Monthly Archives: November 2015

Wishing Well

Down to the wishing well,

as the spring blooms blue bells,

and the birds sing in new light,

and the sky and ocean are one sight,

She marches me, gun in my back,

her heart consumed in hate so black,

memories of our love never coming back.

What consumed the sweetness now she lacks?

Our first kiss at that wishing well, in another spring.

I thought one day I’d giver her a golden ring.

I loved to hear her in church, those old hymns sing.

I never knew the brokeness that she’d bring.

Standing against the wishing well, the wind sweet.

No words from her mouth, not even slogans to repeat.

I can’t believe this is happening, from this place I want to retreat.

Into the well I’ll go, after being shot dead there at her feet.

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Slow dance, floating off the ground,

the whisper of stars, no one around.

Your hands inside mine, soft, tender.

The has come and I am your defender.

That silky blonde hair with dark roots

and the crown of stars that time loots,

is still shining here as we dance together.

A spring night, the sky bible black leather.

No gravity and no past as we kiss, in the sky.

The girl you were, the boy I was, still testify.

The moon is the light that draws our breath.

In remembrance, there is still a little death.

I sing words forgotten, but new in starlight.

Your soft body, warm, is a sacred delight.

We hold close, both young and corrupted,

both innocent and whole and interrupted.

We hold close, safe in our hearts, if not life.

I am your shattered jester, you’re my healing wife.

Like angels, we won’t touch the ground, not till waking.

In the morning, will only be the memory of love making.

Charlotte

Ice cream blonde, hair bright, a silken halo falling down

over her American Flag bikini top.

She laughs and smiles like a child, writing her name in the dark

with the burning sparkler.

Even know, after it all, she laughs and smiles like a child, so free,

in this sweet moment.

Fourth of July and the sky explodes in color and fire and smoke,

and her halo shines back it’s light.

Independence Day, maybe we’ll be independent of the past,

of mistakes and the things that hurt us.

Declare we are one now, again, and the sweetness will come.

Maybe we’ll make love…

…….really make love, with tenderness and hope and softness,

and actually grow close in a touch.

The sparkler reaches it’s end, and she exclaims, asks for another,

to write her name in the dark again

where it will last and be eternal and kept and cherished by all.

Let this be Independence Day.

Warm November

It’s November, and 70 degrees at three a.m.

I remember you best when it’s cold,

when the stars are bright and cut the sky,

when my breath is exhausted plumes,

and the sweetness of bitterness bites my skin.

It’s hard to remember you when it’s warm like this,

when life should be asleep and grey, not green still.

It’s hard to remember you when the sun is still a friend.

In the darkness, in the cold, when we held tight to keep it away.

In the darkness we held tight to keep away the coldness of the past.

We were warm in a cold November night, and there was a spark.

But the spark didn’t catch, no flame came, and we went seperate ways.

I don’t know why I cling to your memory. You were the one who left.

But that moment was so sweet, so wonderous, so perfect.

I never knew it’s like ever again.

And now November is warm, and I am denied the last bit of magic.

In December, maybe, I’ll call down the cold ghosts of paradise.

Maybe in sleep, the winds will blow, the leaves will dance,

and you’ll be there in my arms forever.

Chapter From Unfinished Novel

Facing an unplanned pregnancy, and fearful over her husband Neil’s dire illness, Matilda looks back at an incident from her past, and wonders about the future.

I went down in the basement of the house, where a lot of my old stuff was stored. I turned on the harsh overhead light, at all the boxes and tubs, and the other various brick-a-brack of my family’s life.

I sat down indian style, and pulled out a box labeled “CDs”. This was all the music I listened to in high school, all those earth shattering odes and laments that spoke to the loneliness and frustration and madness, that meant the world to me.

I open the box, and search through the CDs, before finding the one I wanted, Pope Rachel, “Garden”. The cover was a stylized paiting of a red headed women, whose long locks flowed and protected her modesty, standing before a tree with a ripe, crimson fruit in her hand. She looked unsure. The serpent was grinning wickedly, enticing her.

The Tree of Knowledge. The Tree of Lost Innocence. The Tree of Sex.

I could hear the voice of the singer Lanise in my head, even know, singing the bittersweet song that closed the album:

“And I gave it all to taste the fruit or paradise,

and I gave it all to know a touch to soothe tears.

But your love was just another lie and bitter vice

and the scars still burn in my skin, after all these years.”

His named had been Lyndon. Tall and sinewy and full of fire. I was vulnerable and lost. Always fighting and at odds with mom and dad. Filled with emotions that sent me from joy to anger to sorrow and back with no rhyme and reason. Looking for someone who understood me and loved me and chase away the demons.

I thought he cared. I really thought he did.

We bonded over our love of Pope Rachel. He looked me in the eyes that night at the party, and smiled so sincerely as he brushed away locks of my hair. He made me feel like I mattered and all things I felt were real.

He took my hand, and he led me to a the laundry room of the host’s house, the only not already occupied with revelers. He laid me on a pile of laundry waiting to be washed, and we did what I thought was making love, but to him was just sex.

After it was over, all that sweetness was gone and he left me alone, and never spoke to me again. Alone in the darkned room, naked and cold, I wept and wept and wept.

I touch my hand to my belly, knowing I was nurturing a new life, a new child who would come into this world innocent and full of love, who would be hurt and corrupted by this world, until all that innocence was gone, just like mine was.

What if this child was a girl? All the men who would lie and manipulate and take from her, who would feign love or just take by force what they believed was their right?

I could not protect her from this world forever? I couldn’t place her in a garden without seprents of Trees That Took. She would live in this world, and I wouldn’t be able to put myself between her and it.

I put the CD back in the box and pushed the box away from me. Why were we brought into this world, just to be broken?

Children of the Sky

Lay in our bed, holding tight, trembling,

as the stars come out, above us assembling.

Just this morning you were a girl,

on delicate feet spinning in a laughing twirl,

and I was a boy, unkempt and proud,

proclaiming so easily my love aloud.

And this afternoon, we were finally wed,

frist time sharing a common house, common bed.

Life in the evening was quiet as we made our way.

Knowing at nightfall the debt we’d have to pay.

A light flickers but still warms those near.

This day with you has been so dear.

And sleep comes over us, as the stars shine up high.

We are together in dust, children of the sky.

Wine and Cigarettes

French Girl, laying on the bed,

tusseld brown hair wild on her head.

The morning is soft and gold and bright.

I’m thankful she stayed, more than a night.

Sleepy blue eyes and a shy smile she gives.

In these stolen moment, I find a dream that lives.

Nowhere to be today, we’ll share the day in this room.

A lover’s nest at once a temple, a paradise and a tomb.

A kiss to seal the morning, and that in this day we are one.

A place will always belong to here in my heart, never undone.

Wine and cigarettes as the day grows bright, then turns dark.

A passion is a drug, a dream, a wild fire from a kisses spark.