KAM

There is a careless familiarity
Of two lovers--
Separated by space, and time.
I love you in a hopeless way,
Wishing for a future not our own.
To touch you seems so natural,
To be with you humbles me.
I love you in a helpless way,
In awe, in a god's presence.
I write these words, and lie.
Control.

My Bones Are Made Of Amethyst

My bones are made of amethyst and citrine, my sinews spun of gold, my beaten copper heart still pounds --

But I will never see my silver lungs, nor diamond plated brain, never taste the mercury in my veins --

These jewels of my flesh will shine more brightly when I'm gone, when all that's left of me is light...

Who Doesn't See?

When I close my eyes I see everything...
How do I focus on one star, one light?
How do I choose who needs, who wants?

You suffer? You ache? You age?
Are you still lovable?
Are you still worthy of such love?

Do you live true to yourself?
Are your friends trustworthy?
Do you watch the beauty of this world as inspiration?

With open eyes, who doesn't see?

The Jewels In Our Hearts

It is the imperfections
  we have on the inside
That create our outer Beauty

Every pearl contains
  a grain of sand
Every raindrop traps
  a mote of dust

Time does not heal all wounds
  rather we layer them in nacré
To soothe the pain, as we share
 these jewels that we keep inside our hearts

What Would I Tell You

What would I tell you
If we were together
And talked about my day?

Would I talk of the drudgeries,
Of waking early, and work, &
The usual driving to and fro?

Do you want to hear more
About my meals, or grooming,
Washing dishes or clothes?

How did you sleep? I might ask
To speak of my dreams, and
Rolling from side to side, alone?

No, I want to speak about the joy
That is your presence in my life
& every thought you influenced today!

As I watch the future ply out before me, I often wonder, do we create our destinies, or just predict them?

Make Your Word Be Heard

we once used such great words,
words that rolled off the tongue in ways most melodious,
words that, by constitutive sounds, induced a giggle,
that sparkled, that awed and confounded,
words that evoked emotions, imaginations, nightmares,

with just the proper pronunciation --
I propose that we all be Shakespeare:
not just the forgery of combination,
but creation!

I am always thinking: What does the future hold?

Do I face it with fear, that I will fail, that I will be caught unable?
Frail witness, witless, to my own demise -- Do you? Are you afraid?

Is there a way to pull back from this grief, this knowledge of death?

Our Nacred Hearts

Time does not heal all wounds of heart and mind
We learn, each moment, to stop touching the hurt
A distance that we lacquer a layer at a time until
-- a cure! -- a stone-walled defense against the pangs

 As every raindrop traps a mote of dust
And every pearl contains a grain of sand
It is the pain we have on the inside
That creates our outer beauty

I Have A Tiny Room

I have a tiny room inside my heart
I decorate with memories of you.
So whenever my feet become weary,
When the tides of life rip through me --
I can take my ease in my tiny room
And know that what I'm going through
Is for you, and me, and we.
Then I can smile, again, and carry on.

Upon Witnessing A Great Old Tree

It is sad to see this great Old Tree
So tangled and overgrown,
And to wonder if it will survive
A stern pruning, or worse, wildfire!
What a strangled mess - with crossing limbs
And sucker-shoots, and leaves
Starved for oxygen, failing to floresce,
Without seed or stone or fruit ...
If fortune favors, no fungus rots the heartwood,
Nor virus plague the branch ...
But where to cut? And, too, how deeply?
Do I wait another season? Another year?
     Another day?

As we look upon the coming Month, the Long Darkness of December, I would like to remind everyone of the Hope that the Longest Night implies: that our Sun returns from Unending nights, to Promise the next season. Humans have Rejoiced at this time for as long as History remembers. So when I say Season's Greetings, I am trying to connect to your Winter Celebration -- whether that is the Birth of Jesus Christ, the Enlightenment of Buddha, the Birth of Mithra, the Remembrance of Sacred Fires, on Menorah or Yule or Sadeh -- or remembrances of other beliefs: Kwaanza, Pancha Ganapati, Inti Raymi ... This is the Season of Love and the Hope for Rebirth! Merry Christmas, and so much more!

my life i live in circles
round and square and pentagon
the lonely beats and crowded streets
the twists and turns, both left and right
sometimes whirling, twirling, boring
how many times, how many names,
the faces blur, the years and lives defer
my life is love, and you, and them
everything, nothing, somewhere in between ...

My heart, my heart
is torn apart and
riddled with guilt and doubt

. Ennui .

     I had a dream, where I was lost in the woods -- not that panicky 'I don't know where I'm at' kind of lost, but rather the calm grey 'I don't need to know where I am' lost. The snow didn't sparkle, so much as the hazy mist of the skies allowed. The leafless trees were not familiar, but neither did any of it seem frightful. I hungered for naught, nor thirsted. I felt helpless -- Is there someplace I should be?
     Did I walk through this forest, follow paths that shift and turn and blend out? The foliage was mute, but I heard the high-pitched ringing in my ears -- not deafening nor maddening, just a quiet white noise. Here I saw a pond, tiny, covered in the thinnest layer of ice. The trees here I noticed, but only as 'the trees by the pond'. What could I see, though, in this mirror before my breath?
     Nothing -- some small part of the vast emptiness just outside the world, and the woods. My heart skipped a beat, as if I would dread this glimpse. But that was not for me, that fear, not in this place, this state. With no more association to the pond than the trees, I don't remember where it was. I was pulled by something, by the need to find someplace -- where am I supposed to be? Was this it?

again

This day winds down, again.
A little older, a little colder, a little more full of sleep.
The many times this day goes on,
I seem more wise, more humble, more fearful that I'm wrong.
Days come and go, to close out weeks, and months, and years.
The many ups and downs that seek to balance, lead me on, and tempt ...
Do I wake again tomorrow?

As the air turns to autumnal chills

As the air turns to autumnal chills, I look back across the summer fading,
and, lo! what life! What mad and wonderful adventures!
I open doors and windows to watch the distant stars regain their hibernal clarity.
Ah! winter and night! What great events are yet to come!
Longing for warm drink and a strong breeze, I find my front porch calling.

Sandy's Stupa

Sandy's Stupa.

My Peace Pagoda -inspired memorial, 

surrounded by standing rocks

Dedicated to Our Friend, Sandy (1996-2010)

and to the Message of Peace for All.

Sandy (1996-2010)

I would not forsake my love to escape the pain of death.

I don't want to learn to live without you in my life.

what to do when the full moon hides above? how best to scratch and prowl, for I still love the night? I dream, I dream. freedom roams inside my heart: outside, responsibility + fear. tonight, this night, under the cover of clouds, who knows? where other ventures fail -- perhaps, tonight?

No More Good Days

I wish we could have another day in the sun
Your ears back, dreaming of warm fields and cool water
I wish we could have another night under the moon
Your nose in the air, to wonder at the mystery

You are dying, and I meant to comfort you
You are dying, while I still have to live
Without your lion's mane and puppydog eyes
With out your fur, and without your friendship

I can't do anything but watch you die
I can touch, and cajole, and whisper
But my light can't heal your eyes
Nor my voice your ears
My love can't keep you alive

(mlkj)

A single word, emphatically said;

Like a bullet through the head;

Wonder if the soul has fled?

The dream remains though the brain is dead!

DeGrade

I have no people; indeed, no heritage.
I am the confused mix of history and chance
That leaves ancestral lands laid waste
And bares the emptiness of tradition.
I am the descendant of liars and thieves,
Of slavemongers, con-men, and whores --
I have no claims to divinity:
No Son of Heaven, or God, just man and mud.
I have no family homestead, no inheritance
Of attics, basements, or cemeteries;
Neither temples of grandmothers to pray to,
Nor churches sacred and fore sworn.
I do not lament this as a loss;
Yet never having, I have no respect.

Frayed

I have frayed these words thin
Worn-through apologies and angry tatters
The tongue aches to be revitalized
But ancient connotations blanket me in dust
And fade the fragments of expression
Across this fabric of language and thought

What jaws will rend the sound
Or cold wind freeze the naked form
What frost-white consumption of guilt
And pleasure will trade in metaphor and cajole
We will speak no more of lies and truth
At last, night, and the Quietude of silence

Variations On The Flame

* * * * *

and in this dream
words flow smoothly to paper
sweet and cruel, sorrowful and True
Ink, black -- under scrutiny, shifting
and still I write as the lines
blaze, first small,
more shine than Fire
Then smoke, and the page combusts
falling, igniting table and cloth
and phrases lay by rows
drying, coruscating, Burning
a house enflames, drawn to ash
I breath dust, and heat, words
the world becomes a bon-fire,
and I,
The Crucible of Transformation

* * * * *

My words Burn
They are Ruby and Shameless
Scorching the very hand that writes
My world Burns
Engulfed in flame and heartache
Scarlet letters that love betrays

* * * * *

The Writing is Red
Like Blood of Flame
Burning, Flowing --
It engulfs the Wrold
Like Rain or Sunshine
Cohesive, Growing