Love In A Wall – Laying the line –

“Sex is just another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them.”
– D. H. LAWRENCE, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Sinewy wrists twist the trowel, 
causing it dance on the board 
gathering its share of love
along the way. 

Deftly, quickly, with a flick and a pull, 
a long even line is coaxed 
from the willing load. 

Movements define other movements 
setting up reciprocating pulses
in a syncopation of motion. 

Thick calloused fingers, 
pluck another willing blossom, 
forcing it to mate the bed of passion. 

Dance, flick, pull, mate, dance, flick, pull, mate. 
Tedium, repetition, yet, another brick. 
building an impassioned wall

Following hard after the mated pair, 
a tool pushes in binding them together, 
sealing their union.

Tools are useful said the young man to his master…

 

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

12292010

Dreamweaver – Nightmares of Abuse

“My father was one of those men who sit in a room and you can feel it: the simmer, the sense of some unpredictable force that might, at any moment, break loose, and do something terrible.
[Burnside, p. 27]”
John Burnside, A Lie About My Father: A Memoir 

The following is an excerpt from the hopeforhealing.org.,  poetry by survivors of sexual or domestic violence.

 

aneasylife4u

Come, beckons the night,
Let us dance together, and chase the dream weaver
I am not laughing at you
It is only the laughter of the past
Rushing through your brain
 
I am harmless, why do you resist me so?
Pearls of wisdom are here within my walls
And peace offerings as well
Yet you quake at the sight of me
My power has not alluded you
 
Need I remind you?
You cannot resist me forever!
I am that necessary evil
Which recreates evil past
My nourishment lies in your screams
So, foolish one, scream on!
 
No one is listening, no one hears
Wake them; tell them of your sad tales
I will recapture them before your voice silences
But they will not find your persecutor
And will think you mad
 
Reach for the sun, it is hours ’til its’ dawn
As I am your punisher, it is your reward
However, for now I am your companion
Let us dance together, and chase the dreamweaver
Come, I beckon you
011912

Hands – Abandoned to touch

“Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.” 
 
wallpaperstock
Hands, sensual, flowing, graceful.
Your hands dance with mine,
Flowing like a gentle stream, around the banks of me
The touch so slight, not holding, but grazing, delighting
Pleasure, not sexual, but pure, innocent,
Heat, energy, not forceful, but powerful
Your hands, so wonderful to watch, to feel, to know

12292011

Love In Hiding – Why is love so evasive?

“Maybe it’s just hiding somewhere. Or gone on a trip to come home. But falling in love is always a pretty crazy thing. It might appear out of the blue and just grab you. Who knows — maybe even tomorrow.” – Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
hop3lessdreamers

Why is love so evasive? It hides behind impossibilities. Dancing around dashed hopes and crushed dreams, it laughs, seemingly immune. Attempts to force its hand are met with indifference. It scoffs at the futility of such manipulations. It can appear dead, then, resurrect itself in spite of all logical resistance. Contrary to reason, it brings to madness the mind of the genius. Delighting in the bafflement of its adversaries, it raises strong arms to show defiance of prediction. Having disarmed reason and logic it takes the journey into sweet insanity, a wandering exploration through places beyond imagination. Struck with its seduction, a mere touch becomes a fire of uncontrolled passion. A whisper transforms itself into an echo that continues long after the source had taken its leave. Having then all power held in suspension at its will, surely the proverb is true, “now abide faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” I would have to agree, and that is the reason for love’s evasiveness – it is because it can.

Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Wingposse
10252011

The Sound of Sirens

 “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
heatherwanderer
I woke with a sweat drenched pillow, the dreams that enthralled me were just out of reach but I could struggle and recall them if I didn’t hesitant any longer and with that thought, I pulled back the sounds of voices, calling like the fine wind and string instruments of lyre and lute. The voices were right, wisdom echoed in their cadence as I found my ship drawn inextricably to their haunting direction. Have you ever smelled perfume? Not the cheap whorish variety that smelled like cotton candy but a subtle scent that lingered long after she left the room? That’s how her voice seemed, a wafting fragrance that captivated both mind and body and caused me to drift aimless but not so misdirected as one lost, for my wanderings found their home in her arms. Ok, now that I wrangled my dreams from their abyss, I can take my sweat soaked bedding and snap open a beer that waited for me in the icy bottom of the cooler. Simple pleasures, intense dreams, cold beer, what more could a man want from chasing the pleasures of his Queen? I could go on but would you be interested in the musings of one who gave his ear in desperation of love, or one who wrote under the influence of acid and heroin? If not for leisure, philosophy would find no fertile ground. How can you think when your body is burdened with heat, sweat and fatigue? Yet, as I grabbed the sweaty pillow, I was lying down, sleeping, and still I sweated with what? Passion? Work? What trick of nature is this? I’m still and yet my dreams bring labor, enough work to leave me exhausted. Perhaps I actually live a life beyond the awakened drudgery of normalcy? Society feels no compassion for the sweat obtained through dreams, and yet, that’s were the miracles of living are brought to a vivid reality. Yes, my thoughts are work, yes, that’s my job, and yes, from it I am weary and sweaty. I’m off to work again, don’t look for me on the street, my tasks take me to roads never seen, and I dance with voices never heard.

Last Dance

 “It is one of the considerable privileges of art that the horrible can be transformed, through artful expression, into beauty.” – Baudelaire
“Nothing burns like the cold.” – George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones 
 
sinkinginsociety
The tombstone, angled slightly askew,

tumbled out of bounds

with a weedy surround

Miss Daze stood, in wind her hair flew,

in tears from all the sound

coming from cold ground

Flames they shot, forked vehemence,

voice from grave beneath

a mouth without teeth

A door revealed, viewed with vengeance,

Swaying she was sure to be

chanting a nether decree

A demon red, he stood in great haste,

and with a beastly shove

grabbed Miss Daze from above

Sinister the dance, in smoky and hellish taste,

Passion’s rigor is restored

Forcing open Deaths door


Back to Love Again

“I would like to fall in love again but my only hope is that love doesn’t happen to me so often after this. I don’t want to get so used to falling in love that i get curious to experience something more extreme – whatever that may be.”
 
 
 

I loved someone with a genuine love. It was not returned to me and in fact, I was spurned. I turned away, saddened by my gullibility at having opened up like I did. After a time of mulling on the lost love, I realized, I still loved that person and by having that love, I discovered things about myself that were lost to me before. I learned to dance, and, I found my gift of music that was lost for many years. So then, I ask myself, “should I look on this as a bad thing?” I say, NO! I am richer for having loved than holding myself back. Loving brings to us, the person doing the loving, an immense benefit, we are becoming like God. An old man writing about God said, “God is Love.” That being the case, if we have truly loved, we have had the opportunity to be like God. Having this experience you’ll realize that it takes a lot out of you to give true love. In doing that we return to the source, to God, who will fill us with the strength to love again and heal us from our misadventures. Don’t be afraid to love again, in this you will find meaning in life and experience your greatest purpose, to be an imitator of God.

Also published in: Broowaha
12132010

Ode to My Flame – An exposition of my muse

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest 
heaven of invention. –  William Shakespeare

“In the early part of my life I carried the flame for fiery women: 
perky women who were not dumb.”Debra Winger
 
To the casual eye, a fire is a fire. There is much more to the flame, than what is taken for granted. My flame lives, breathing a jealous breath. It reaches out for more in hungry, at times violent, lustful hunts. My flame can be patient, lying dormant in embers of anticipation. It’s tongues lap gently at the air, crackles of passion beginning, growing with intensity, the climax a promise if given more; the afterglow a certainty, soft colors showing the lovers dance of death. Creating as it rolls and frolics, anything exposed to its playful antics will be changed. Sweet gentle animal, raging storm, my flame inspires awe and reverence. From ages beyond and before, men will court you. I use you sweet flame, and likewise you use me. Perpetuating my affair, I sit for hours watching you dance. A lustful patron, I eagerly throw you my supply to see you sway. Though my offering is consumable, without a care you eagerly consume my soul. Youre always faithful to perform, licking seductively, swaying, teasing. Spreading your heat, I feel your glow against me as I come close. My inspiring muse to create all, you bring romance to my cold nights and warm ambiance to chilled emotion. My flame, let me hold you, spinning around with joy, shedding your tears of laughter, sparks that disappear within seconds. Without you, I perish for want of nurture. You are my sustenance for long days; my lover flame, satiate me with your enduring comfort; you are my fire, you are my flame, you are my woman.

Ode to My Flame – An exposition of my muse

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest 
heaven of invention. –  William Shakespeare

“In the early part of my life I carried the flame for fiery women: 
perky women who were not dumb.”Debra Winger
 
To the casual eye, a fire is a fire. There is much more to the flame, than what is taken for granted. My flame lives, breathing a jealous breath. It reaches out for more in hungry, at times violent, lustful hunts. My flame can be patient, lying dormant in embers of anticipation. It’s tongues lap gently at the air, crackles of passion beginning, growing with intensity, the climax a promise if given more; the afterglow a certainty, soft colors showing the lovers dance of death. Creating as it rolls and frolics, anything exposed to its playful antics will be changed. Sweet gentle animal, raging storm, my flame inspires awe and reverence. From ages beyond and before, men will court you. I use you sweet flame, and likewise you use me. Perpetuating my affair, I sit for hours watching you dance. A lustful patron, I eagerly throw you my supply to see you sway. Though my offering is consumable, without a care you eagerly consume my soul. Youre always faithful to perform, licking seductively, swaying, teasing. Spreading your heat, I feel your glow against me as I come close. My inspiring muse to create all, you bring romance to my cold nights and warm ambiance to chilled emotion. My flame, let me hold you, spinning around with joy, shedding your tears of laughter, sparks that disappear within seconds. Without you, I perish for want of nurture. You are my sustenance for long days; my lover flame, satiate me with your enduring comfort; you are my fire, you are my flame, you are my woman.

Misty Is Her Way – Part One

“She would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on.” 

wallpagers

I felt light traces of her fingertips, leaving a trail of pleasure long after they found other parts of my landscape to wander. My breathing slows, mind numbs, and a creeping satisfaction, like morning mist rolling down the hillside, fills every low place of my mind. The lows of sadness, footprints of giants pocketing my memory, cupped every delicate drop of her. These lined with the nature and nurture of excruciating experience, crushed me like shells on the shore, the pounding driving me into smaller and smaller pieces. Ah, but the mist of her touch, brought healing in the haze. The troubles disappeared as I soaked up the attentions and affections of her spirit, bringing me to life with her touch; watching as it swallowed my world in dancing swirls of natures skirt, a skirt of billowing softness, gently unveiling all her nakedness. Me, I am ravaged and barren, a scorched desert, but full of life, a life that stung, bit, and poisoned all potential for happiness. It is amazing how close to pleasure, pain is. It is possible to confuse the two, in fact, I counted on that to escape the dreary confines that echoed with the chains of my captivity.