hues are shifting daily now
pink is orange
blue is deeper
reds are blood
greens are gone until Spring
she is in my sights at daybreak
evening she is there
crowding empty spaces
morning she returns
dancing in steady rising fog
i could watch her for hours
sleeping, standing, being,
or doing nothing at all
i savor the flavor
of the one bathed in beauty
sun rises regardless
and her color never changes
always blonde, always.
life is ebbing
and with it comes
clarity
women have spoken
to me of love
for half a lifetime
i have mused it
and studied its
corners and edges
analyzed its
emotions and
measured what boundaries
i could find
but it was not
until
she spoke of love
that i felt
the blood burn
when love
and body
and lips
collide
she talks of love
like its her
soulmate
and it is,
love was
made for lovers,
it is hers
and she is mine.
she is the
epitome of me
&
i would want
for nothing
but the glance
she gives
in the pulling
away of a kiss
lost in the
mist of dizzy
head swilrlings
at golden sunrise
she is mine
in orbit
&
i take
umbrage with
no living thing
ever again
she is
the better
of me
why would you
possibly come
here, sir?
what would you
hope to see?
i promise that
you’d run
far away
should you find
the real me.
i slept nearly two
decades on the scales.
weighed in the balance,
oft times, hell! most times
i was found wanting.
my love was a laved sheet hung to
dry in the wind. and left; to
dry, always there, blowing, flipping,
fraying, end upon end, season
after season, yet,
never dry enough. never ready to
be brought in. never mended.
never crisp, like the
taste of Fall fires on the
tongue’s tip. and so i stayed there,
latched to the line.
until i let go
and simply blew away.
in late August,
beneath my family Oak
she pledged her
soul to mine. her whispers
i found in creaking
branches. another Winter long
gone, another hastily approaching-
buried in the muggy heat
sleeps the chill of her heart,
her gelid blood seeps beneath
the skin of the wind
in veins of October
muscadine, in the
juicy tendrils of
the Autumn scuppernong
dripping down the edges
of her perfect smile.
we both know Cold is coming
and like our tree, we shall shed the
foliage of the past – we shall
die in acorn graves, resting
comfortably in our coppice quilt
until Spring.
when all things are made new.
Did I tell you
the moment in
which I first
began to miss
you?
How could I?
You were miles away.
Did I have the
chance to show
you the pangs
of this wanting
heart?
How could I?
You were fast asleep,
and I was pining on
a Saturday afternoon.
I sat this morning
in gray shadows.
candle lit, just right
brooding acoustic music
writing pad and pen
I sat this morning
to write you something,
some tangible whispering
of love, or adoration,
or flattery..
I pondered ridiculous
adjectives and a
marathon of run on sentences,
I sat this morning
to write you something,
but nothing came.
so I stilled myself,
in the quiet green beauty of
this foggy, Spring dawn
and thought of and
cared for nothing
save you.
my heart is cast
away into the
End of things.
never looking back,
we push against
the surge
destined to dissolve,
Foreordained to sink
into the dreaded Deep.
I drown in you today,
but I died long ago.
when have you found Love?
its elusive shadow
will play games with your
heart, for ages and ages.
when have you found Love?
when there is pain.
Unless I am resting in
the arms of my Love, until
I am lying against her
bosom, I cannot find comfort.
Love is gravity. Everything
in our Space wants to hurl
itself into the fire doom
of the sun. every rock, planet,
soul, all that we see, were
it not for some unseen force, would
toss itself into certain
death with joy, and abandon.
yet, we remain, circling
and longing. gravity is pain.
love is pain. and longing
is the unseen sorrow, that
suspends so many orbits in
perfect tune, with those
around – bound hopelessly
by the same gravity, and Love.
for space moments
she turns gravity
in on itself
and pulls at
me, from every-
where, all at
once. as if the
center of all
things was in
me and from
that pinpoint all
of eternity moved
outwards, into
nothing, holding
onto me by
string, tugging
from every point
in that great Cosmos.
Southern Musings 