor I choose to give into it.
Faceless portraits could be redundant,
like her, not saying much, yet saying all she intends to say.
A woman's muscular structure of her neck,
more amorous than the rarest of orchids,
the most attractive of men are unable to come close.
My friend sits, much like two hands holding her, in a couch,
informs all descriptives that I might extend her way.
I'm unable to refrain from smiling.
I like smiling.
Page 31
'A Romantic, not at all pensive' (trg, 5/31/2004)
A romantic,
not at all pensive am I,
words flowing 'from pent up aching rivers'
praying for a bed to lay my head,
reticent to believe a, 'Me too.'
My hero, Walt W., sang a song,
his song informs mine,
the silhouette of your lover has no comparison;
sadly not many allow for their own beauty,
hence the admirer's glances do not become appreciated.
Would be lovers come and go,
lasciviousness might be a jealous accusation,
fornication a lovely Greek word
used by those afraid of 'f' words,
afraid to admit that they too long to be ravished by rapture,
the religious sort;
I admit that I'd love to hear more than once,
'Oh, God!'
Yes, I remember my first beloved,
neither of us knew that love making should be less than evening prayers,
or less often,
(We didn't give a damn about statistical intercourse arrived at by sexless poll takers.)
once before you fall off into dreamland,
then quickly on the way out the door in the morning.
(There's nothing like the aromas from a morning's kiss explosion.
You can taste them all day.)
I know an Old Soul lover
-- I pray for this union every day
-- I remember our passion from ages past
-- They call to me during the day's absence
-- This one's never far away,
amorous is the word I recall,
we'll not be surprised by our familiarity.
A romantic,
not at all pensive I am,
I renew my prayer,
there must be another romantic who's petitions are the same,
who longs to hold hands and feel each other's sweaty palms,
who longs to know an evening's conversation awakened by the dawn,
who longs to know a morning's wake,
realizing that we still have our clothes on,
yet feel spent like adolescent lovers,
lingering on each touch and sound,
both the five minutes and the all nights are followed by a,
'Thank you.'
Page 32
'Pensive I am' (trg, 7/09/03)
'Pensive, I am,'
waiting for participation,
putting aside an unrequited affection,
not wanting hell's reprisal.
'Body Electric' resurrects
an insight, I lose it too easily.
'An index finger'
from the top of your head
down to the ends of your toes,
an index finger moves
at once from your pelvic
to the small of your back.
Will I sing
with the man who 'sees his own Beauty?'
Will I sing
with the woman who 'sees her own Beauty?'
Is Beauty asexual?
Is the Beauty of the person
heterosexual or homosexual?
Is the 'Beauty of the Body'
merely and exponentially Beauty?
Prescience, is it predestination,
or is just having a sense of one's self?
Blame myself? Blame God?
Take what is yours and move on with it.
Pensive, I am,
glaring down your backside.
I pause for a moment
and look down her front side.
The nape and small of the back
are different on a woman's from a man's back.
Who teaches us to prefer one above the other?
I call to mind
my fears and joys, being a man.
Not a good balance.
I am now renascent,
taken in by their and all frames.
The 'Body Electric' calls forth hymns,
hymns of personal freedom.
There are other tonal sounds not so pensive.
Page 33
"A Romantic's muse" (trg, 6-28-2002)
Days do come and go,
this we know.
Yesterday's living is not
much different from
tomorrow's potential.
Today is where wonderment
is appreciated, herein
is where love's preference lives.
Smile, for today is today,
and the sufficient evil of the day
is overwhelmed by the abiding
beauty of a
beloved friend.
'Romantic that I'm glad to be' (trg, 3/03/03)
Sight is my plight, so I conclude
when I look and see Beauty
such as no one should live without seeing.
It could be a bite in the shorts, as they say,
a nightmare just awakened from,
a party rained out,
or a day too soon for the party
being held the next day.
No. Yes. It was merely a mistake.
Of course the day when celebrated
will not be the same, no
longer with anticipation, though
I do hold close even my naive perception.
So what and who do I behold,
Page 34
beheld as though new and old?
If you whisper this question,
quietly walk over to a mirror,
look into it and say, 'Hello,'
you will behold who and what
I do see,
romantic that I am glad to be.
'Will there be Beauty?' (3/05/03)
Will there be beauty
ever again?
Will there be hymns
written yet once more?
Who will intone
these melodies?
Who will write
the notes and words?
I arise out of my seat
and say, 'Yes!'
I arise and say,
'I will.'
Wisdom has song her song,
'To everything there is a season,'
as others have borrowed this line
do so I in, 'Turn, turn, turn.'
Yes,
I do embrace Beauty
in all of her complexities.
Yes,
I do applaud the unspeakable
splendor of this timeless creature.
Yes,
I will sing, write and find the words
that are past exhausting,
words of the divine
meeting the earth's whisper.
Love of the day
is love of a way that one makes you
feel, falling
in love, day after day
in various ways on various days, saying
the unspoken things that friends and lovers
need not do more than whisper aloud; though, for me,
I've never backed away from such expressions,
either by way of euphemistic allusions
or metaphoric illusions. Some days
it's more than nice to embrace
the mere Beauty of it all.
On other days, it's not; at least
until another day like today.
"Love kisses, even when there are no answers" (trg,(6-24-02)
Cries rise up, again;
yet, to no one's surprise, no one responds.
Jesus died, is risen and lives;
this God hears the Creature yell, "Why?"
Angels cry, "Oh virgin Mother, please incline your ear."
She holds her Son, even as Michelangelo carved her sorrow;
who would wipe her tears?
Maybe this is why she still weeps?
Page 2
She still soothes my soul's podvig;
this Mother never hides betrayals, yet
this Lady understands...
Betrayal, real or really felt, she reminds me
is known by those of us who have done the same.
---- Sweetly this Most Lovely Mother whispers,
"Your, and my, God needs your embrace
even as I, and you, need this God's hug."
This Beauty pauses, leans down and over, presses
her lips against my forehead and says,
"I have wept loudest when my Son
cried out, 'Why have you forsaken me, my God?'"
'Friends and Lovers' (trg, 12/19/02)
Friends are Lovers.
Lovers are Friends.
Friends who are not Lovers
will be blind to what causes a tear to slide down your cheek.
Lovers who are not Friends
are unable to be happy with a conversation.
Not all Friends who are Lovers
are the same.
Some can say or seem to do
the right thing at the right time.
Page 3
Other Friends who are Lovers
need not do anything in particular.
Not all Friends or Lovers
can make you smile.
But those who can
need not be close by.
'No greater Love has one
than to lay down their life for a Friend,'
a certain Beloved Friend once said.
'I love' (trg, 7/17/03)
I love your looks,
your gazes from across the room,
especially your curled up grin
which raises your petite nose.
I love your walk,
both feminine and boyish,
calling attention by not saying a word.
I love your voice,
the way you read aloud your favorite poem,
your phrasing and intermittent breaths,
even the way you extend
and brush the air with your limped hand
and raise and lower your voice,
this I love when you're reading aloud.
I love your fair neck,
more an aphrodisiac
than all the fruits in the world,
leading at once to the place where wisdom comes
and to the place where life blossoms forth.
I love your company,
preferably face to face,
but I can also indulge in such fantasy,
all that I know of you takes no effort to arouse.
I love you, my friend.
Page 4
'Embraced by a lover' (trg, 11/19/03)
Embraced by a lover,
over a hundred years this one,
lingering upon my chest throughout the night,
if anyone would sneak a peek at three o-clock a.m.
they'd see the same,
us hanging out together on the couch
so close that it appears that we're an appendage of each other.
We choose no gender here,
yet sensuality could not be more intense.
To hold each other,
the feel of each turn,
I love the odor of this ancient page.
An old soul is more desirous,
youth is no judge as to whether they're one or not.
We sit together,
looking back and forth, ready for a new page,
loving that its no more new than old.
Do we turn the page
or need we find a new one,
one that we'll both desire to be held forever.
This might allow a shared affection
but never a release from our recline.
I run my index finger down the spin
until we're ready to open up,
here we'll know the embrace of an inward journey,
an old soul walking where others have strolled,
all the while finding our own path.
Do I tire of this path?
No more than to be known by love
as well as its passion.
In time we do read aloud our favorite refrains,
Discovering the beauty of the ancients
and the novices,
both having an input that will not be forgotten by us,
who love to turn each page slowly.
Page 5
"Most Lovely Yellowing Pages" (trg, 4-22-2002)
Books show discolour over the years
even those on acid-free, Indian-inked, sewn -- not
merely glued paper;
Yet, I have found
that these slowly worn beloved, enclosed pages
to take on a life within me; maybe
one even of their own -- not
unlike an elder memory of love
and, or lover;
Browning's "Let me count..," or
Whitman's "Captain...," or
Walt's "From pent up aching rivers...," or
Hughes' "A suicide note," or his
"Bee-Bop Jazz in the night," or
Dorothy Parker's "I hate...," or
Plath's "a knife into my...," or
Poe's "Raven...," or
Shakespeare's "Midsummer night's...," or
Dostoyevsky's "Elder Zozoma," or his
"Beauty will save the world...," or
Bronte's "Jane...," or
Twain's, Nin's, Arthur Miller's, D.H Lawrence's,
Kafka's, Virginia... and
the list goes one;
These beloved friends
are remembered as are former lovers, who
evolve into passionate eclipses, permeating
a need with lush beauty
allowing one to smile -- and to
feel warm; though unlike passionate lovers
or friends, these beloved, most lovely
yellowed pages
can be picked up, embraced, held, opened
and read; these damned lovely friends
are then both remembered
and reintroduced.
Page 6
"i love the way" (trg, 11-02-2001)
i love the way
that birds sing,
except crows
i love the way
that cats purr,
except hearing impaired ones
i love the way
that children giggle,
except when it's a screech
i love the way
that dogs play,
except when it's with my leg
i love the way
that lovers hold hands,
except when i find them repulsive
i love the way
that published poets write,
except when mine's better
i love the way
that bluegrass harmony's endearing,
except when it's atonal
i love the way
that Guardian Angels help us,
except when they're preoccupied
i love the way
that freedom's power,
except when it enslaves
i love the way
that beauty lures,
except when you discover it's misperception
i love the way
that Divinity takes notice of our every step,
except when Divinity's malcontent
Page 7
'Love making is anticipated' (trg, 5/19/03)
Who will step forward,
unveiling deep seated thoughts?
Lust before love is easily known,
takes no accrued affection,
no need to caress, pause
and say, 'Good-night.'
In a hurry, still adolescent desire
rules the absence of touch,
no need to discover remote amorous areas.
The obvious places to linger
takes no necessary intelligence,
but to find the places of luscious tastes
-- this takes due diligence.
Love making is anticipated,
here lust is conceived and fallen into,
where early touches erupt into lasciviousness,
where each course is placed before the diner
to appreciate it's beauty,
only then are they partaken.
Too quick and there's no mess,
too slow and you forget why there's a mess.
Flirtation is a fun game,
with it's various tributaries,
must be with a friend or it becomes frustrating.
A volcano rarely blasts all at once,
it likes to spit out a little at a time
until the eruptive forces give into themselves.
Placed my lips against her lips,
where either of our lips began or ended
we were unable to find. Didn't care.
Her frame will linger in my mind,
no longer only her silhouette,
both disrupt my sleep.
I'm glad.
Page 8
'Love's song' (trg, 6/15/03)
Melodies are bouncing from my heart to my head,
melodies that are pleasing,
melodies that I want to sing along with,
melodies that cause my toes to tap involuntarily,
melodies that have their own harmony,
melodies that make grouches grin, humming along,
melodies that help you believe in a heaven,
melodies that bring together us and the blessed reposed,
melodies that do not narrow the parameters by anything but love,
melodies that never die even if those who sing them do,
melodies that are goodnight kisses on the cheeks
'Lovely' (trg, 2/08/03)
The morning's dawn,
her sun rising near blinding;
though I squint, I do so
desire to see through the white.
Pretty are my little girls.
cute is my younger son.
arresting are my two raised ones.
beautiful is any life beheld.
Alluring are the faeries.
Sexy is the one who is,
but doesn't try to be.
Amorous is the person who unnerves me
merely by being.
Lovely is when her silhouette
is disconcerting as her allurement.
Damned lovely, if you need interpretation,
then it's throwing sand up into the wind;
Louis Armstrong said something like, 'If you need
to ask me what jazz is, then you don't get it.
Lovely. Damned lovely.
I get it.
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'Do I ignore beauty' (trg, 6/16/03)
Do I ignore beauty,
do I embrace it,
or do I bask in it?
Yesterday I saw a sledge hammer coming my way,
the Devil incarnate,
or was it Hilary or S. Thurman,
one of them had it in for me.
I do think that I may have an inflated ego.
An evangelist proclaims in hymn,
'Just as I am, I come, I come.'
What if I go, I go?
Lovers pray for yet another bed,
this is their heaven, 'Oh God, oh God.'
Warriors pray for divine aid in their battles,
'Damn thosedamn them to hell!'
Evil doers are given a pine box,
their stories nail them shut, no voices for a contrary tale.
Beauty is smothered by layers of raiment,
while elsewhere it's covered by little raiment.
We sing of freedom
yet lock people up outside their safety zones.
Sing a song of freedom
a song sung in maximum security,
'No one's free, only to be hung from a tree.'
He trampled upon death and the grave
throwing aside the cross like tooth picks,
pride and self-serving indulgence builds it again.
What'll be nailed on the door,
a thesis of ignorance gone awry?
Beauty I embrace and bask in it.
I see it everywhere.
Death row, those not allowed for their DNA
to be examined for a match;
someone wants him dead, why?
Someone's not able to see beyond hate,
to behold beauty anywhere.
Slice them, dice them, throw them into the trash;
No.
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'Beauty has no packaging' (trg, 10/07/03)
Beauty has no packaging
save for those who don't appreciate it.
Lovely is lovely
whether dressed up and made up or not.
Love is not blind as the saying begs to differ,
love sees what few have beheld.
Singing songs first seen as poetry
penetrates a melancholy heart,
heals what the TV healer misses.
Jesus saw in a whore
what his peers were oblivious,
hiding from their ugliness.
Susanna, a near youth, shone through a prism,
her chocolate face not intending to call attention,
accused by two old bastards who wanted her -
truthfulness was attested to by her clear eyes.
Blindness feels the package, smells its contents,
hears the words and other sounds.
No shortsightedness stands in the way
of the silence of her walk.
I see because I cannot see,
I can do no other,
imagination isn't needed where there's no packaging.
Can nakedness be discovered
where there's never been hiding?
In the cool of the day we strolled.
Let us do it again.
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'Beauty's flight' (trg, 9-17-2002)
'Wake up,' little one, I whisper.
Lovely, not more, is that look of sleep's calm, knowing
that Daddy will come at a sound of slightest unrest.
Sometimes I have thought, 'there must be wings under there,'
marveling, beholding this Beauty, seen in the impish of faces, what
I have been told is called, 'Innocence.'
'Wake up,' young one, I persist, though not in a hurry.
Some say of these wee ones without guile, 'Born sinners, yes
one and all; from the womb we come fourth spewing selfishness,
screaming for our stuff,' both
baffles and infuriates one robbed, elusive it's been,
of this inculpable genesis.
'Wake up,' my child, I now insist, yet adoring this morning's yawn too.
Lovely, not more, is their smile, with a little disgust, knowing
that Daddy is simply getting them up for the day.
Innocence's gift missed me somehow, though I do reflect, marveling
at these little angels, who've held me within their tiny arms,
giving me beauty's flight.
'Beauty' (trg, 5/16/03
I fell asleep last night,
leaving a daydream incomplete.
How is beauty defined?
More so, how is she known?
What is jazz, some will ask,
not realizing that the question
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is known not resolved.
Jesus could behold beauty
in a whore,
who he didn't cast a stone.
Beauty does not ask to be noticed,
compared or known.
I've met her
and have known her immediately,
wondering only how to express my thanksgiving.
Beauty is.
Beauty aspires to more of the same.
Beauty smiles easily.
Beauty laughs with children.
I laugh with her.
'Why does beauty enchant? (trg, 5/10/03)
Why does beauty enchant?
Why is her melody already known?
Why do poets and hymnographers never tire of her?
Why does her song always seem familiar?
Why does her song always seem new?
Why is it that ugly is only known in her presence?
Why are the brute beasts tamed by her voice?
Why are the mystical creatures in her company?
Why does the Divine give her royalty?
Why will I seek her comfort at any price?
Why is it that there is no price too high to know her?
Why do demons hide when she comes near?
Why is evil petrified in her shadow?
Why does evil and ugliness want to exist after meeting her?
Why does she smile so gently?
Why is she better for her one dark hour?
Why do I desire her kiss upon my cheek too?
Why does her purity never mistake passionate affection and insatiable lust?
Why do all lovers of art and the night's sky write of her?
Why is that the simply stoke of her index finger heals the deepest pain?
Why are her gowns both purple and red as well as translucent gold?
Why do the angels bow before her while she requests no such thing?
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Why do all mythical stories speak of her?
Why is truth only known through her help?
Why does her exquisite loveliness satiate?
Why does she fill full the insatiable heart?
Why if I'm without her I'll find my oblique end?
Why do all men need her instruction, and more?
Why do all women need her compassion and her hand to hold?
Why do men and women only know peace through her cleansing tears?
Why does she who is so pure and free cry every so often?
Why do her tears mixed with mine become diamonds?
Why do children never run from her?
Why do they call her mother without any demand?
Why is her beauty more the expanse of the heavens?
Why is her beautiful loveliness more spacious than all of the heavens?
Why do I dare to call her Mother, Lady, Theotokos, Queen, Sister, of all?
Why desire this beauty, pure loveliness divine, salvific splendor,, love's twin?
'Return to Beauty' (trg, 8/23/03)
From the grave I hear her song,
'Come dance with me till morning's dawn.'
'Oh Death, where is thy sting,' has nothing
over this lovely thing.
My pillow I found to be soaked,
not by tears of terror quaking fear,
but for her kisses and mine in return
here I return to Beauty and her bed,
she never turns away her head.
She paints the evening's sky
with burnt orange and blood red, with a bit of purple.
Her chorus awaits the end of evening's transition,
crickets and their friends serenade till early morning.
Beauty never runs quickly away,
she takes her time just as when she came.
Under her I feel safe, in tune with all, safe to be me.
Here I find the breath of life,
her lips, locked limbs, her honest caresses.
There is that brief moment as dawn sneaks in,
when the horizon looks the same as it did at dusk.
Here I ask her to return and to dance yet again.
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...Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder...Beauty is. For what is it remains only that it is beheld. God did not 'create' light so that it would shine 'into' the darkness that was upon the face of the original earth. God said, 'Let there be light'...God 'commanded the light to shine out of the darkness.' Darkness has no life no more than evil of itself; it only has existence by our choosing not to see the light, the good, the beauty that is. ...The Beauty of all the uncreated and created world is known when I embrace the Beauty of the person in front of my face, or even to say -- the Christ before me. I see beauty and therefore love, am known by love and freely say, 'I love you,' to any who I allow my eyes to see. Here I behold both the 'who' and the 'what' of being without my own assumptions about what true being and therefore Beauty is. Here I see the true self, and in seeing another's true self I also see my own; I am not drawn into a 'You look so...' or 'I look really...,' the scales upon my eyes are cleansed down and away from my face. Here I join the ancient refrain: "I have beheld the true light." Here alone I know the timelessness of being. God 'is', not is like or practices what we know to be, love. 'I AM' is both the Word revealed as well us to whom the Word is revealed. I too am 'I AM', if only I choose to see the light shining out of darkness. When I know this, though for me it's momentarily, this metaphysical, physical reality, I have faith because faith is part of 'who' I am, a person who sees beauty in everything as well as the one. On other days I need to ask the questions that have no answers and give the answers that have no questions. I join the chorus and affirm my Credo, 'I AM.' Today, I believe....'Beauty shall save the world!' Timothy (2/03, trg)
Beauty is known in its knowing. She, always a 'she' in my mind's eye, needs not movement, or she may dance through and over the fall's leaves, is the one that opens the window for me to behold their hues. One mere woman said, 'Yes,' and nursed God. I pray that I nurture this Christ within my heart's womb too. Her minimal words, only the mere, 'Listen to him,' the Word, calms the fears of the children that we all pray to be. I look into her dove's eyes, onto her olive skin, her slender, yet with a slight hook of sorts, nose and the smoothest neck I've ever seen and know the comfort of a Mother to a Son, a Daughter, the place of refuge I pray to never flee. Herein is Beauty known, not by an exclamation, rather by a Word, 'Behold, my Mother,' and yes, 'Child,
Page 15
behold your Mother.' When I see this sensual exponential arm's embrace of all the lonely, those who've known it and those who've not been saddened by it, those who hide from it and those who acknowledge it, those who've prayed for it and those who'd never pray for it, those who've tried to find a place in the mountain's solace and those who think that the company of friends and the cacophony of voices is clear -- I know that their is no such thing, no such things that need be. We need only, only a poor operative here, see, look through the window into the prism and we will too behold her Beauty. A tear flows down my cheek, here I am baptized by love that almost, almost is rare for me I am well aware, brings me to silence. I am quiet. I hear her words, 'Walk with me.' I do. We walk for a bit, turn to each other, notice that we still each have a tear upon our cheeks. We each extend our fingers to wipe them away. Here I am baptized again. I see. ...Each time I look into another's eyes who allow me to see, but for a moment, into their soul, I know her again. Beauty to be known need only be beheld. I do. Timothy (trg, 8/04)
"Beauty Beheld" (trg, 1/30/03)
dry are the sockets of a man who refuses to cry.
worse, a person who holds nothing dear
nothing to cry either sad or happy tears.
What brings this thing down my cheek?
Bawling is never my thing, save for the day
I needed to pull the plug upon my younger brother.
The lone trip home from the hospital, that day,
it hit.
I did bawl, then laughed, then did both, and
then done, I felt like
I just got out of a steamy shower.
My sockets have not found it necessary
for such an extreme catharsis, save then.
Beauty. Beauty is what moves me.
The Beauty of the morning, children giggling,
Page 16
feeling the presence of my reposed Grandfather,
hearing the sound of my children's voices, or
of a simple word from a beloved Friend, the
mystery of union and unions of people, the
synergy of some folks who for a moment
transcend their unique or collective person,
well written words, brief or many, or
old or new music played with passion,
the mystery of the canvass covered in paint
with heavy strokes that somehow call your eyes
and heart to rest before and then within it's being,
and yes, Beauty in the beholding of Beauty.
Do these bring tears from a filled eye?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
For a brief moment, on the most delightful
of days, I forget that I'm looking for it, even
forget that I adore Beauty.
It is here where a finch surprises me,
flying right across my nose. ...I see.
Then I at once try to see more, and it's gone.
The Beauty beheld?
In the recesses of my soul.
I've seen Icons where tears
have dug canals for them to follow.
Beauty. Yes.
'Is there? (trg, 11/12/03)
Is there darkness that cannot be penetrated?
Evil that is unable to be eclipsed?
Ass holes that are not able to be wiped?
Big business that will facilitate mom and pop stores?
Impersonal stores that convert to caring stores?
Indifference that gives way to debate?
Intolerance and tolerance that becomes deference to difference?
Hatred that is swallowed by love?
Yes, I have beheld it to be true.
Page 17
'There once' (trg, 10/06/03)
There once was a girl so sweet
who thought it more wise to eat sweets,
thinking that some other day I'll go to Church,
maybe when they have candy.
Jesus all wrapped up in tinfoil or plastic,
poured into a chocolate mold,
fills your tummy just find;
you can wrap what's left
and save him to eat another day.
Next time she goes to 'the meeting'
she'll run down the sawdust trail, if
our Church had one,
just in time to add to her wrapper,
this time being full to the rim.
I ask myself, 'Why is it that this girl is so sweet?'
Hell, she's eating candy all the time.
"the moment's chuckle" (trg, 12-17-2001)
Jesus calls
from the precipice,
"come all who are weighted down"
Buddha says,
"whatever"
Vishnu offers,
"we will hold you
in our many arms of affection"
Allah warns,
page 18
"not too close"
the Lady in blue reminds,
"the one next to you will do --
touch, feel, caress, sit, listen, learn,
cry, laugh, live together
and you'll know the meaning
of the present
moment"
the horned one suggests,
"take whatever you want
and I'll let you rule with me"
the Holy Mother chuckles,
"worship is desired from
these deities, while
what we all need is the same...
to learn the pleasure
of the quiet
and the joy
of the noise
when both are chosen,
shared --
blessed recline."
"Mothers and Sons" or, 'Struggle's Love' (trg, 9-28-2001)
there he hangs,
dehydration nearly finished;
yet, barely seeing through swollen eyes,
through slits to see weeping;
this Mother mutually consoles
her dying Son's boyish friend, unable
to stop his terror
has moved past the screams of, "Why?"
-- not because she's resigned,
rather she's exhausted from her
hands being tied;
suffering is normal, the cross
belongs to all; the difference
is found within our willingness to bear it --
page 19
not merely to acquiesce; this Lady
has learned to accept
this message from her Son;
her cross, thankfully, will not be
having to be hung
up high for all to mock;
she is blessed with a sorrowful heart,
the struggle of a Mother
kept from saving her Son;
she'll always know him, her Son,
the one she nursed
and fell asleep with, while humming
ancient lullabies;
his cross in heaven
was to watch and wait
until she'd reach the end
of her temporal struggle, his hands
no longer tied, and take her
into a home he'd built for
all who do not simply acquiesce,
choosing to live within their moment
until the moments
give way to eternity's hug;
this lovely Lady, hand in hand with her Son,
is now able to behold
his kingdom, waiting for the day
when all could enjoy this stroll;
she still weeps for
all Mothers and Sons
separated by their struggle
until another day, when
hands are held, not tied.
'Do I' (9/09/03)
Is there a word that'll dispel all others?
Does my soul lift up my eyes?
Will I discount such experiences?
Do I hate as much as I love?
Do I pretend that I haven't heard you when I don't like what you're saying?
Do I care about rejection?
Do I reject others?
Will I live above the crap?
Page 20
Is there one person who understands and withholds judgment?
Do I want the bridge to be barricaded?
Do I act out stability?
Do I pray for intimacy?
Do I offer the same?
Will my soul be penetrated by someone?
Is there an act that'll suspend all others?
Do I smile with children?
Do I ignore most adults?
Do I love sports or the arts?
Do I know unexplainable love?
Will an angel come to my rescue?
Is there touch that gets into my heart?
Does my soul lift up my eyes.
'Passion, another' (trg, 2/26/04)
Gabriel speaks to her softly, asking
If she'd like to be God's Mother.
In silence she ponders it all upon her heart.
'Let it be done unto me, the Lord's handmaiden,'
no other person hears her words.
This lovely Mother, shy young Jewish girl,
The first to receive this Jesus into her being,
Nurses God, no apology, no fanfare, no regrets,
All ancient myths collide within her.
The God needs the creation, forever, now.
I've looked down into my five children's eyes
While nursing them, obviously from pumped breast milk,
Though if I could've, as some have told me, I would've, thinking,
'Here lies the creator of everything, my daughter, my son --
she held her Son, stroked his brow, kissed him and looked into his eyes -
what was this like?'
The Lady is his Mother.
Romans seek to murder her wee one before turning two.
Samaritans, 'half-breeds' - brushed aside by all others,
take note of this seer early on,
Her Son drinks and eats with them like real people,
Doesn't care if they're pure, whatever that means, anything.
Her Jewish religion had become known as a race;
It's a religion.(Moslems are not a race either).
Middle East Jews and Moslems are of the same race
Who is right between them? A stupid question. Christians? Any Better?
Her Son learned her lessons well,
No racism, classism, religious bigotry, prudishness, misogyny,
Learned to empathize with any disenfranchised.
Mother, known to him, Son and Lord to her,
Page 21
Most often I think that she understands me better.
From the Cross he looks down and forgives me,
My desire to live in my comfort zones with people I deem worthy to be around me,
My desire to make him into something other that who he is,
My desire to make him into an idol, talked about, preached to others - a new legend,
My desire to sentimentalize the life he learned from his Beautiful Mother,
My desire to marginalize what he learned from this pure Lady.
The problem isn't meit's you.
'Forgive them they don't know what they're doing.'
'My God! My God! Why have you left me here alone?'
'Mother, look at John, he is your son. John, look at my Mother, she is yours too.'
This Son did his Mother proud,
As she wept under his feet, he died, she lingered a while,
Her Son's tears, sweat and blood on her hands, she said, 'Goodbye my most lovely Son.'
As she walked away I caught a glimpse into her eyes, looking back at her shriveled Beautiful Son.
A look of hope pierced into my heart
By this Mother whose heart was 'pierced through with many sorrows.'
'Awakened by her image' (5/01/04)
Awakened by her image,
Icon of beauty,
I blow a kiss,
praying for a direct hit.
Her visage's window
vanishes into the evening's mist
-- I've seen this before
while driving through fog.
Right before me she stands,
refuge is promised, yet I pause,
hesitating, not trusting guileless offerings.
Do I believe her?
Is this a demon's illusion?
Will anything truly change?
To be held against this Lady
changes nothing, changes everything.
Pressed between where Divinity's suckled,
I look up into her eyes,
my heart slows back to 59, excellent for me,
my breathing is in step with hers,
for a moment, or an eternity,
a cessation of living is not desired.
Her brilliant dove's eyes
make me understand,
-- we're moved by morning doves' loveliness,
page 22
sitting with necks entwined on the porch's banister,
their eyes don't seem to be the same as pigeons,
their coos awaken a sleeping heart.
This Lady sees me for who I am,
I need not apologize nor does she request it.
I fall apart in her arms.
I am whole within her arms.
She strokes my forehead, saying,
'It's Ok.'
She says, 'So, where are you going?'
Words fall upon my ears,
not wanting to hear I cover them,
-- morning dew is not easily wiped away,
the more that you wipe the more you need to wipe.
No magic here, no hidden mirrors or swirling smoke,
here I'm called to open my eyes,
open them to the day,
open them to smiles,
open them to laughter,
open them to intermittent tears,
open them to see the sameness between old age and youth,
open them to kisses between lovers,
open them to children's gregarious play,
open them to see the Truth beyond my lenses,
open them and see.
This Lady's touch calms mania,
delusions from an enemy;
for a minute I see things as they are,
sobering and hilarious.
Pressing my lips against this Icon
a portal transports me to safety,
this window is not an illusion.
The Queen will not throw me aside,
I ask her to beseech her Son,
an audience requested,
shouldn't be too difficult for a King.
'He'll get to you in due time,'
embarrassingly she leans over and whispers.
-- People in line at a store's register,
wearied by the wait pace barely back and forth,
soon walk away, tired of the annoying, 'Next please.'
She knows my frustration,
feeling of betrayal;
she offers no excuses,
apathy and voyeurism makes no sense to her either.
Page 23
Do I believe her?
Is this a demon's illusion?
Will anything truly change?
She looks at me with eyes filled to the brim,
she knows the anguish of being forsaken,
she has no answers either.
A kiss upon my forehead,
with a smile, smirking, she whispers,
'It's Ok.'
'Her visage' (03/07/03)
Her visage is beyond
what I am capable of beholding.
I do glimpse around the corner
to see her cast shadow.
It was barely what I could stand.
Royalty without the need of
opulence, though
her sense of colour
is quite superlative,
earthen reds and deep purple.
The Lady was given
a twelve stared crown,
each for a people
who she's wont to nurture
as she did her Son.
A Woman
who is both protectress
and in need of protecting,
firmly planted
and willfully bending.
She turns
as the Serpent seeks her demise,
her seed crushing him
yet again, and again, and again.
Crawling is not her style
no more than cowardly back stepping.
My Mother pulls me in,
I remember this strength
from my youth,
when I'd run into the house
seemingly almost out of breath.
Once settled she would
send me off to her King and Son.
Page 24
She'd ask for him
to incline his ear
and all seemed to be well again.
Stately Queen, always
in the background, sweetly
kisses all who ask for aid.
I call her Mother and
thank her for her
pat on the rump
guidance.
'Passion' (trg, 9/03/03)
What drove my young heart
What captured my imagination
What raised me into euphoria
What slowly evaporated
What I share with children, especially mine
And one once known as the sweet wicked one.
There is a glimmer of this delight
There I pray to make my bed
There my heart needs no help to beat
There I'll give into the euphoria
There I'll scream or whisper, whatever is called for
And sing the song of aching rivers opened to be free.
Passion is called a sin by some
Passion makes most adults uncomfortable
Passion opens the door to your truest self
Passion closes the door to tight ass foolishness
Passion is as much a virtue as a vice
And here I am comfortable in my skin.
My skin shivers right at its surface,
My skin is opened to erotic amorous delights
My skin feels another skin too
My skin recoils at manipulation of the passions
My skin lusts for more as it should
And I pray, 'Please, fill me full, even over-flowing.'
'Embrace me, my love, and I'll fall with you,' I pray
Embrace me, my friend, and I'll walk with you at dusk
Embrace me, my desire of my eye, and I'll let go of more than I take
Embrace me, my soon to be best friend, and I'll linger on your words
Embrace me, my lover, and we'll be filled with each other's passion
And anticipate our next duet in the poet's melody.
Page 25
'Passion, II' (trg, 9/05/03)
Extending my hand out to you
I pray that yours will find its way into mine.
To kiss, kiss in an opulent way fills the insatiable.
Last evening I watched the Sun go down.
The multi-satin rays come to me through a prism.
I love its colours.
I slept all night under its blanket,
by morning leaving a canopy of dew.
You rolled slowly towards me,
your face seemed so innocent yet sensuous.
Even the dribble rolling down your chin I find lovely.
Incense surrounds the room, filling every corner with its aromas.
Jasmine and Frankincense find their bed between our desires.
God's name is whispered, sometimes loudly,
only attesting to the splendor of this oft forgotten gift.
Passion calls to me to follow.
I can do no other, for to walk with her means that I live.
'Passion cuts through' (trg, 2/11/04)
Passion cuts through the poorly written stories,
love known and shown,
never tiresome,
knows the pleasure of silence and conversation,
together.
A gift of being human,
divinity wed with humanity,
yin yang, balance of female-male,
entwined union sets us free to be who we are.
Passion allows me to see through a prism,
foregoing the single-vision of failing eyes,
the beauty of colour gives insight into the hues of your eyes.
Am I able to see?
Do I desire to see?
Will I look so that I will see?
Passion cuts through desire solely to be pleased,
-- pleasure, a gift of perception,
we do behold the beauty of the person before us,
eliminating all supposed competition.
Close your eyes:
Page 26
now imagine my hands, mimicking Reiki, following the path of your body,
not touching, barely touching at times, traveling over your curved frame,
not interfering with the presence of your being,
opening up your presence of mind,
you hearing my words, 'I love you,'
me not saying one word in this direction out loud.
I give myself to the unsaid words,
louder than any spoken,
these enliven me too
and I say, 'Thank you,' for the gift of passion.
I do see.
'Sex' (trg, 10/03/03)
Something we can't get enough of when we're teens
Something that many teen girls wished that we had already been full of.
Something religion makes sound dirty except in their narrow specs.
Something that rape and incest is called by the court system.
Something that prostitutes only ask to be paid for.
Something that involves more than masturbation.
Something that takes time and commitment to do well.
Something that you wish you could forego at times.
Something that, when we you're younger, you remember better than it was.
Something that movies gloss over as simply conquest.
Something that we are from infancy, growing into our selves.
Something that when we become elderly will be still fresh in our thoughts.
Something that one is wary about when the pursuer persists in calling it sin.
Something that is glorious when celebrated as our gift to each other.
Something that will relieve depression. Maybe here it should be more often.
Something lovers add to everything else they share.
Something that fills the mind with delicacies that will not be forgotten.
Something that at times grants us the gift of joy's offspring.
Something that some use as an excuse, not bad, to try to have a baby.
Something that some will not talk about in public.
Something that some will not cease to talk about in public.
Something that is best if shared quietly, thought sometimes it might get loud.
Something that poetry and paintings spring from.
Something that songs and even hymns inspire.
Something that loveliness, sweetness and beauty must first be to be delightful.
Something that is laborious when there's no intimacy or tenderness.
Something that is an extension of oneself when love of beauty persists.
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Something that a romantic never separates from love.
Something that, like this, might make some uncomfortable.
Something that, like this, brings nods and amens.
Something I could start all over again with these words but different ones.
Something that I could never do without being able to say, 'I love you.'
Something that some love and some don't.
I do.
'Sex II' (trg, 11/25/03)
No memory of a displeasure.
Thought I was going to die the first time,
it was a solo event,
no one warned me of the explosive nature.
It was great the first time, only a little quick,
didn't in the slightest prevent the next.
Interesting, when its solo,
you still think of someone else,
not truly desiring this private flight.
Once I tried without saying, 'I love you,'
thinking that friendship was sufficient.
it wasn't, we were both embarrassed and sad.
Met an old soul who knew the same;
sad for both of us, we listened to other voices,
thought that this would never be known again.
Met another old soul who knows more than either of us by ourselves;
neither sad or happy, we love because, not because.
'Do not speak of such things,' whispers a voice from my youth,
'Place a covering from above over the obvious,' said someone
who thought it necessary to give leaves to Michelangelo's ceiling masterpiece,
probably a Protestant who thinks Pope Leo went to hell, or
an infallible Pope who deemed Leo's instructions too sensual for the eyes.
Both had mistresses,
maybe young boys too who weren't their sons, but, please, don't speak of such things.
Men and women feel dirty,
first made to think this when a parent walked into a solo exploration.
Pornography wouldn't exist because of the programmed dirtiness of physical pleasure, would it?
(A need to pretend that sex is unnecessary to be human,
being taught that it's a choice not part of who we are.)
Why then do Monks and Nuns acknowledge their fast from it?
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I hear people say that it isn't sex that matters; Love is what counts.
Duhusually from someone who has neither.
Love is what matters, yes, with faith and hope too.
But while we're not angels, at least this is what we're told they're like,
Sex is a pretty damn important part of this life in this world.
For me, sex is the highest temporal sacrament.
'I love you,' is its epiclesis, where each one person becomes more than they are by themselves.
I like to hold hands too.
"More than merely a sex thing"(trg, 2-10-2002)
Oh Jesus, not the Spanish one
Oh God, anyone that might be one
Oh shit, hopefully a passionate expression
Oh no, an hormonal driven first-timer
Oh yes, an hormonal driven two-thousandth-timer
Oh no - not a again, one who's never improved the first- timer
Oh my, when the word's not spelled come
Ohhhhhhh, prayer at it's best
Ohhhhhhh, prayer
Oh please, not actually a request
Oh Buddha, not what one shouts at climax
Oh not now, not understood - 'less
the lover's a friend
Oh - Hello, when the lover, friend
walks into the bathroom after the Oh not now
Oh not again, not usually demanded
Oh - it's you again, familiarity worn well
Oh, not an exclusive filler, though
Oh works just fine -- I find.
'Kissing' (trg,6/30/03)
My first at six,
she was seven.
I fell in love with kissing that day.
Petting, making out, intimacy --
these are only inviting
if the kissing is good from you kisser.
Only thing worse than a poor kisser,
is when you're dreaming of passionate kissing,
only to be awakened by your dog licking your mouth.
Some of my kissers over the years
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would do well to take lessons from her.
This morning I awoke
to find my cat asleep on my face.
Let the metaphors begin,
but not by me, at least not at this present time.
'Hello' (trg, 8/26/03)
Hello.
A soft kiss on a cheek, or both,
suffices for an intimate greeting.
There are friends who may barely brush up against you,
who teach you the meaning of gentleness.
who help you smile,
who are baptized by your tears,
who share in your good and bad.
An amorous glide into each other
is more than a casual gift,
no accident here.
I bow at the waist and say, 'Thank you.'
A soft kiss on a cheek, or both,
not so much a goodbye as a see you next time.
Hello.
'She walked in' (trg, 5/20/03)
Walked into a large Church building,
a gathering of three thousand souls they said.
I sat down in the middle about three-quarter ways down.
She walked in, in the back of the auditorium,
no one took notice since there was a large crowd.
Well, almost no one noticed.
At first I didn't see her.
My whole person knew she had come into the room.
I didn't see her, didn't even know her,
but boy did I feel her.
My grandfather could do the same thing.
For me to feel a bit disconcerted, this is unusual.
For me to admit that some one could get to me this way, unusual.
For me to need to know someone who I only knew by intuition, unusual.
Sitting in this place meant nothing, not because it meant nothing.
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She made the place real, she brought redemption into the temple.
She didn't need to turn over the moneychanger's tables.
She kicked all superfluity out the windows.
My eyes had become blind but I hadn't noticed,
not until she opened my sight.
Sweat began to drip down my forehead and nose,
as well as under my arms. She unnerved me.
She sat down across from me in another pew,
crossed her legs and I couldn't take my eyes off of her.
Right then and there I knew that I was hers,
if she wanted me.
Time stood still when finally we were free to meet.
We walked towards each other like it was destiny.
We both smiled and said, 'Hi.'
We knew that we knew each other.
Then we introduced each other to the other's spouse.
'She wonders' (9/22/03)
She wonders if she's worth the descriptives,
whether flowery, prosaic, euphemistic or realistic.
For me, when it comes to written words
I'm rarely given to exaggeration.
Rarer it is to be gifted a soul of intense beauty.
She wonders if this is hyperbole,
perhaps one captured by their own fantasy.
Gods, Angels and Fairies I want to believe in,
I do believe in, even when I don't want to.
One hand extended out to give emphasis,
the way that her forefinger and thumb linger down into her wrist,
when I have beheld such splendor I choose to give into it.
Faceless portraits could be redundant,
like her, not saying much, yet saying all she intends to say.
A woman's muscular structure of her neck,
more amorous than the rarest of orchids,
the most attractive of men are unable to come close.
My friend sits, much like two hands holding her, in a couch,
informs all descriptives that I might extend her way.
I'm unable to refrain from smiling.
I like smiling.
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'A Romantic, not at all pensive' (trg, 5/31/2004)
A romantic,
not at all pensive am I,
words flowing 'from pent up aching rivers'
praying for a bed to lay my head,
reticent to believe a, 'Me too.'
My hero, Walt W., sang a song,
his song informs mine,
the silhouette of your lover has no comparison;
sadly not many allow for their own beauty,
hence the admirer's glances do not become appreciated.
Would be lovers come and go,
lasciviousness might be a jealous accusation,
fornication a lovely Greek word
used by those afraid of 'f' words,
afraid to admit that they too long to be ravished by rapture,
the religious sort;
I admit that I'd love to hear more than once,
'Oh, God!'
Yes, I remember my first beloved,
neither of us knew that love making should be less than evening prayers,
or less often,
(We didn't give a damn about statistical intercourse arrived at by sexless poll takers.)
once before you fall off into dreamland,
then quickly on the way out the door in the morning.
(There's nothing like the aromas from a morning's kiss explosion.
You can taste them all day.)
I know an Old Soul lover
-- I pray for this union every day
-- I remember our passion from ages past
-- They call to me during the day's absence
-- This one's never far away,
amorous is the word I recall,
we'll not be surprised by our familiarity.
A romantic,
not at all pensive I am,
I renew my prayer,
there must be another romantic who's petitions are the same,
who longs to hold hands and feel each other's sweaty palms,
who longs to know an evening's conversation awakened by the dawn,
who longs to know a morning's wake,
realizing that we still have our clothes on,
yet feel spent like adolescent lovers,
lingering on each touch and sound,
both the five minutes and the all nights are followed by a,
'Thank you.'
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'Pensive I am' (trg, 7/09/03)
'Pensive, I am,'
waiting for participation,
putting aside an unrequited affection,
not wanting hell's reprisal.
'Body Electric' resurrects
an insight, I lose it too easily.
'An index finger'
from the top of your head
down to the ends of your toes,
an index finger moves
at once from your pelvic
to the small of your back.
Will I sing
with the man who 'sees his own Beauty?'
Will I sing
with the woman who 'sees her own Beauty?'
Is Beauty asexual?
Is the Beauty of the person
heterosexual or homosexual?
Is the 'Beauty of the Body'
merely and exponentially Beauty?
Prescience, is it predestination,
or is just having a sense of one's self?
Blame myself? Blame God?
Take what is yours and move on with it.
Pensive, I am,
glaring down your backside.
I pause for a moment
and look down her front side.
The nape and small of the back
are different on a woman's from a man's back.
Who teaches us to prefer one above the other?
I call to mind
my fears and joys, being a man.
Not a good balance.
I am now renascent,
taken in by their and all frames.
The 'Body Electric' calls forth hymns,
hymns of personal freedom.
There are other tonal sounds not so pensive.
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"A Romantic's muse" (trg, 6-28-2002)
Days do come and go,
this we know.
Yesterday's living is not
much different from
tomorrow's potential.
Today is where wonderment
is appreciated, herein
is where love's preference lives.
Smile, for today is today,
and the sufficient evil of the day
is overwhelmed by the abiding
beauty of a
beloved friend.
'Romantic that I'm glad to be' (trg, 3/03/03)
Sight is my plight, so I conclude
when I look and see Beauty
such as no one should live without seeing.
It could be a bite in the shorts, as they say,
a nightmare just awakened from,
a party rained out,
or a day too soon for the party
being held the next day.
No. Yes. It was merely a mistake.
Of course the day when celebrated
will not be the same, no
longer with anticipation, though
I do hold close even my naive perception.
So what and who do I behold,
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beheld as though new and old?
If you whisper this question,
quietly walk over to a mirror,
look into it and say, 'Hello,'
you will behold who and what
I do see,
romantic that I am glad to be.
'Will there be Beauty?' (3/05/03)
Will there be beauty
ever again?
Will there be hymns
written yet once more?
Who will intone
these melodies?
Who will write
the notes and words?
I arise out of my seat
and say, 'Yes!'
I arise and say,
'I will.'
Wisdom has song her song,
'To everything there is a season,'
as others have borrowed this line
do so I in, 'Turn, turn, turn.'
Yes,
I do embrace Beauty
in all of her complexities.
Yes,
I do applaud the unspeakable
splendor of this timeless creature.
Yes,
I will sing, write and find the words
that are past exhausting,
words of the divine
meeting the earth's whisper.
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'Passion cuts through' (trg, 2/11/04)
Passion cuts through the poorly written stories,
love known and shown,
never tiresome,
knows the pleasure of silence and conversation,
together.
A gift of being human,
divinity wed with humanity,
yin yang, balance of female-male,
entwined union sets us free to be who we are.
Passion allows me to see through a prism,
foregoing the single-vision of failing eyes,
the beauty of colour gives insight into the hues of your eyes.
Am I able to see?
Do I desire to see?
Will I look so that I will see?
Passion cuts through desire solely to be pleased,
-- pleasure, a gift of perception,
we do behold the beauty of the person before us,
eliminating all supposed competition.
Close your eyes:
now imagine my hands, mimicking Reiki, following the path of your body,
not touching, barely touching at times, traveling over your curved frame,
not interfering with the presence of your being,
opening up your presence of mind,
you hearing my words, 'I love you,'
me not saying one word in this direction out loud.
I give myself to the unsaid words,
louder than any spoken,
these enliven me too
and I say, 'Thank you,' for the gift of passion.
I do see.
'out of darkness' trg, 07/30/06
out of darkness light shown
their is no black ugliness,
blackness is light's inversion,
still to be seen one must open their eyes;
kiss the sun,
the moon does,
yin yang's gnosis,
the logos' speaking, without a need to be heard;
neither are good or evil,
both are beauty's mirror,
the male and the fe-male,
not a negation of the other,
synergy,
more than one i can be
i behold her darkness,
i realize that i see what can be seen
only if one chooses to open their eyes;
from her womb,
without form and darkness in the deep,
i hear the word,
'let there be light;'
out of, from within, alongside
black's light is known