When we first met I was faltering, adrift, lost,
Slipping further and further into spiritual numbness,
without focus, or purpose, and losing my will to even care,
succumbing slowly, but surely, to the siren song of oblivion.
You came into my life like a thunderstorm sweeping over the desert,
Falling like rain onto my arid soul.
The brilliant light of your being chased the darkness from my heart
While the courage of your spirit and your deep, timeless wisdom
Gave me the strength to shake off the weight of despair
And brush away the clouds of disillusionment that were consuming me.
You truly saved me from destroying myself.
Now, when I look at you I rejoice in the reassuring knowledge I am loved,
Truly, completely, without reservation.
I am constantly struck with the realization that you are more beautiful to me today
Than that magical day when we first kissed,
sitting on a sun baked bench
beside a trail following the southeastern face of an ancient Sinagua Indian ruin.
I have grown incredibly comfortable and content with you,
But never complacent.
I am still filled with the passion of that first embrace.
My heart still races at the sight of you, the scent of your hair, the touch of your skin,
The sound of your voice, your laughter,
All these things drive me wild with desire
And each day I fall in love with you again,
And again, and each time feels new, each time
Reaching deeper and deeper into my soul
Until my joy overpowers me
leaving me breathless and amazed.
For me, there can be no other than you.
In you I have found true love,
The kind of love the poets have sung about
Since the dawn of time.
Endless. Everlasting. Eternal love.
I have given my life to you.
Let me give it to you again.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
You Need Me On Your Team!
My days off are today and tomorrow. Except I have a customer coming in this afternoon and my employer has cancelled my day off for tomorrow due to a "customer appreciation" event. Hmmmm. Hard working talented male with mad skills in writing, marketing, advertising, public relations and sales seeks employment where a personal life is permitted. Must offer competitive salary and benefits. Can start immediately.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Snapshot
The ground is saturated with Spring,
the old tree stump a pedestal
lifting her naked body above
the spongy moss of the forest floor.
She is an amateur at the erotic.
Her exhibitionism reflecting
overtones of nervous shyness.
Although no one is around
to see her nude pose,
the act for her is so risqué
she is covered in goosebumps,
her nipples erect
as much from the thrill
of five minutes exposed
as from the crisp chill
of a pine woods morning.
She is just a city girl,
reveling in the here and now,
her full length outstretched
arms raised, palms upward, head thrown back
revealing herself to the universe
and a camera lens,
a visual snack with the sumptuous feast
of Mother Nature as her backdrop.
A jigsaw poem - 10 words from my friend Jenni Clark, risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur. This photo exists (sort of), the negative buried in a file cabinet somewhere. It's from back in the day, so to speak, many, many years ago when I was a photojournalist and my practice wife and I were camping and ... you get the picture!?!
the old tree stump a pedestal
lifting her naked body above
the spongy moss of the forest floor.
She is an amateur at the erotic.
Her exhibitionism reflecting
overtones of nervous shyness.
Although no one is around
to see her nude pose,
the act for her is so risqué
she is covered in goosebumps,
her nipples erect
as much from the thrill
of five minutes exposed
as from the crisp chill
of a pine woods morning.
She is just a city girl,
reveling in the here and now,
her full length outstretched
arms raised, palms upward, head thrown back
revealing herself to the universe
and a camera lens,
a visual snack with the sumptuous feast
of Mother Nature as her backdrop.
A jigsaw poem - 10 words from my friend Jenni Clark, risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur. This photo exists (sort of), the negative buried in a file cabinet somewhere. It's from back in the day, so to speak, many, many years ago when I was a photojournalist and my practice wife and I were camping and ... you get the picture!?!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Daddy's Home
Cleaning the kitchen,
a toddler at her feet,
she dreams of escape…
her old cheap dress tattered, threadbare,
like the blank, expressionless mask
of her face, the faint memory of
her once-upon-a-time fairy tale beauty
hidden in the layers of emotional plaster
caked on from years of living with a drunkard.
Her eyes still live, though,
sparkling as she glances at the girl child
thinking, perhaps, something cheesy for dinner,
hoping, maybe, something better for her, than for me.
Her intensive cleaning becoming almost furious,
as if scrubbing the dirt off the shelves
will somehow scrape away the anguish of lost hopes.
She weaves fantasies of travel, adventure,
seeing wild herds wandering the plains of the Serengheti,
hearing the howls of odd colored monkeys
in the steamy jungles along the equator,
leaning over the railing of some luxury ship
crossing the expansive wild sameness
of a chameleon ocean,
a life without the familiarity of fear,
only wonder
and joy.
The sound of a slammed door breaks the reverie,
“Ah, poop!” she curses out loud, diluting the expletive
meant much more forcefully, but softened
for the sake of the child. She wonders,
“Is he drunk? How is his mood?”
Her wistful smile fades
and the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten
with each ringing clump of heavy foot steps in the hallway.
‘Poop’ echoes the youngling,
running to her bedroom for the safety of dolls and stuffed toys.
“Daddy’s home.”
Author's note: The above poem is another one of those jigsaw poems I seem to like. It was at the annual Hall of Foam induction party when during a discussion with Don the topic of jigsaw poetry came up. He challenged me, I accepted. He gave me 10 words - cheap, expansive, blank, drunk, cheesy, intensive, poop, shelves, drunkard and equator. poop?!? Cheesy? We exchange poems this Friday back at our watering hole - the Wine and Beer Haus in Seaside, OR. This is mine. Poop. that was a tough one - hope you like my solution. There's another one in the wings, 10 words from Jenny Clark - Risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur.
a toddler at her feet,
she dreams of escape…
her old cheap dress tattered, threadbare,
like the blank, expressionless mask
of her face, the faint memory of
her once-upon-a-time fairy tale beauty
hidden in the layers of emotional plaster
caked on from years of living with a drunkard.
Her eyes still live, though,
sparkling as she glances at the girl child
thinking, perhaps, something cheesy for dinner,
hoping, maybe, something better for her, than for me.
Her intensive cleaning becoming almost furious,
as if scrubbing the dirt off the shelves
will somehow scrape away the anguish of lost hopes.
She weaves fantasies of travel, adventure,
seeing wild herds wandering the plains of the Serengheti,
hearing the howls of odd colored monkeys
in the steamy jungles along the equator,
leaning over the railing of some luxury ship
crossing the expansive wild sameness
of a chameleon ocean,
a life without the familiarity of fear,
only wonder
and joy.
The sound of a slammed door breaks the reverie,
“Ah, poop!” she curses out loud, diluting the expletive
meant much more forcefully, but softened
for the sake of the child. She wonders,
“Is he drunk? How is his mood?”
Her wistful smile fades
and the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten
with each ringing clump of heavy foot steps in the hallway.
‘Poop’ echoes the youngling,
running to her bedroom for the safety of dolls and stuffed toys.
“Daddy’s home.”
Author's note: The above poem is another one of those jigsaw poems I seem to like. It was at the annual Hall of Foam induction party when during a discussion with Don the topic of jigsaw poetry came up. He challenged me, I accepted. He gave me 10 words - cheap, expansive, blank, drunk, cheesy, intensive, poop, shelves, drunkard and equator. poop?!? Cheesy? We exchange poems this Friday back at our watering hole - the Wine and Beer Haus in Seaside, OR. This is mine. Poop. that was a tough one - hope you like my solution. There's another one in the wings, 10 words from Jenny Clark - Risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Rosehip Tea
Fading glow through an iced window
reminds of a day that tasted
of rosehips and sunshine,
sitting down to tea amongst the ferns,
lace, and cherry wood antiques.
A small exploration between semesters,
living on the kindness of strangers,
peanut butter and truck stops,
stopping for an afternoon
to taste a beer in a tiny bar and grill
tucked beneath giant spruce and coastal firs.
A chance meeting that led up a stone path
to a rough hewn cottage surrounded by rose bushes.
A girl. An afternoon dalliance.
A moment suspended in time,
in memory, forever rich
with the taste of rosehip tea
and winter sunshine through stained glass.
reminds of a day that tasted
of rosehips and sunshine,
sitting down to tea amongst the ferns,
lace, and cherry wood antiques.
A small exploration between semesters,
living on the kindness of strangers,
peanut butter and truck stops,
stopping for an afternoon
to taste a beer in a tiny bar and grill
tucked beneath giant spruce and coastal firs.
A chance meeting that led up a stone path
to a rough hewn cottage surrounded by rose bushes.
A girl. An afternoon dalliance.
A moment suspended in time,
in memory, forever rich
with the taste of rosehip tea
and winter sunshine through stained glass.
Back Again
Been silent for some time now for reasons unimportant. Hope to be posting again with some regularity (probably not daily though).
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Baby Left Alone
From a Photograph by Dorothea Lange
The baby had been crying for some time
his father drunk and off somewhere,
his mother sleeping in a ragged
flea infested tent, her eyelids shuttered
and ears deafened to the inconvenient world.
A child’s eyes shine,
even when crying there is a depth,
an inward glint of immense possibilities.
This one has cried so long, so hard
its face is no longer soft.
Dimples of sorrow are creased
in his brow as he clutches
the dirty burlap curtain
hung in the truck window.
His eyes are black pools
of empty longing.
The door isn’t locked, just shut,
but his confinement is no less complete.
A face hardly more than a year old,
with the expression of an adult
beaten down by life, or fate
or choices – not choices for this one, though,
just a baby, crying, alone,
adrift in poverty, his father drunk
and his mother asleep.
The baby had been crying for some time
his father drunk and off somewhere,
his mother sleeping in a ragged
flea infested tent, her eyelids shuttered
and ears deafened to the inconvenient world.
A child’s eyes shine,
even when crying there is a depth,
an inward glint of immense possibilities.
This one has cried so long, so hard
its face is no longer soft.
Dimples of sorrow are creased
in his brow as he clutches
the dirty burlap curtain
hung in the truck window.
His eyes are black pools
of empty longing.
The door isn’t locked, just shut,
but his confinement is no less complete.
A face hardly more than a year old,
with the expression of an adult
beaten down by life, or fate
or choices – not choices for this one, though,
just a baby, crying, alone,
adrift in poverty, his father drunk
and his mother asleep.
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