Tag Archives: innocence

Lustful, Youthful, Perdition

An old picture, 1995, sophomore year.

She is in a lacey and big, white dress,

with black stockings and Converse sneakers.

Her light brown hair is a short, spiky, pixie cut.

Her dark eyes have the fire of lustful, youthful, perdition.

Her lips pale, unadorned, and set against the world.

That long ago afternoon, that first warm, bright day,

March, on her birthday, skipping school to have fun.

Catching a movie. Walk and talking and scheming.

The park, with only us, and a mother and her toddler,

far away. We sat by the creek, passed cigarettes.

Ate some snacks we brought in my backpack.

Just a simple day, with a girl I loved, without a care.

The air and the sun and the sky were weightless.

School, and that we’d have to return tomorrow, not on us.

Driving me home, a song played that said all I felt for her.

She was not in love with me, but I was honored to be with her,

to be her friend, to share a day like that, floating to the sky.

All these old feelings coming back, all these bittersweet hurts.

Hadn’t thought of her in so long, she who was the queen of my hopes.

I don’t know how it all turned out for her. Where she is now.

I look at the picture, from when everything was on fire and bright,

when it all seemed possible and so close, and magic was in every spring,

and all you needed was love, and a kiss, to open the gate to heaven.

Ever Tender Light

She walks in the blue shimmering light of the aquarium.

Muted and soft, wavering over her, softening dark eyes.

Dance of shadow on jacket slits for her lost angel wings.

We watch the mermaid show among enraptured children.

Bright tails and otherworldly smiles and crowns of gold hair.

The children can touch the world beyond the water; Heaven.

We feed the rays, and she remembers her first emanation,

when God took her by the hand to show her all of His creation.

She remembers how she’d spent a sweet eternity lost at sea.

We sit watching various creatures swim and look curiously

into the blue, vibrant and hushed blue, like His ever tender light.

She takes my hand in hers, whisper those words that answer birth.

Sylvia At The Beach

Sylvia on the beach,
As the storm rumbles,
Off in the crystal ocean.
It’ll be here soon enough.

It’s her birthday, her party.
The rain is starting to spatter.
The present she wanted badly
She shows off to her friends.

Storm opens up, everyone scatters.
Sylvia, laughing, runs for cover.
The rain doesn’t hurt at first.
But it will.

She Carries The Lamb To Heaven

Seeds of Paradise

Sunday clothes, white blouse, woolen skirt, Mary Jane shoes,
honeyed hair hanging down, around your neck a silken bow.
You wait to walk with me to church, as morning chill blows,
the seeds of paradise in the afternoon we carefully sow.
Parents are following later, we walk alone the ruttend lane,
carefully to keep our shoes out of the water and the mud.
Warm and sweet I feel, yet taught for this The Savior was slain,
and that our sweetness still calls for the tide of his blood.
You take my hand in yours, warm yet calloused, harsh like silk.
Our secret thing, our shared sin, to touch while out of sight.
God watches, but will he let it go, for this is our soul’s milk
and I feel so holy and sure, when she holds my hand so tight.
The little wooden church, white against the grey and blue sky.
The stonewall separates us from God, the sacred from the profane.
You let go my hand. You smile at me secretly. We are so sly!
I see only beauty and love in you, but God said there is always a stain.
We sit down on a pew together, as the sun pushes away the clouds.
The dim sanctuary becomes as honeyed as your long, silky hair.
The glow and light of the sacred words the holy books enshroud.
As church begins, we sing the hymns, our loving hearts a pure prayer.

Our School

Our school, bright halls, soft lights.
All the things to know, to make us bright.
Learn all day, and dream of atoms and stars.
Learn all day, and smile at you, smiling at me.
Innocent days, where knowledge was sweet.
Innocent days, learning about our world,
hurtling around a star, a light in the darkness,
and all the wonders it held, all seen and unseen.

You’re asleep beside me, our daughter cries out,
sick and feverish, and I get up to rock her to sleep,
singing a song about the sun and the moon I remember,
swaying back and forth in the rocking chair, wanting her
world to be filled with the wonders we knew, we cherished,
we so freely given, and the darkness of this new time takes away.
Eyes so full and hungry, that stare into you, wrap you inside her soul.
That I could fill them with songs of the sun, and a poem of the moon,
not the things that this dark world has become……..

Sick Day Saturday

Rainy day. A cold, winter Saturday.
A chill in my skin, even as I cook her
my special recipe chicken noodle soup.
 I look at the wet and mud, muted color.
It feel so much more real to me now,
not like the lush summers of youth.
 I ladle out the soup, trapping lots of
chicken, my girlfriend loves the chicken,
and the fat egg noodles.
 Bowl on plate, spoon in bowl,
walking carefully to where she
lays on the couch.
 My breath catches, seeing her,
my lover, my woman, still a dreamer
of fantastic worlds.
 Wrapped in a blue blanket, wearing
her favorite hoodie, nose all the way
in an old Mighty Maid comic, from long ago.
 She’s kept something I’ve lost, an innocence,
a purity and hope, a belief in a better world
and the holiness of our heroes.
 Mighty Maid, like when we were young,
and she’s get a piece of that girl inside her,
where I’m just bitter, waiting for the fall.
 Like a sick day from school, curled up on
the couch, wrapped in the armor of blankets,
lost in dream worlds, fantastic places.
 So lost in the world beyond her, so ready to fly.
I watch her for a moment, just entranced by her,
her sweetness, her angelic light.
 She looks up, smiles, puts down the comic as I
place the steaming hot soup on the coffee table.
I kiss her head, her cheek, her cute little nose.
 She smiles, and starts to eat the chicken soup.
We talk, about the high and perfect days past,
about what we plan to do, once married, on our own.
 She curls up to nap, and I kiss her cheek, see her smile.
I go back to the kitchen to clean up, and see the sun coming,
and for a moment, for my lover, I believe in the light.

Queen of February

Kiss, kiss,
outside the door.
That song.
That song that’s ours.
It echoes out.
The night is cold.
Flurries make sparkles
in your black curls.
A day so sweet.
The universe spinning.
The moon whispering.
Stars falling at your feet.
I held your hand.
I put my arm around you.
My heart roared.
My soul burned.
You are mine.
I am yours.
Outside the door.
Kiss, kiss.
That song.
Echoes out the door.
Queen of February.


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.


This place was her sweet paradise,
where she ran and played, picked dandelions
and talked about Dandy Lions prancing in the grass
and the wishes the granted when you blew the seeds.
 We stayed here, when trouble came, her family lost,
the home burned, the plague and violence everywhere.
But the violence never touched this Little Eden.
I played games and songs and told her stories, to make her smile.
My maker made my emotional core better than he thought.
 And she lay and dreamed under the big blue sky,
talked to the angels and her family in heaven,
and I tended the plants and garden to keep her fed
and to keep her safe. I do not sleep, so I’d lay her
in my metal lap, and protect her in the night.
 Then she too was gone, my little darling, my cared for child,
and I buried her by the clear and cold stream she played in
and swam with mermaids and the King of Atlantis, so easily.
I tend the garden as the roots absorb her flesh, a communion,
returning her light and innocence to the world.
 The plague and the violence took them all, and if my eyes
could make tears, I’d cry over her grave until I was nothing
but rust and loss. The emotional core makes me humanlike,
so humanlike I know the pain of loss.
 I tend the garden, still, until my batter dies at 500 years.
Her spirit and innocence is in the grass, in the trees,
in the nestling birds and the Dandy Lions granting wishes
as the seeds blow in the wind.
 She is near, I feel her near, though she’s been gone so long.