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Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Ancient lovers believed a kiss would literally unite their souls, because the spirit was said to be carried in one's breath. ~Eve Glicksman
The Abandoned Kiss

I am lingering
on your lips, as we
parted steps,
the tingle of wind’s hope,
the silkiness of touch,
the gray saltiness
of the ocean’s air
slipping away from
my fingertips,
a bittersweet wisp
of a hair across
your clean face,
as you turn from
our abandoned kiss,
a kiss transmuting
a kiss delineating
a fiery path,
a kiss caught
between our
ancient hearts.


Sunday, November 27, 2011


                                    If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
                                                                           William Shakespeare

The Day I Woke Up

Whipping wind,
metal to metal,
stagnant water,
find me in the darkness
         of the light;
your fingertips become
         my eyes.

         I harbor pain in my core,
          once more,
            a resolution
that needs to be untwisted…
                   cracked open like
                        our heaven's soul.

Eyes like twins and
a freeze that is too big to breathe
         alone; you encompass me,
          soothing bruised water.

My journey, a charted storm, 
 pushes me to freedom, vigilantly
  releasing my heaving burden,
   God's wind breathing for me.

   you hold my
    heart to your warm body,
     selflessly for you,
      all the while
leaving a streak of fire
in my quiet morning.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


As a good wine must be kept in a good cask, so a wholesome body is the proper foundation for a well-appointed inner ground. Johannes Tauler
I give thanks to all the beautiful luscious hearts that fill my life with meaning.

Thankful Heart

You live inside
the lode of my heart,
without need of
nourishing my streaks
of fear and question,
soothing me with
and adoration.

I cherish your
quiet fruition
for gratefulness,
as your
winged hands
forgive my
earth’s burdens, and
I drink in the
likeness of you.

Sunday, November 20, 2011


There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting. Buddha

La Verite

The truth possesses me,
hides never behind
the slow moving action
haunting my soul,
and releasing
trials to my queries

like the new moon
underlying many
heavy slivered crescents,
and time amasses to
the fullness of certainty.

La Verite holds a mirror
and a serpent in the
benevolence of night,
and launches the

She desires me alone,
my honest moon, with
her alabaster word and
eerie globed iris
deeply shattering
the lie.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


“I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine. (Song of Solomon 6:3a)”

Beloved, Anchor Yourself

I know no other way than the way I am.
I know no other way than to hold the tenderness
of my memory to my heart and read
my letters of forgiveness and compassion to my soul--

I know no other way than to be clean with
my pen and my paper as I write to you.
I write not just about myself for I am undone by you,
I write to never forget you, my dearest beloved,
I write to heal the heart of your troubles,
I write to accept the path of your choosing,
I write to love your spirit’s faithfulness,
I write to you.

Hold the the broken part of my fractured bones,
heal the shivering parts of my quivering emotions,
accept the twisting parts of my puzzling past,
love the true nature of my slanting step.

I know no other way than to find the truth as
I stumble around in the dark of my temple,
searching towards the adorned light of my future.
I ask for the guidance of my life’s experience
to hold my hand in the presence of my beloved.

I know no other way then to touch the inner
most place of your being
to find the meaning in mine,
to breathe the air from your lungs into mine,
to find the happiness on your face mirroring mine,
to know your heartbeat pulses within mine,
together we will be loved as the word is written.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011


The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin

What else can be said, other than, enjoy the poem...

The Fringe of My Consciousness

Down inside the city limits,
fringing the cement squares
of unmoving names and dates
written into white concrete,
a solid river flows next to
the silver chain linked fence
where the green and red weeds,
the blinking dandelions, and
the final summer is over grown
into a life imprisoned
to a vacant littered lot.

A Monarch butterfly flutters by.

Softly, her winged defense succumbs
to the wondering wild flower; she
floats into the mystery of the stigma.
She has the feminine proboscis of want
as she is tenderly exposed to the
opening purple petals of where
a woman's vulnerabilities lie.

Submerged to a scent that makes
the Monarch a slave, like a
red headed witch dancing
on the blue comet in the sky,
the aroma is nectar to her heart,
beauty seeping into her soul,
each stem of laughter true,
each little burst of bliss confirmed,
all living inside the limits of the limitless.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you;
of squeezing it into little ink-drops, and posting it. And I scald alone,
here, under the fire of the great moon. ~Amy Lowell

Saved By a Kiss

You said to me, in the cool of the night,
one kiss will save your life.

I believe you,
as your eyes imprint on
me with intent. You stare
at the curve of my neck, and
move to the inside of my heart.

My heart beats through that look.
I think, one kiss might save my life.
My knees shake almost making me trip,

trip into your arms,
falling into a world without words,
like the scent of your perfume
lingering on my clothes
making you real,
discrete, and

Your kiss
sticks to my lips,
sticks to the hurt
living inside me.
Your compassion travels
across my boundaries,
across my fetish fortress,
and I open my eyes
to the morning…and
breathe in your sensation.
It is your kiss that saved my life,
like an open flower that seemed to have always
been there.

Saturday, November 5, 2011


Breath Deep is dedicated to courage, life, and fresh air. Thank you Paul Greenlee.

People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character. -R.W.Emerson

Breathe Deep

I walked through the scuffed corridors of the hospital,
insulated double plate glass windows shimmer
back my reflection. My eyes find flipping
turning leaves dancing in a cooler breeze outside.

It was the end of the summer,
the beginning of fall, a freak snow storm fell, all framed
outside of the plate glass portholes.
Another season found us as I watched my reflection pass.

I am a breath of fresh air to a human life each day,
maybe because air somehow clings to my clothes,
maybe air hugs the flush of my cheek, or in the exhale of my good morning,
maybe it is the reflection of a breath of life brought from
the outside in, inside the four white walls of a his hospital room.

His lungs were filled with fluid, the sea, and the doctors emptied them…
Would there ever be a chance for a breath of fresh air?
To fill his lungs to capacity?

He faked feeling a breeze, and watched weeks of life pass outside of his window,
the draft was the air filtration system-- confined recycled air feeding his lungs.
Small little puffs of imitated sky to fill the bronchi of his lungs,
small tiny sniffs keeping him alive.
Small controlled sips of air held in like tears.
Oxygen level 88%. (My heart will beat for his;
my lungs will breathe for him.)

What is in a breath of fresh air? You may never have to ask.
The kind you take when you walk outside first thing in the morning.
The kind you take when the summer rain is about to fall.
The kind you take when the silvery snow begins to collect.
The kind you take when you kiss your lover and laugh from your heart,
outside in the park under a tree with leaves falling
and creating earth underfoot.

It is THE kind on his final exit from the hospital,
wheeled on a stretcher, buckled in tight,
approaching the automatic emergency room doors,
bruised hands holding on to metal guard rails,

small breaths in, eyes filled with oxygen’s hope,
and the doors open to a whoosh of fresh air.
He finds the sky and the sky kisses his heart. He thanks God.
Air sought him out on this balmy Thursday, after two months past,
and rejoices with his body.

A breath of fresh air fills the two lungs of a man, who knows the difference in air,
a man who exhaled in humbling relief, “my inhale is the beginning of a new life.”

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Words can sometimes be spoken or written as a mistake, and in this poem the first line is just that. I took the bank of my thigh which was suppose to write the back of my thigh and wrote The Way a Woman Yearns.

The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread. ~Mother Teresa

The Way a Woman Yearns

The bank of a thigh,
the crevice of cries
both forgive the
pace of her opening tide,
flooding the barrier of
smooth rock and hurt.

Fluidity touched, stars
quieted by the
secluded tiny secret,
the violet space between
fractured mountains
and to the memories
of the haunting dark.
Salty tears are
newly found in
the universe of my years.

You and I, match
another’s lips, the
water of infinity,
earth sunk to the
bottom of a river, silk
found by the hidden finger tips
of my lips. Still forgotten to
the mystery of
buried passion.


your swelling ascends,
saint's bells and
steeples rise as
consumes and
worships the feeling
of wet dew settling on
my sovereign land.