The smell of the sea Oct. 24, 2026

 

 

I still smell the scent of the sea on her, that summer when she got back from the shore, sundress and sun glasses, reflecting those night over that lost weekend in the room of the hotel with gold trim, and I ask myself, do I think all girls are bad, meaning do they sleep over with whomever they choose, while men like me crave love and must trust to luck, her and the sea always drawn together in my brain, even now, even all these years later when she is not the same person she was back then, having given up her beach towel for something infinitely more substantial, even though I still see her in the lobby of our office, hair back, her face mostly hidden by over-sized sunglasses, which reflect my intense desire to be with her at the sea.

 

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That absence April 15, 2024

  

It is unavoidable

I can’t cease thinking

About it,

The consequences of it,

What is and what it is not,

How I recall it feeling

When I held it,

And the feeling

When it slipped away,

A memory of softness,

Of something utterly sweet,

And the lack of

Suffered from.

I can’t cease to think

About it,

Remember it,

Feel how lost

I am without it,

Carrying that absence

Around inside me,

Pieces of it,

Tumbling around

Unable to come back

Together

As it once was,

Coming together instead

In odd configurations,

Or what it never was,

And I think about it,

Always,

And always will.

 

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Is it me? May 22, 2024

 

She did it again

Or is it me,

A blast from the past

As potent as ever

Her mouth set,

Painted,

Her eyes framed

Like a masterpiece,

And I stare,

Stunned

The way I was back then,

Is it me?

Or is she some force of nature

That sweeps into our lives

Like a storm,

And passed out

Leaving us to wonder

What it is that hit us

And whether we will

Ever be the same,

The memory of her impact

Coming back

Making me react

Just as I did then,

Shaken each time

She posts a new one,

And this so much like

Those I used to see

On my phone

In my head

In my dreams in bed.

I stare

Feeling like an interloper

Like a peeping Tom

Caught  in the act,

Just a picture

And yet,

More than that.

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Jonas (2014)

 

 

Even when you are

Out of reach

I ache to touch you,

To run my fingers

Across that smooth

Landscape from your

Neck to your toes,

Irreverent thoughts

Filling my brain,

But I don’t care,

To feel your neck

With the tips of my fingers

Where it curves

From earlobes to lips,

Your lips, a secret

Treasure I can’t cease

To caress,

Soft, plump, potent,

Fingers going across

Them, then easily inside,

As I stare down

Into your deep eyes,

My whole essence

Swallowed, as I press

Deeper,

I am Jonas

And you have devoured me,

Keeping me contained,

My fingers; your mouth,

My soul sucked into

The windows of your eyes,

I am inside you,

Looking out,

Desperate to become you

To fill you up with all of me.

 

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Aching for a grand slam May 15, 2024

 

 

I won’t pretend

To understand

How she feels

Or why she needs

To go so far

When life pitches her

A curve ball.

She always swings too hard

She always tries to reach the stands,

Why does it seem so complicated

When we all ought to simply

Have what we need,

And get what we want,

Grab what we think we deserve,

Finding pleasure in a pleasant

Afternoon ride

All else intruding on us,

Making magic moments

Unserviceable,

When they ought to be

Full of joy.

I don’t pretend to know here,

Only the edges of what she reveals,

The outlines of a promising life

She is so desperate to lead

If only fate

Or god

Will let her.

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When a noun loves Oct. 20, 2026

 

And yes, after all these years, the noun is still infatuated with the adjective’s amazing beauty, the sentence telling its tale each day, a recollection of affection to the point of perishing, but no pink pot full of flowers on her kitchen table, no smoke billowing out the window where she perched, no longing on the grass that overlooks the river we both share, even if miles apart, noun and adjective in need of a verb to feel complete, those nights in the midst of conjunction, “and” without a “but” while in the end, I’m still lost in her eyes and – as the poet says – “ears, nose and throat,” she always the enchantress that enchanted me outside that German bar, a kiss that can never be undone, until language itself is destroyed, this poem, this sentence, this existence, dedicated to her, the adjective that complements the noun, inviting the verb to make it all seem real.

 

 

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All on the same yacht Sept 25, 2013

 

 We hold our breath

As we wait for the verdict

as if the world

will end for all of us

A blast from the past

When she got the scoop

He’d gotten busted,

Reaching out to me for hel

she really didn’t need,

that moment (of) graduation

from cub to old saw

with me as helpless observer 

fast forward to now

expecting to be expelled

from the inner circle of cool kids

 she always envied back at school,

or on that yacht with that old lady

who gobbled up brothers and sisters

and taught her how,

gobbling up all she can find

still hungering for me,

a lost soul waiting

as if she is on trial,

not him,

as if her world will end

with the fall of the gavel

, “We’re all on the same yacht now,”

 she once wrote,

back when she still saw

 a wide open sea ahead,

 before she even knew

the boat she’s one

had sprung a leak..

 

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