The Seams of Our Beautiful Story

And all this time
I thought I was
building you up
as you grew
and became.

I really never
realized (really)
you were breaking
so unbecoming
and I was failing bad.

It breaks
my heart to
know you were
ripping apart the seams
of our beautiful story.

And now
tatters, shards
shatters, shutters
mutters and
clogged gutters

and it
is too late
at last
I realize

Between Me And The Fire

there is always something
some thing that stands
between me and the fire
and casts a shadow that lies
on my face, a caul, a veiltumblr_mdicq83JjD1qfllfmo1_500it’s been called mask
and I bat at it, swat at it
the ninja master of
when you walk face-first
into spiderwebs
you never saw

but flail to no avail
to claw away this veil
(the caul)

me and my desire
(the fire)
and the thing
(whatever fits)
between me and the fire

me and body
me and love
me and longing

i cannot get to it
(the fire)
so i can dive into it
(and burn and burn and)

so instead i move sideways
around the thing and to the water
that waits for me placid, peaceful
yielding inviting thirsty
for metumblr_nvi0baXuRN1trdezwo1_400it will drink of me
it will be one with me
it will give me itself for my body
it will marry me
(not just the idea of me)

and the flowers will sing
(they float)
and my dress shall dissolve
and my veil shall away

so that my breath
and my body
and the water
at last


L’il Poem of Longing

Turning slowly in the breaking light of dawn
and shimm’ring gossamer whispers of beyond,
the chime sways ‘neath the hinting soft caress
of a yearning summer breeze in ebon dress.

The breeze blows, smelling of exotic birth
in some far womb behind the spicy hills,
and under velvet sable star-pricked covers.
It has substance and presence, it is real.
It’s invisible, not seen, present only as
it touches sleeping chime with lonely longing.

But the unknowing chime resists, unhearing,
not smelling jasmine melodies crooned low
by breezy breathy voice, cool, underlayed
with warmth…and longing, sung forever so…

A last push of love, of longing, then in sorrow
the breeze blows on, by, trilling sad desire
and playing in the always trees of wonder
beneath the hinting gleam of new dawn’s fire,
she’s running in her yearning paths again.

But after, when the day is still a rumour
and night is not yet knowing its time’s passed,
the chime moves, jingles, clangs in hungry memory
of sleepy golden dreams of grace-delight.
It dances, sways, remembering feath’ry touch
and nuzzling spicy smell, and then decides
that it will dance, with open arms and soul
when the longing breeze returns to make it whole.