Open Doors
Open Hands
Open Hearts
Open Days
I consider Our Future
I reflect on Our Love
I remember Our Struggle
I praise Our Progress
For now, the flutters and fears and frustrations have no hold,
And I am only Eager, for You
and Eager, for Me
and Excited for Us
For the new Way of Living
For the better way of Loving
For the reward of Lasting
Let Us begin, then,
Our Life
Husband and Wife.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Here it Comes Again
A day's work, done and proud
something to show
shower, shave and rest.
Midnight, You are sleeping
and sudden pangs course through me,
oh no, not now...but
yes,
a trip down the ladder,
flip on the bathroom light,
pale-moon face shines back through sweat,
lean over porcelain,
and let it pass through; maybe,
maybe it's just this one, maybe,
if I just go back to bed, maybe
it will pass over me quickly.
Go back up,
check the blood, and too much
too much, so dose, and sleep...
1am, and You are sleeping,
and I wake again to fluttered motions
in my chest and stomach and throat,
a whole hour?
That might be a good sign, hang
in there, kitten;
back down and up,
rinse and spit, get the pills and check
that blood again, too high still.
Dose and sleep, until,
1:30, no, no,
only thirty minutes?
That's not good, but
down and up again, this time,
more medicine, to go up and in, but
it's too late, I think, and it is, and
why, why, can't I just sleep it away?
2:15, 2:37, 3:11, this isn't going to work, so
one last chance, next trip I'll get up and go, but
oh, the ordeal of it all, all over
again, and again and again,
You called it Chronicity,
I call it anguish, prolonged torment,
suffering for which I know not.
Finally, sometime around 5,
I know I cannot wait any longer
and I must go, and
what must I tell You, other than
it is time.
And all around me, the early morning is quiet,
and I fade away and out of the world, to ride
ride along, and stumble through sliding glass doors,
and, mercy on me, this time no drunks, or druggies or babies with burns,
just me and my green bucket asking for help;
a temperature, a weigh in, my name and date of birth,
and I'm wheeled away, into the inner corridors
of the Emergency maze,
and
by now, I'm hardly here at all.
something to show
shower, shave and rest.
Midnight, You are sleeping
and sudden pangs course through me,
oh no, not now...but
yes,
a trip down the ladder,
flip on the bathroom light,
pale-moon face shines back through sweat,
lean over porcelain,
and let it pass through; maybe,
maybe it's just this one, maybe,
if I just go back to bed, maybe
it will pass over me quickly.
Go back up,
check the blood, and too much
too much, so dose, and sleep...
1am, and You are sleeping,
and I wake again to fluttered motions
in my chest and stomach and throat,
a whole hour?
That might be a good sign, hang
in there, kitten;
back down and up,
rinse and spit, get the pills and check
that blood again, too high still.
Dose and sleep, until,
1:30, no, no,
only thirty minutes?
That's not good, but
down and up again, this time,
more medicine, to go up and in, but
it's too late, I think, and it is, and
why, why, can't I just sleep it away?
2:15, 2:37, 3:11, this isn't going to work, so
one last chance, next trip I'll get up and go, but
oh, the ordeal of it all, all over
again, and again and again,
You called it Chronicity,
I call it anguish, prolonged torment,
suffering for which I know not.
Finally, sometime around 5,
I know I cannot wait any longer
and I must go, and
what must I tell You, other than
it is time.
And all around me, the early morning is quiet,
and I fade away and out of the world, to ride
ride along, and stumble through sliding glass doors,
and, mercy on me, this time no drunks, or druggies or babies with burns,
just me and my green bucket asking for help;
a temperature, a weigh in, my name and date of birth,
and I'm wheeled away, into the inner corridors
of the Emergency maze,
and
by now, I'm hardly here at all.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Sensuous
A dozen things try to distract me as I walk in trying to remember, those words once more:
Imagine, feel,
Foreign Object
smooth, velvet, underneath
firm, shapely
invites finger play, a touch
ten tickles, and pearls
flimsy silken strands
hide, small gathered
pucker, inside, purple
pocketed,
one way to play at language.
Imagine, feel,
Foreign Object
smooth, velvet, underneath
firm, shapely
invites finger play, a touch
ten tickles, and pearls
flimsy silken strands
hide, small gathered
pucker, inside, purple
pocketed,
one way to play at language.
Freedom is a constant struggle
All I ever wanted was a song, a poem, a dance.
I read all the words being exchanged, and remember when it was I, and You , and we; but I'm tired, so tired—and so goddess-forsaken slow— and need replenishment, enhancement, excitement, support. I gave You my submission for so long—waiting to hear Master's call, waiting to feel the tug and pull of His desire, for the snap and snug, for the whisper of skin and the tremor of flesh—but along the way, it did not amount. I'm busy, so busy, and yet feel that all is a waste, that accomplishment is beyond my grasp. I need such enrichment, yet feel my mind is as a hardscrabble field, and everywhere around me everyone seems to be moving and growing and knowing, filling with water, spilling passion everywhere, yet there is none that I can catch. Forsaken, for asking:
Where is my Master?
To Whom may my submission granted?
Where is my Soul?
Where is my Song?
Where is my Dance?
Where is my You?
You give the frustrated brow, and and the general sweep of the hand, "it's all there, for anyone to read." And I have read, and who can I trust to sort it out, when neither You nor I know where the Truth lies hidden. Layers upon layers have I borne, and now am buried, and feel asked to throw the weight off and and spin it into a golden Understanding. My silence was my defense, and a poor one at that. It has ruined me. And now, when it is so vital to speak, to sing, I find there is no Voice but the one that cries out...There is no voice now, my tongue slips and slides in a mysterious way, and I wish, more than ever, to seal my mouth, only to speak quietly with lips.
Desire, it is You. Drawing near, I feel You pulsing in me, and yes, it is like a drug, first soothing the ache, then increasing the want, exciting the blood, spreading open the wings to fly, fly, fly...
And I must keep telling myself, do not waste the opportunity, do not be so timid. I was never so bold as I was with You. Until I became Overwhelmed by You. You have seen where I come from. I was not prepared for the onslaught of Genius and Madness. Am I "the one who comes before"? Who does it badly, until another comes along and simplifies, makes art of what have struggled with for so long? But, You will say,I am being my old self, holding on to the right information in the wrong way. But, sometimes, I don't feel Real. I think it is because I cannot remember so much of my Story. I am not who I want to be, and I don't yet believe I can be. Who is my author? Is it me? Is it She? Is it He? I don't know what I believe, and that makes it very, very hard to say anything, and so I am outpaced, outdone, outshined, out. And if I do rewrite, edit, go off-script, who or what am I defying? Me, or It?How do I even know that I am living out my own choice, and not that pre-scribed for me? Loose, or bound? And will what I have lived through make be better, stronger, wiser?
"It's not the genes that make a person, but a long, rich history of collisions, choices, audacity, courage and cowardice." All of these I have, what use are they now? Which is the illusion, and where is the magic? Is there anything that can, should, be held onto?
"There's kudzu creeping across the Southeast, occupying environments with its singular purpose, killing off everything not itself. There's privet attacking the other parts, choking out life very fast and disrupting the food chains extremely fast by geographic standards. The two of them flood wild those places wherever humans have just given up. Wherever you see litter, you will see these two here in the South. Wherever you see all three, you are looking at a land screaming for its freedom from despair and depression." This is me. Feeling low. Wanting to be lifted, as a child, swung about in joy, and affection, and a care for the tending of the good earth that lies beneath a fallow field.
I read all the words being exchanged, and remember when it was I, and You , and we; but I'm tired, so tired—and so goddess-forsaken slow— and need replenishment, enhancement, excitement, support. I gave You my submission for so long—waiting to hear Master's call, waiting to feel the tug and pull of His desire, for the snap and snug, for the whisper of skin and the tremor of flesh—but along the way, it did not amount. I'm busy, so busy, and yet feel that all is a waste, that accomplishment is beyond my grasp. I need such enrichment, yet feel my mind is as a hardscrabble field, and everywhere around me everyone seems to be moving and growing and knowing, filling with water, spilling passion everywhere, yet there is none that I can catch. Forsaken, for asking:
Where is my Master?
To Whom may my submission granted?
Where is my Soul?
Where is my Song?
Where is my Dance?
Where is my You?
You give the frustrated brow, and and the general sweep of the hand, "it's all there, for anyone to read." And I have read, and who can I trust to sort it out, when neither You nor I know where the Truth lies hidden. Layers upon layers have I borne, and now am buried, and feel asked to throw the weight off and and spin it into a golden Understanding. My silence was my defense, and a poor one at that. It has ruined me. And now, when it is so vital to speak, to sing, I find there is no Voice but the one that cries out...There is no voice now, my tongue slips and slides in a mysterious way, and I wish, more than ever, to seal my mouth, only to speak quietly with lips.
Desire, it is You. Drawing near, I feel You pulsing in me, and yes, it is like a drug, first soothing the ache, then increasing the want, exciting the blood, spreading open the wings to fly, fly, fly...
And I must keep telling myself, do not waste the opportunity, do not be so timid. I was never so bold as I was with You. Until I became Overwhelmed by You. You have seen where I come from. I was not prepared for the onslaught of Genius and Madness. Am I "the one who comes before"? Who does it badly, until another comes along and simplifies, makes art of what have struggled with for so long? But, You will say,I am being my old self, holding on to the right information in the wrong way. But, sometimes, I don't feel Real. I think it is because I cannot remember so much of my Story. I am not who I want to be, and I don't yet believe I can be. Who is my author? Is it me? Is it She? Is it He? I don't know what I believe, and that makes it very, very hard to say anything, and so I am outpaced, outdone, outshined, out. And if I do rewrite, edit, go off-script, who or what am I defying? Me, or It?How do I even know that I am living out my own choice, and not that pre-scribed for me? Loose, or bound? And will what I have lived through make be better, stronger, wiser?
"It's not the genes that make a person, but a long, rich history of collisions, choices, audacity, courage and cowardice." All of these I have, what use are they now? Which is the illusion, and where is the magic? Is there anything that can, should, be held onto?
"There's kudzu creeping across the Southeast, occupying environments with its singular purpose, killing off everything not itself. There's privet attacking the other parts, choking out life very fast and disrupting the food chains extremely fast by geographic standards. The two of them flood wild those places wherever humans have just given up. Wherever you see litter, you will see these two here in the South. Wherever you see all three, you are looking at a land screaming for its freedom from despair and depression." This is me. Feeling low. Wanting to be lifted, as a child, swung about in joy, and affection, and a care for the tending of the good earth that lies beneath a fallow field.
Monday, September 12, 2016
His Words
I wear my green shirt today.
I put it on and turn around, and there lay
a sleeping thing, like little bean
toes on paws: a cuteness quietly
curled beneath furled sheet,
drassled hair, stuffed menagerie too
My lips on her temple, adoration for this sight;
she murrs and purrs, unseeing she leans to
me, me she seizes from beneath sheets
peek-a-boo kitten playing
peek-a-boo joys staying
she's just a girl like this
a girl whose tail is furred
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Moja droga, ja cię kocham
You keep telling me how bad it is. It's like being in that "toilet bowl" water-slide—the one we went to in February, where we had such a good time, but things were already strained, me being cautious and restrained and insecure, you being attractive and attracted, riding a high not-quite-faded both of us wanting more and more and more—only without lights or handles and I've nearly been thrown out more than once, to bump and brace against walls slick and unforgiving, sluicing and spiraling down to an unknown end.
But then, for a moment, the light in Your eyes will change, and You will say You need me, to be brave and bear all, even braver to bare all, and this is what I desire, too. To stand proud and unashamed, wanted and wanting, both of us worshipping through the other, feasting and feeding and feeling united with the outer other inner lover, making magic together. That is what I miss, the hard-won belief, that I was magical, too, that all my life, it was in there, thrumming just below, wanting only the right catalyst to send forth the surge, in ecstasy, rapture, exaltation in life itself, in love at last, flying astride, higher than any pill, powder or potion can imitate.
So, I find myself , yes, wistful, and wantful, and aching to make love to You, through You, to me, to delight in the scents and sounds we craft from one another. To say to You, and even more to myself: Moya droga, ja cie kocham. Listen
But then, for a moment, the light in Your eyes will change, and You will say You need me, to be brave and bear all, even braver to bare all, and this is what I desire, too. To stand proud and unashamed, wanted and wanting, both of us worshipping through the other, feasting and feeding and feeling united with the outer other inner lover, making magic together. That is what I miss, the hard-won belief, that I was magical, too, that all my life, it was in there, thrumming just below, wanting only the right catalyst to send forth the surge, in ecstasy, rapture, exaltation in life itself, in love at last, flying astride, higher than any pill, powder or potion can imitate.
So, I find myself , yes, wistful, and wantful, and aching to make love to You, through You, to me, to delight in the scents and sounds we craft from one another. To say to You, and even more to myself: Moya droga, ja cie kocham. Listen
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