You accept me. Not for what I could be, but for what I am. With all my faults, with all of my failures, where most would turn and walk away, you took me in. Since we’ve been together, any demons I could have had are gone. Any grief that my heart felt has since been soothed. As I walk in the clouds that you provide my soul, the essence of who I am is better because of you.

In such a way you’ve made me whole, that without thought, I think of you. That, without sight, I see none other but you. And, without words, you become the only song I need.

With all my faults, things I could have done better, tasks I could have completed faster, and times where I didn’t tell you all that I could have, or should have, you’ve been there. As I am your testament, the world should shower you with rose petals for you’ve made me, inside, what I thought I could never be. Appreciated.

I am content in knowing that as with my last breath gone, many years from now, we will see each other in another life. We will find each other again, and maybe the stars will have changed. But we will not only love each other in that time, but for all the times we’ve had before and all the times to come.

With every breath of my being, I know I don’t deserve you. Yet you choose to do something, without caring, without wanting, without asking. And, in your arms, I alone, am changed. For that moment, all the world stops and inside myself, I am poetry.

It is always a challenge to look back at “old love” and the emotions that keep the memories.

Just for reading enjoyment…I used the “L” word, but it is never the same with out it.

It began as a dream, too good to be true
Yearning to hold you, kiss you, caress you
Thinking about you pushed me into withdrawal

Yin starves for Yang; I craved your body intertwined with mine
The Holy Grail of beauty, sweeter then the over ripe banana
The trailing darkness fades and is forgotten amongst our flavor

Just you and me: forever

I’ve been told by those who know better that it is wrong
Unnatural, even
My laughter trickles from amongst my thoughts.
When have I ever cared about “right” or “wrong”?

Boy or Girl

40 or 4

Naked or clothed
It hasn’t mattered before, why should it matter now?
Because your being by my side is what I care about, and it won’t happen

The sparkles in my vision dim, as the assassin blades coalesce.
*flick* *flick* *flick*

Children screaming with loss and desire
Bridges burning the night time air putrid
The sulpheric chemicals leeching into the ground from the ruins

Prompting the wolves to howl in pain; willing…
No…wanting…
To eliminate everyone in their way

Tearing across the land as the ten plagues of ancient Egypt
Affecting all who are not worthy of this lifestyle
No mercy, No regret, pure rage for those who would separate us

Children will be sacrificed
Women ignored, or beaten and quickly discarded
Men broken from their self-taught insanity, and then enslaved
To rebuild Society

Pride and Rage are the wolves born from the ashes of pain and abuse
Shredding all before him to nothing
He must not be distracted from his Goal

All is relinquished beneath the shadow of this power
All is consumed to fuel this rage
All is meaningless when compared beside this absolute truth

(Except for them, except for us, except for you)

We are the world, and the world will acknowledge our beauty
With us or beneath us
Because we deserve it for all the shit we are put through

CYRANO USES A THESAURUS
from behind the bushes

This adoration, this pitch ‎
of affection, allegiance, amity–the ‎
amorousness I feel, the amour I mount, ‎
take it, I beg you my delicious honeybunch
& put away your other boyfriends
for what I gots is the hots.‎

Turtledove, ‎
I long to show
my ardency, ardor, attachment, ‎
delight, devotedness, ‎
devotion, emotion, enchantment, enjoyment, ‎
fervor, fidelity, my flaming fondness ‎
& friendship, this hankering
idolatry, inclined ‎
on the steep & dangerous roof ‎
of my infatuated & mad
rush for you.‎
‎ ‎
Empty the rivers of their tears,‎
the trees of their rotten fruit,‎
laborers of their blue & broken ‎
burdens. Receive my rapture, regard, ‎
relish, respect, the soft spot that aches
in the tenderest, weakest, ‎
wild for, yearning, zeal of me ‎
& put away your other boyfriends
for what I gots is the hots.‎

His blue eyes
Reveal a profound deepness
A distraction
From reality, I float away
Into a never ending dream

In a glance
I Shape his lips
Curve his nose
Beauty
Simplicity
I see

His finger tips
Caress my bare skin
A sensation
Touching me: my soul
Into unknown truth

A silent whisper
Hidden within the heavens
Like a breath upon my neck
Dreams, hope, future
Fingers intertwined
I know

His eternal desire
On the surface
A revelation
Staring, once again
Into his deep blue eyes
I trust

Revealed his feminist ways to her?
Shown her masculine side to him?
No, not yet

With solitude,

His eyes—blossom as crimson rays shower upon
rosy cheeks, red cannas, white orchids

Her eyes—slowly, slowly survey
virtual, sexy, naked, sexy hottie

With solitude,

Her lips—release a tremulous delight of a burp

His lips—pray softly, nurturing a gentle spirit

With solitude,

His hands—snuggle a fluffy Teddy

Her hands—clinch to punch,
miss a glass lamp

Changes when they become one?
I don’t know
Tell you if it
Happens

“She did not know that it was I who gave her the grain, the wine, and the oil, and who lavished upon her silver and gold that they used for ba’al” (Hos 2:8).

Since the road took me north
you remain
among jonquil bulbs—the last thing I recall
after you drove away, and I
just stood there, looking
down, the way people do
who can’t think up any excuse
for whatever
lies unspoken, even now.

How does it happen, that
old bulbs always manage to answer
at precisely the hardest moment, looking up
through Virginia cast-iron
February ground, licking
flurries splattered
on shadow-damp straw mulch, magnolia
buds hovering above
such a careful brown
boulevard garden, unaware of the sad
darkening of that sudden almost
into this dead graphite
rock salt snow?

It is the way of curbs, I suppose,
to hold back the flood or accept the weight
of each unwanted storm in turn, the worst
completely toppling
twenty years ago flowering Valentine sprigs
into the uprooted Jesse Tree, wind-stripped
naked except for only the heaviest limbs, sharply bereft
of past promises.

There is always one broken thing we most wish
back, that is furthest lost, the absence
embraced by its own present, the almost
touchable warmth we try to remember, something
we could not say—But
at least once
we knew what it was, and still
we call it the word some of us are not allowed.