Rain in early spring April 8, 2015

When the rain comes, I stare out into it and wish you were here, and wonder what it might be like to be with you, out there, where old leaves litter the ground and new leaves just begin to bud, unable to contain the downpour fall leaves or those more in season might better handle, and I wonder how it would feel to lay you down, both of us naked and drenched, having my way with you, filling up each deep crevice as the rain drips off our lips and hips, our hair drowned, our bodies smothered with each tender embrace, giving warmth to each other against the still chill aftermath of early spring, what it might feel like to smear each other, my wet body against yours, to kiss wet lips, to press wet lips against wet lips, to drink an ambrosia only nature can provide, and shudder, just to think of it.

 

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the price we pay. Jan 31, 2014

 

we always pay for it in the end

 we get you for a moment

 only to have the bill come

always more than we reckon on

 even when we knew the cost

 would come high

heartbreak the least of it

 and for this I count myself fortunate

and pity him, my friend and rival,

 for the suffering he has to endure

his love lost less than this mind

 has and perhaps it is because

of how much more he adored her

each of us the thieves to either side

of him on that hill

 the one thief promised redemption

 for all the kindness he gave

our suffering Christ

she one of the two Mary's we both desire

 a Mary with two faces

each equally desirable

if for different reasons

My friend and rival forced to pay

 the steeper price for

 which I am grateful

I did not,

 though down the I seek to be him

to have been so kind

 as to win that special

 piece of her heart

the man who knows

the right combination

to unlock it

and did

 while I fumbled with it

and lost it

and regret it

all this time later

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Exotic spice April 5, 2025

  

The scent of it rises out of the unknown, an elusive fragrance just on the edge of perception, a teasing touch I feel inside each time I breathe, lost if I breathe too deeply, and yet I do, craving to get at it, to have it wash over me, through me, yet it always remains teasingly distant, refusing to be pinned down, like a humming bird with wings vibrating too quickly to be seen, or captured, and so, as much as I crave it, I must cling to what I have, not what it might become, always there, always beyond reach, yet something I always reach for again and again, its scent evading me, like a spice I taste in some elaborate dish, unable to precisely define what it is I taste, and yet at the same time, knowing if I can catch the scent or taste it, I might ruin it.

 

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Old ghosts May 27, 2014

 

We pass this place where tall windows stick up around a wide porch from those Victorian days where men with long cigars smoked, while inside women displayed themselves like trophies, a place so notorious that angry wives knew just where to go to collect their husbands, men who luckily knew the trick how to get the big windows to open down so they could make their escape, leaving naked women sprawled on couches still lingering on the edge of quick romance, all these years later converted into a bed and breakfast, only marginally haunted by those old ghosts, though in the dark of night, in the rooms above, the bed posts still banged against walls and the sound of moaning women can be heard downstairs, over the sound of waves crashing to the shore a block away, nobody remembering the tricky windows, nobody trying to make a quick escape, shaking the chandeliers the way an earthquake might, ending finally with the cry of delight, as men make their way back down to the porch to smoke cigars, history always managing to repeat itself

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The ghost in the cupboard Nov. 10, 2012

 I climb out of my cupboard to the vacancy beyond, the stairs absent her footsteps I so often strained to hear, all gone, and gone forever, not even the echo, only the remembrance of it, the clatter of her heals below, muffled by the carpet, yet still there, the hurried movement passed where I set, a pause, a moment, slightly above, to take stock of me and my attention, to determine if I cam looking or not, moving on when satisfied I am, while pretending not to.

I climb out of my cupboard because of hear none of that now, only the footsteps in my head, and how I will neve hear it all again, for good or bad, while the ache I feel remains, magnified by the lack of their reality, my step replacing her step, just not the same, like a ghost who haunts this place, and me, most likely forever condemned to carrying the links of chains I have wrought, when all that has filled this space has gone on to fill some other for someone else.

I climb out of my cupboard thinking I might be surprised somehow, finding her footsteps still there, when I know they won’t be.

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The texting habit April 2012

 

 

She texts me as I hang up the phone,

after talking for an hour,

her words reaching me

 in the same way her voice does,

 stirring me up on the inside

 like renewed coals,

She saying how much she

Enjoyed talking to me

I tell her the same

fumbling over

 the small keyboard

of my cell phone the way

 I sometimes stutter when

I'm embarrassed to speak,

each letter, word or more,

a painful exercise I need to complete

before I stumble off to sleep,

my response eliciting her to respond

my head already aching

 for the soft embrace of my pillow

while I ponder if she is as soft to touch,

my fingers throbbing as I text,

yet not from the effort of this conversation

, tingling in anticipation of what might be, could be,

 and what she likely feels like

 if I do,

aching all the way down.

 

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Pale Green April 4, 2025

 

The first pale green popups up, unceremoniously on the tree in my back yard, too pale to be real, later leaves will come in darker shade.

It is this color this time of year I treasure, destined not to endure, spring springing up as if out of nowhere, stirring me up inside as well as out, a feeling rising out of the turf or a chill seas in shades I know can last no longer than the green of these leaves does, the tendering linger with the gradual rise of temperature, not yet the scalding heat we beat to life as we plow into each other, too fragile to survive the scalding summer will later bring, I treasure both, cling to this now for as long as it lass, then later basking in the head, gripping that season, too, knowing it cannot last either, longer yet, richer indeed, yet destined to fade as this does not, giving way later to chill air and again the deep chill winter must bring.

 

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