I
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Yes you can, my inner heart says. But no, I swear this class is going to kill me. It’s going to break my heart all over again. I knew we would speak of disabilities but I wasn’t ready for the dying, the heartbreak, the myriad psychological connotations that take me back to days I've fought hard, written at length to get past. Those days I feel I've thought on far too often, days I gave their due and want to rent from my sleeve and slip into my pocket of bitter sweet remembrance. I only want to take them out again and smile soft with sad eyes. Instead on occasion I still weep openly and full, the triggers catching me off guard. I am weary of sadness, death, hardship and only want to seek my soul’s serenity, my heart’s content.

And yet haven’t those days driven me passionately to want to live, exploring those that cross my path that could never dream to pass by...

II
I fought hard last eve
in the wee hours, your
flesh my green jesus,
tried to articulate
in my head what my
voice could not speak
and yet still only
monosyllabic utterances
formed in quietude;

tran

scen

dence.

journalesque

I am pouring over the past, pulling out bits that strike me, old pain and hurt that can no longer touch me, hope and joy that drove me. Suddenly I am whole again - if I ever actually was once and if not then it is not again but finally.

Finally.

Can't you feel it? Listen close...






"DANCE! boogey oogey dance!"

history

I lost my history when I divorced, when I sold my house. I set aside more than letters from people I don't recall, letters from my ex while in the army. I look about at the few possessions I have that I had then or even in my youth. Even possessions I've carried through the years, even those seem foreign.

You see, after breaking my soul I found...that some things cannot be put back. During reassembly most of the pieces no longer fit for others had formed and filled the cracks and crevices.

And now? I feel whole. My history has become a story, my present alive, and my future...infinite possibility.

finding voice

I write in the dark of eve
dinner set to simmer
and I am singing slow songs
that moved me once
upon long, long time ago.

My voice feels small
echoing soft, sweet, slow
as it grooves deep and with
each breathe it grows
less faltering, finding
how to keep the beat,
stretch it out smooth...
clean and neat with soul.

sniplet

I came too late into this world
and yet
would choose no other time
to live
for I have seen a beautious thing
and turned
chakras into wine, auras into flesh
both so
tender as I press 'tween tongue and cheek.

edit: i didn't care for the last line "tongue to cheek" - insinuative of "tongue and cheek" which i don't want to imply AT ALL. this is more...the relishing of good dark bitter chocolate that you keep on your palate as long as possible, press with your tongue and savoring most passionately.

When you come in love

from my horoscope..."When you come in love (pun intended) and give love, you beam with the light of a 1,000 suns." i feel that love takes many forms and through courage can be explored. but too often do we overlook the most difficult and simplest of all; love of self.

come with me and burn
to the light of a million suns
and in vulnerability accept
we are who we are
and at this we are adept.

be your own valentine this year. :)

two poems on a moonlit night

house

Slow groove not all me
not all you but when the we
hits the beat grinding smooth
sensual rhythm ensues and we
move into the trance of house
mesmerized we trip the lights
till slow we rise turn them out.


agression

You hold the tease, I prowl the prey
moving in slipping back in the dance
do we play erotically sweet as teeth
catch flesh and pull suck the heat
from cool lips. "No more torture"
do I plead and mount, take the lead
hold you down legs pressed at hips
hands hold tight to wrists. I want
need and ask, "just how much of lust
is ownership and trust?" moving in

for the kill deft and with skill knowing
the master's game do I 'tempt.

crappy poem

i don't know if i like this one...it makes me uneasy. i may rework it later. ~p

And dost thy lover's lips rival Ra's?

Flesh, sinew, bone, the encasement of

concupiscence in mind and heart and

whose sculpted form rivals incarnation?

skating week three

There's a cool burn up through from buttock, my back, around my waste, up around my breasts; muscles I forgot about. My legs are simply happy; even inner thigh from too much movin' and groovin' to the music, the rythm and lights a sparkle more temptation than I can resist.

Attempting to much too soon and the foibles that result. I slip and turn, backwards, left, right recalling how my body moved in youth, and then I even fall...gails of laughter insue, laughter and smiles, eyes bright from the fun of it.

I spin, arms wide, move into gliding smooth and lean. The beat ba-boom-ba in a one-two, a one-two-three.

I remember being young once and free from these things that came too soon. I remember...

confessions of a sinner

I touch my ink, the myriad connotations, the strength it instills. Your recognition strikes like a blow. It’s a silly thing I brought to you, vapid compared to your art, yet you set your fire to it. Out of the blue like eyes wide you jarred my heart and I recall…

I was married then, a week before sixteen years, ten or so weeks into my affair. I did things I never thought I’d act upon but did and they all began with death and promises fierce that I never should have made, began with my turning around in need and finding no one, only the ache of a long held loneliness.

I make no excuses and carry the weight always, but recognize the complexity of a soul breaking, a heart, the core of a being breaking after usury and all entailed to get it done. Sorrowfully I judge myself harsh yet he judges me not at all and understands. He knew the wrong being done and took no pains to recompense. He knew. He knew all along.

I touch my ink, the secrets that it holds, recall the one that made me and it was neither man nor action. It was that girl I drug kicking and screaming through the years that I held prone and forced to find herself.

And now? I seek balance within the bounds I set and the freedom I pursue. And when I wonder on desire, yes needs fill me but I own it. And though it is my lover’s lips from last week’s parting that first comes to mind, he is one in a short line to be graced with my body and my heart as is

No more ever have I been able to give, for no more beautiful have I been than now, no more whole having filled my heart with me, alone but not lonely.

on lovers and crushes

My headache from this morning slowly subsides. The one I thought to be from the ache in my wrist and arm, but realize it is not completely. I acknowledge my general state of flux and the unknown change on the horizon. Something is stirring in the universe, something for me. Reaching deep, stroking the silken coat of my restlessness, feeling it purr beneath my hands, I am ready, wanting.

Serenely I acknowledge that sometimes I think too much on you then smile, my day brightened as I go about my way. Yet consciously I stop to wonder as soon as the thought is formed, if I am stepping beyond the bounds we so loosely have not even voiced aloud. Is that compromising the dynamics I want to keep a while? Or is it the exploration of my own freedom and depths?