I Have Never Left You

The sift and scuttle of the dry leaf upon the cobblestone – I am the lift and cold, cold wind the blows.
I am the emptiness that echoes in the sigh of yet another dark night.
I am the impossible distance North and the closeness of hope.
I am the power you feel in a moment and the anger in the grasp of yet another vapor.
I am the fear you feel in the possibility that I stand just behind you.
I am the joy at last at the orange and cinnamon sunset.
Nothing certain
Nothing solid
Only the certainty that I have never left you

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Grand Madness

Hunt the temptation of normal,

the pure in desirable, search the heart with touch while in trust.

The rain was so thick, pelting down icy upon us.

No distinction, no boundary, defined us in the downpour;

our very clothing hung and blurred in the cold wet rain.

His hand raised and hesitant

His fingertips bright, white-hot in the freeze we found ourselves.

His mouth marble and smooth.

Two planes of sheer we were


smooth ice, sliding one upon another,

A friction of heat that demands instant freeze into oneness.

Cotton peels like tissue, sodden blooming easily into skin;

fresh into the open air of spring.

Shudder into me and rest – he does this upon the space of drying.

Things and the world change to grand madness

again and again.

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Locked Away

Touch not the space that surely must procure a sensation but does not.  His hand cannot convey sensation for he attempts to touch a reflection procured from behind a mirror.  A likeness of her but with no regret except that she knows her features not prefect enough.

Touch not the smoothness of her skin and the silky place upon her wrist, where the pulse once quickened and the icy want of expectation curled her fingers over his.  Touch not, no search within the full light of day

to note discoloration.

She walks the stone passage up and down and wrings her hands.  Her gown, raven black and upon her head a diadem of broken and torn satin diamonds. What breaks the unbreakable?

Each facet a reflection of his heart that puzzles and rejects her tears and tires of her fears of each perceived flaw.

Young Nathaniel wrote of the dilemma and morally corrected our desire for pristine beauty.

The young, brilliant hero was successful for a moment as breath left his bride one last time and then the horror of decay upon success.

Her gown drags upon the stone floor and she walks the spiral tower until dawn, dark eyed and dreadful, her hair silver and long – her lover does nothing but sits upon his throne

And longs for days of autumn among the hunt and hound and her continually locked away. 

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Nothing much happens between now  and just right over there.  Okay, yes, you see, I just don’t know what to say to you.

The kids, you see, and the fact that my life is just almost perfect.  Perfect.

Listen, just listen.

Do you hear the fiber pull through to the spindle and do you feel the slide of the thread between my lanolin fingers.

I wish you were here when the wheel is knobby and my shoulders hunched in work and concentration; when the middle of my back feels a sort of burn.

Then, yes then, the heat of your breath upon my skin, right there, and there and there

And the pity you may feel for the knot of all my muscles but in your heart you’re glad I do what I do -

As I moan through each agonizing and gentle push and pull of your hands.

I’d move aside the books on my bed and my favorite teddy bear, Blue, would sleep on the chair.

But how does that fit in with everything else?

When life is almost perfect, almost.

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Dance For Me

A turbid small puddle of whatever, mirrors the dim lights of centuries ago – no, no perhaps just a block or two away the lights

but time is more distant than the miles we count.

Leave be the mud of place and cleanse yourself with the ideas of where your mind has taken you.

I’m left here to contemplate the depthlessness of this place for centuries from now to read about.

I hear you dance about me upon the grimy cobble stones.  Who do you hold within your arms and how does she keep the hem of her dress pristine?

I scribble away upon this wooden box, a quill and an endless supply of ink.

I begged for the writing box on a birthday of many years ago, and I’ve followed you about sketching out your life of beauty and gentle love with so many.

How is it you haunt me?

How is it that I cannot push you away?

I want nothing, nothing from you and yet if I could I would ask you to stay.

Dance for me.

Dance for me.

Take her slender body in your arms and gently lead to music that I can only imagine, in a room of marble and admiration. In the end my envy and depravity will exhaust my efforts and I will sell my foolscap upon the corners.

A word picture of you in the lush white of winter immortalizing, in physical beauty, the lies of the age.

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Not From Her

Tall and gaunt his eyes the color of topaz and his hair iron, deep iron gray. She felt that perhaps she could have fit within the palm of his large, knobby hand.

What becomes of a girl who can do nothing but stare and he turns away in despair?

No fair voice or talented paint brush softens the reality of his lumbering walks and clumsy elbows that brush the flowers into yellow dust.

His weeping is hidden within cinderblock rooms where he hides so as not to frighten away their play upon the soft lawn he prepares for their rest.

She alone peeps into the room and listens to the rumbles there. His hearing is acute and he waits for her whispered barbed words to hit him there.

None come, not from her.

Years of play, the iron gray hair faints to white and wild and his lumbering frame leans out the shadows of the moon – his wounds still fresh but she sooths.

She dances upon bare black branches of winter trees and sings of things he cannot see. She hides within his hands and glimmers golden in the light of his golden topaz eyes.

Both hide in their delight.

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They Can Fall

She sits by the fire and threatens to sit within if he comes any closer.

Fear freezes the air like a January frost

He smiles.

He is always afraid and so weary, like a knight errant.

He has come for her.

The tower is smooth and polished but the fire such a comfort

Even from his distance.

She is combing her hair and singing a lullaby to the tiles of stories

Her father had placed upon the walls, the mantle and upon the floor.

Stories to keep her comfortable and well warned against knights

Bent on rescue.

In the dark night he strips to nothing and opens his arms out to the moon.

She glistens him silver and he sings to her so that the woman

In the fire lit room attends him.

His form his beautiful and she watches him leap upon the stones

Above the cold clear water of the stream.

Calling from her warmth she entreats him – come warm himself

By her fire

And listen to the tiles tell stories and braid her hair so that their

Shadows entwine upon the wall –

The fire and freeze can battle, they can fall.

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Stop Trying

The numb has no name and insists on remaining anonymous. When she reaches out the gesture is ignored or disdained and the colors of the world go from faint to monochrome in a moment.

She whispers to the rain drops upon the window that they are most certainly beautiful and in reality the scope and breadth of the earth has no pull; breaks no hearts, except hers.

How could it with all the people there?

She dresses in solid colors and paisley scarves that she may hide behind when the drenching starts and she has no defense from the words that pound upon the side walk.

The cold trickle down her neck and the tightness in her throat when she makes the bus is from running and stammering, “I tried and have tried and nothing works.”

Stop trying for we all doubt each other’s heart. We all suspect ulterior motives.  Stop trying with hand palm out, the slender wrist exposed to the nailing.

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Leave Your Anger

angry is a color, a deep crimson red.  the flight of the cardinal, the frenzy of a lover.

have you ever noticed the dip and sway of my home? 

the ground, sodden and drained and filled and green.  In the winter, white that no sculptor could dream.

I beckon the red tail and I coo to the white tail and I speak softly to you

but you do not listen.

angry is a color deep angry black

in the west where the wind comes and the hurricane tops the trees I shelter in the wide

open spaces and think of you.

Come to me. Leave your anger. 

What changes the past and who sees the cardinal’s flight through? 

He is impassioned, the greatest of lovers

he woos her to the soft branches of ever green, her brown tender wings at rest. 

They stand through the winter

a scarlet thread against the three dimensional white.

Leave your anger, come to me, and she will rest in trust next to you.


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Bukowski in Church

He drank the song he sang, then sang the drink away.
He was beautiful in the evening and wilted in the morning, not remembering why he was still standing, still awake.
Life is like that some say – not he – he preferred to drink and sing and not philosophize his life away.
He kept a book of Bukowski by his bed and he thought of giving his copy to her whenever she walked by him each morning down town.
She couldn’t stand him and was fascinated, so pretended he wasn’t real and pondered at the draw of the bar stool and why he insisted on tipping his hat to her.
Upon the church pew she would pray in a wandering, bewildered sort of way.
How do you pray for someone who does not want the full light of day?
Seems happiest with loud music and singing at the top of his voice.
She loved the quiet of her house, the work of hands upon her quilt – loud anything was alien and obtuse.
How indeed would the choir seem with him shouting out the sacred hymns of the Almighty?
– no she wasn’t being sarcastic – she pondered his supposed presence within the sanctuary Praying with true honesty that he wasn’t real, and repenting in the steepled holy place.
So then she prayed he’d find his salvation in the rock band churches down the street.
Each morning she would walk down the avenue to volunteer at the kitchen for men such as he
He was sincere though she did not believe him,
“Good morning dear lady, at last we meet.”

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