BEAUTIFUL

On the horizon of love,
I searched the crashing waves for the sound of you.
Growing together, apart,
I kept your love alive here, deep in my heart,
Wishing for your smile,
Knowing all the while,
The place you hold in my life.

A lonely lifetime limped by,
Until your auburn glow transformed my sky.
The loving sunrise you gave
Started my pulse again with each passing day,
Easing saddened fears
When you re-appeared
To share this life that we once knew, making you…

Beautiful.
That’s what you are to me.
Beautiful.
I wish that you would see,
You’re my shining star,
And we’ve both come so far,
to be standing here, hand-in-hand.

Magical.
The way you make me feel.
Wonderful.
To know this love is real.
When I take your hand,
That’s when I understand,
How beautiful you truly are, in my eyes you’re beautiful.

Warmed by the turn of your heart,
I kiss your passioned lips, and my heart re-starts.
With all the good things in you,
In this beholder’s eyes, your beauty shines through.
Grace me with your charms,
Come back to my arms,
And welcome me back to your soul, back to your heart.

Now it doesn’t seem the girl of my dreams ever left me.
And it didn’t feel that this whole ordeal would revive.
But we held onto the love that fueled our hearts for years,
Making us, feel alive.

Beautiful.
This love we’ve come to share.
Beautiful,
I’m glad I found you there.
Despite time and space,
We’ve resumed our place
And it’s beautiful,
Being back in your arms.

Magical.
The spell you cast strikes true.
Wonderful.
I’m here beholding you.
No illusion, I can see,
you will always be
So beautiful,
you remain so Beautiful in my life.

IN THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG

The wind blows cold
and whips the frosted breath
across my frozen cheeks.
I stand abreast my steel railed chariot

beneath the Northern Lights,
I listen to the sound of the
antlered behemoths pounding
a rhythm that drives my determination.

Midnight.
My trek begins,
rising to heights that until now were
unreachable. Unfathomable.

The wind no longer burns my face.
It soothes and comforts and fills my heart
with this love I have known my entire life.
With each bound I leave the desire

of all below. Rapid as night
my chore is ventured.
From village to town to city.
Each stop is a step closer

to my final destination.
For deep in the bottom of my bag
is a wisp of a frozen sigh.
It bears the name of you.

I slide down with my treasure in hand,
tip-toeing across the floor
to the side of your bed.
I warm the wisp with

the hotness of my breath.
I place it on your forehead.
The warmth of a breath,
a wisp of a sigh.

A kiss from a love so true
brought to you on this Christmas.
I am filled with the joy of the season.
My bag is empty, my journey is done.

I am Santa Claus.

HARD BOILED

I give you the egg.
We are told of it’s
incredible edibility!
The infinite futility
of which came first.
Or if it even came at all.
Elliptical ovum of
symmetric simplicity,
I can’t for the life of me
tell you apart.
Each dozen, all the same,
so, here is the game:
Take a carton of eggs,
and hard boil a few.
Back in the crate,
they still appears “new”,
but their difference is
truly like night and splat!
The truest representation
of our humanity:
good or bad,
we are all “eggs”.
Some pristine and near perfect,
some slightly cracked,
some shells split badly,
these lose it all together.
And some are just raw
and uncooked, ready to be
made into any heart’s desire.
Be it scrambled, over-easy,
omelet or sunny-side up,
soufflé or fritata,
or soft or hard boiled,
its versatility and possibility
is endless and of legend.

Raise your eggcup to the egg!

And now, a toast to bread…

THE POET

There in silence, he sits.
This solitary soul searching
the scenes around him for a glimpse,
a fragmented fractal, on which to
pose his imperfect pondering.
On the surface, a catatonic
cad, aloof and disinterested,
unaffected by life’s happenstance.
But below the layers of sinew
and fiber, there is a spark.
A speck of a spark in which
all the answers of life dwell.
It flits and dances in his soul,
it infects his longing heart,
it leaps boundlessly to his vacuous
cranium, this arena of thought,
where it has room to roam.
Bouncing from synapse to
neuron and back,
expanding disproportionately
to the importance it assumes
but oh, the wonder it beholds.
Inside this infantile ember
there exists an avalanche
of ideas that simmer for the moment,
and have smoldered for all
of his lifetime.
Romantic ruminations of a
love lost or a soulmate found,
ridiculous rhymes of a playful tone,
tactile meandering of a verbal nature,
all abiding in his treasure chest of intellect.
He shifts in his seat, our
spellbound simpleton, this
multi-syllabic snake charmer,
as a tendril of thought comes
a bit too close to that glowing
epicenter of expression. They merge,
taking on a life all its own
to flail unencumbered, this
cerebral conflagration
burning brightly.
Extracting a pen, he jots three words
on the back of his left hand,
an apparent reminder of whatever
bit of brilliance just entered his mind.
Gathering together his scraps of paper,
and his pieces of the puzzle he is crafting,
this omni-present observer strolls
three benches down to take a
new vantage point to view this vignette
called life. And glancing at his
left-handed, self-made tattoo
he reads the words he had written.
It states quite simply,
“I’m a poet”.
Rather satisfied with his station
in this complex world, he writes
with a singular hope to touch
yet another soul.

IN THE MORNING MIST

You stand alone in the morning mist
with just the sound of
the world awakening all around you.
Peacefulness is all you feel
in the dewy pall of night’s bedtime.
The air is still and currently, so are you as well.
Your eyes are closed and you breathe in,
the humid morning filling your lungs
just as she has filled your heart.
Thoughts are clear and are full
of the wonder that nature has displayed before you,
and fate has placed in your heart and hands.
You think of her and her place in your life.
Of how empty it had become before her arrival,
of how she has done a service of love to your soul.
She has delivered to you in a special way,
a love of a pure and saving nature, a lifeline
from your island to her shore.
You have tied it around your waist
and you clutch it dearly, allowing her
to pull you to her loving safety,
to pull you into her, where you
belong and always have.
Her eyes are like beacons,
burning through the morning mist
and bringing her sunshine to warm your soul.
You breathe in this morning mist
which holds the savor of her
and you devour her nourishment,
satisfying and sustaining you.
You are alive with the sense of all that she is.
You listen for the sound of her,
a euphonic sound as simply complex
as the beat of her heart within your own chest.
The dawn appears to escort these mists of morning
away to a place where they may take their rest
and prepare them to return to you every morning.
For they are her.
They surround you, as she surrounds you.
They soothe you, as she does.
They are present, much as she is ever present within you.
You awake from dreams to the morning mist,
not knowing where one ends and the other begins,
not knowing where your love for her ends and where hers
for you begins as well.
They become one and that is all that matters.
Being with her is being alive.
Loving her is being loved.

HOMING PIGEON: DOVE OF LOVE

Long ago, I held you
in my hands like a beautiful bird,
afraid to loosen my grip
for fear you would fly away.
One day, I did let you go
and fly you did. But,
amazingly, you returned to my hands.
I hold you loosely now,
like the beautiful bird you remain to be.
And you have decided to stay.
If you love something, set it free…

RIVER, CURRENTS AND STREAMS

Love flows.
It flows like a river.
Raging rapids of romance
from me to you.
I cast my raft on your waters
and you take me to a place
that I have held you in my dreams
for all my life.
Your surface is placid
and I drift effortlessly from bank to bank.
But your movement below is frantic.

Love flows.
It flows in currents.
Churning, changing;
charging and caressing.
I feel your undertow pull me
in a spastic dance toward
everything we once held dear
and finds us holding again.
Your waters are therapeutic
and I escape within your smile,
letting you take me further upstream.

Love flows.
It flows like a stream.
A steady float within your heart;
a brisk swim against the flow.
The resistance gives way to an open embrace.
And I hold you ever so close
as the water washes like waves
over our oneness.
And love flows
from me to you and back again.
As it has for all our days.

Love flows.
It flows like a love unrestricted.
Unconditional and unrelenting;
blooming and growing ebbs and tides.
Flowing like a river,
a current,
a stream.
Filling my very soul with your “water”.
Quenching this thirst for you
and leaving me wanting more.

Love flows.

THUNDER AND LIGHTNING

Rambling, rumbling, rattling,
Rocking and rolling,
Flashing, blinking strobes of electricity
Illuminate my mind with blinding brilliance.
Oh, I didn’t notice the surge of late spring rain.
I was just sitting here thinking of you.

The lightning is your internal sunshine.
The thunder is the roar of your heartbeat.

You really shake it, don’t you?

OASIS

An eerie and desolate wind
whipped and whirled,
devilishly bitter; to bite,
stab and sting
the reddened flesh
of my worn and frozen face.
Winter’s wrath; a season scorned,
making up for time lost.

I stood there on that deserted snow drift
and I squinted and searched for a refuge
most kind and loving.
My breath was squeezed from my lungs
And let anxiety wreak havoc
with my panicked mind.
I ‘thirsted’ for the quenching taste
of a potion to warm me from within,
a sanctuary from that ravaged storm.

On my horizon you stood
to shine your beacon and guide me
to a safe and protected place.
A haven for my weary soul to rest
and take nourishment in the taste
of a warm and loving kiss.
The arid “sands” of that arctic desert
disguised as winter’s wonderland,
beat against my leathered skin
to blind my eyes with their frozen needles.

I had nothing to lose, so I shielded my face
from the buffets of those crystallized darts,
and moved toward the oasis that was your heart.
You never waited for me to reach you,
you always rushed to me, arms opened
to draw me into your fiery embrace.
Your weak and fragile arms wrapped around me
and sheltered me from the cold, to share
your body heat and melt
my glacial façade. You uncovered a smile,
the facial manifestation of my jubilant heart.

You gathered me into your bosom and consumed me
with the pulse that we had shared
for more than thirty years.
A sultry and compassionate shelter;
a fortress of a stirring, dedicated devotion,
my sanctum, my port in that storm, my asylum.
My heart had recharged and my flesh
melted from your solicitous caresses.
I sought you out in life’s wintry torrent
to have you become my harbor of tranquility
and chamber of vitality.

Your memory remains an oasis in this desert of my frozen soul.

A PARENT APPARITION

shadowy silhouette,
darkened gloom,
ember glow moving
across his former room.
wakes me from my
sound sleep,
the smell of his
cigar smoke, hanging
my grandfather returns.

PRATFALL

I step out my door and slap my head,
I thought, “I should have stayed in bed!”
The wind was whipping strong and hard
and blew the trashcans from my yard.

I didn’t think; I did not talk,
I just proceeded on my walk.
Heading into the thrashing breeze
blowing up my nose, it made me sneeze.

The air so crisp, it stole my breath,
I thought that I would gasp to death.
My gait was rhythmic, brisk and haughty,
“strutting my stuff” like I was naughty.

I tried to keep my head together
as I proceeded in this weather.
Crossing streets and dodging cars
this morning underneath the stars.

The rapid clouds had filled the skies
and hid this “stargaze” from my eyes.
All-in-all, my stroll was quick
until I caught that patch, so slick.

My left foot felt the need to slide.
My other followed right in stride.
My arms went flailing; my arms were flapping,
at six A.M., my senses napping.

I failed to find my sense of balance,
and the wind continued with assistance.
This blast of spring had caught my tail
and used me like a para-sail.

This lousy weather mocked ol’ Wal
with roars of laughter as I fall.
I hit the ground, (I bumped my knee)
when suddenly it occurred to me,

I thought as I sat there in a mound,
When a Walt falls, does he make a sound?
You bet your lovely posterior he does!
It goes, “(%#@*&#!”

Whatever the word was that I yelled,
I’m fairly sure that’s how it’s spelled.
I got back up and rubbed my head,
And got myself back home to bed.

SHADOWBOX

Hidden inside, a soul.
Kept at a distance,
from all sources
of warmth and love.
Darkness floods
every corner of my world,
in this little shadowbox
of my life. My creations
are starved for
the light of day.
Grasping, groping,
reaching for a lifeline
Hoping for an escape from
this dungeon of my heart.
Rattling my tin cup against
these iron bars of despair.

Standing outside,
a wonderful soul.
Closing the distance
between me
And all sources of
her warmth and love.
Brilliant beacon
Flooding every corner
of my being,
This little shadowbox
of my life. Coaxing
my creations into the
morning sunrise.
Soothing, stroking,
caressing my muse
Hoping for an escape into
the hearth of her burning desire.
Melting my frozen passion
with her presence.

Side-by-side,
two loving souls.
Sharing the moment;
basking in the glow
of our combined brilliance
of loving support. Intensity
Flooding our
soulful kisses
In this little shadowbox
of our life. Our caresses
on private display,
viewed by only us.
Uninhibited embraces
of daydreams of longing
Happy in the re-discovery
of a lifelong romance.
Shining with the blinding
radiance of our intimacy.

TRAILBLAZING TIME

Time was lost.
Leaves blew off
from their branches
and were trampled underfoot.
The wistful wind rose to the occasion,
opening airways of emptiness, and chilling
friendless bodies of sparkling water.
Sneaking short slurps of the silent stream,
he lifted his head and noticed a moss growing
on the north side of nowhere.
Having reached for the lowest branch
of the nearest tree, he grimaced.
Noticing a familiar face, he groped.
Tired and beaten were its' features, he noticed.
The sense of his past was potent.
And he found his lost time under a rock.

A STATE OF BEING

Life.
The passing of time in ages.
We undergo changes, we pass through stages
staying one step ahead of the reaper.

Happiness.
A wonderful feeling, a lingering joy,
a growing relation, girl loving boy.
Meaning different things to different people.

Pain.
Cutting indifferently, causing great hurt.
Leaving a scar, feeling like dirt.
Getting condolence from those you love.

Love.
A feeling of loyalty, grown inproportionate,
sincerity, honesty, faithful, compassionate.
Key to life, making everything right.

Irrelevance.
Having nothing to do with the others above.
Not meaning happiness, life, pain nor love.
Breaking monotony without great importance.

Indifference.
People unfeeling, not against nor for.
Apathy growing much more than before.
Being unique, without taking sides.

Peace.
No more to fight about, no one to kill,
stairway to heaven, everything still.
Getting lost in the glow of the sunset.

Seriousness.
Nothing to laugh about, straightforward and stern,
Being a heavy, much more to learn.
Taking the time to hash out your problems.

Silence.
Color me golden, not much to say,
Quietly shouting in its' own special way.
Everything's fine until words are spoken.

A CLEAN SWEEP, UNEXPECTEDLY

That noise. It has stayed with me

For as long as I’ve been sucking oxygen.
It’s like the sound of a fiberglass fishing pole

whipping the air in rapid succession.
No. It’s more like the sound a rubber hose makes
when you twirl it overhead. Helicopter blades slicing

the atmosphere? That noise. The memory of that day
is tattooed on my gray matter. ‘Think ink’.
Me. A thirteen year-old punk, a pisspot.
My acne-pocked, “Pizza-with-the-works”

pre-pubescent self-portrait. Attitude running rampant
and in search for an outlet for pent up male aggression.
Enter my big mouth. My mother, God Bless her,
had her hands full with a half-dozen kids
and my father, sometimes passionate, most times

inebriated. Sometimes a funny drunk. Most times
Not. And me (see description above) looking for my place.
Aimless, self-guided and a batch of stupid ideas
in my ever inquisitive psyche. That day. That noise.
Set the scene.
Sunny, summer, Saturday afternoon.

Dad, soberly sitting at the kitchen table.
Sports page spread, cigarette –
his unlit and dangling oral fixation.
Mom, the housework Houdini, hands
submersed in suds, her sincere
supplication to a snippy, spoiled brat son.
It all hinged on that simple request. “Can you take out the trash?”

I don’t know what prompted my edgy (read ignorant) reply.
But the words fought each other to be the first ones across my lips.
“I don’t feel like it. Why don’t you take it out?” Silence. Jaw dropping silence.
I looked over to my father thinking, “Look at the man you raised.
A chip off the old shot glass.” But two words were all that emerged
from my cavernous cavity. “Oh Shit!” Strike two.

He extricated the cigarette from his pucker. He folded his newspaper.
By the time his palms hit the table to push himself erect,
I had bolted out the screen door. I ran as fast as my
wiry Wally wheels could carry me. There was a second slam of the screen.
Then it came. That noise.
That fiberglass fishing pole, that rubber hose,
low flying helicopter. It came faster and louder

than my fumbling flat feet could carry me.
I found myself cast in a Peckinpah movie.
In slow-motion I went down, felled like a sequoia.
Face first and tumbling like a handicapped hedgehog.
My father, not one to waste unnecessary movement,
only got three steps outside the door. He reached

for the broom that had previously leaned lazily
against the clapboard. He deftly flung the aluminum
projectile like an anodized boomerang.
As it followed its circuitous path it cut the air,
like a fishing pole. Rubber hose. Helicopter, catching me

perfectly at the back of my neck. Lights out. Down for the count.
I lay there stunned as my father slowly approached.
He stood over my prone body pointing a reprimanding finger at me.
“Don’t ever let me hear you sass back to your mother again!”

Then broom in hand, he turned and headed back to the house.
Stopping abruptly, he made a sweeping motion in the air.
“A clean sweep” he laughed. From that moment I made it a point

to mind my verbiage around my mother. And in case
I had a lapse of memory, I hid the broom.

And I still hear that noise.

PORN LESSONS 101

As a hormonally charged
fifteen year old boy,
my cousin Gerry told me
you can find your porn star name
by taking the name of your first pet
and combining it with the name
of the street on which you grew up.
We had a Miniature Poodle named Dinky
that lived with us in our
house on Wood Street.
Not-so-unexpectedly, I stayed in school
and cracked the books.
I had a bright future ahead of me...
fully clothed.

...and so it begins!

Yeah, so I've started my own blog. Does this make me narcissistic, thinking others care about what makes me tick? I'm not sure, but it just sort of feels right, you know? I have to set my profile and figure out a direction for this, but if you visit, don't worry about taking off your shoes at the door. Just get comfortable and make yourself at home.