A Lesson From Missing You –

“…she has the ability to hide as expertly as a sock in a washing machine. No one knows where it goes, just as no one knows where she goes, but at least when she decides to come back, we’re all here, waiting for her.” – Cecelia Ahern

 

Breathing in and with each rasping dry inhale I’m missing you
It burns down to the hollow of my soul.
Memories they flood in, a confusing mix. I thought I missed just you,
but I miss the many that are a part of me.
Each having a part to play, each having a part in me,
each deserving of my attention.
What will I do with these feelings? I shouldn’t,
long after only you.
I should enjoy the many
that have become a part in my life.
How can I miss only you and leave out the others
who have a part to play?
I must move on, pay my respects, but in the end
I know you’re only a part.
There yet remains a whole to be built from my life,
a whole song, a whole book,
not just a verse, or a chapter.
In this moment, I’ll breath a painful breath that it may give me
a lesson from missing you. 

Also published in Lifeasahuman

Also published in Broowaha
First published in Opinionsofeye.com
02172012

 

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Levity –

“The certain prospect of death could sweeten every life with a precious and fragrant drop of levity.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche
angel-in-the-wind
Passing around hard thoughts,
Skipping through rough consequences
Rebuking the threats that abound
A break deserved brought about by
my sweet Levity.
The feasts are prepared,
a peaceful interlude is granted
smiles endure and the future ignored
an intermission paid in full by
my sweet Levity.
All memories are her ethereal songs,
Sweet lullabies sung before the never setting sun
Her persistent touch rocking the cradle
New life borne in light by
my sweet Levity.
First published in Opinionsofeye.com

Permutations

“The life of the dead is set in the memory of the living.” ― Cicero, Philippics
taliesyne
There’s something hidden, a suffocated wish tucked away in a forgotten cobwebbed corner. The gray green tints of death work their magic in transforming the wonder to a wasted sticky mess that’s never the same. A smell of the once alive, again persuades the living. We’re fatefully committed to the peer pressure of dead things and that without prejudice. A moment that died many years ago…it lives still, kept alive by the artificial respirator of my mind.  It then remains that the only way to kill it, is to kill me. Damn the longevity of dead dreams! Of dead love! May death release me from their vice, and if they were to live on, this will be the hell of the underworld.

Also published in Wingposse
02192014

Sheets

“The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.” – Rupert Brooke

nicholaspadula
We succumb to the softly falling sheets, gently settling, as a billow of laughter touches our skin lightly at first, then, holding us in cool delight. Little is known of the heat born as the neatly lying cotton cage begins to twist and flip while we twirl beneath it. We give birth in our playful gathering to memories, touches that last and excite through the night, the dawn, and the new day and days. There is where our happiness finds a purchase, in wrinkled sheets lying on the bed’s corner, falling on the floor, leaving us to cover our nakedness with a dozen pillows that allow our satiated skin, still wet with the practice of secret pleasure, to peek out in childish delight. 

Also published in Broowaha

The Hermit Chronicles: Hounds

 “In this world of memories, there’s no need for strangers.” – Watsuki Nobuhiro
  “What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined – 
to strengthen each other – to be at one with each other 
in silent unspeakable memories.” – George Eliot
g0dless-shrine

I hear their cries of excited pursuit as they push their noses high in the air, hoping to sail on the scent of people long gone, caught on the thistles along the paths. Memories, they are the hounds that play along my side as I travel, howling in the night when loneliness stalks me and creeps its way into my tarpaulin refuge. They quietly dig at the unseen footsteps of my past loves when my bottle is near empty and the flames of company have faded to only the dull warm glow of afterthought. I love it when, in the mottled light of sunrise breaking through my shelter of branches, my faithful hounds nudge me with the wet nose of many mornings past. Those mornings when waking to fish my dreams from life’s rivers flowing gently past, I found that elusive “granddaddy”, and pulled it from the muddied water with a rush of victory and pleasure. My camp is filled with many of those that got away. This where my humble abode now sits, along those paw marked muddy banks, that disappear in the fog of today, ghosts of Then floating through Now. I see your quirky look as you wonder at my friends. You have friends like me, though they complain you don’t spend enough time with them, your fires of denial burning bright enough to chase them far away. Relax here in the warmth, lets let our friends mingle, they know how to make smiles and frowns dance with youthful vigor, and just the watching of it will make us tired enough to pass into the night with sweet sleep.

 

The Becoming

“Look at the sky. Does its sapphire hue dim when you take a single breath? Are the stars drawn closer when you weep? The sky cannot be diminished so. Thus it is with the spirit: it is a thing without beginning or end.” – Elaine Cunningham, Realms of the Arcane 
Dennis Auburn Miles

With dark magic you break into the caverns of my memories. A vaporous arcane finger begins its assault on my sequestered passions and in an absolution of experience, all visions of women begin to morph into beauties reflecting you. I labor with the change, and find my smile is a close companion in willing submission to your spell. How is my power taken so quickly in our interludes? I blame it on the slipping years, their subtle grip slowing my resistance, and with gradual persistence, opening my world to your reaching grasp. A knowing glance chases my hesitations, and with prowess you pursue my remaining enclaves. You and I now, become we.

The Trail – Memories

“He was still too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the 
burden of the past.” 
 

Blown by the breeze of your passing
Branches sweep the evidence of you away
Spinning dirty tornadic wisps bare false witness
Evidence of our union, gone down a dusty way

I wander past the forks of choices gone wrong
Seeing pieces of your love hanging on the thorns
Finding you though you hide among shapeless brush
Setting my heart to the trail, I am endlessly torn