Love of My Lives
I am still your man, here still.
And after centuries measured
by small epiphanies,
my arms remain open,
my eyes your eyes seek.
Walking apart or abreast
my soul is complete
only when yours is near,
the spirit healed by your kiss.
Lovers, praying partners,
and friends we’ve been,
even secret members
of the same crime family.
Dancers in a cosmic ball
whose ancient rhythms
only the broken-hearted perceive.
Enemies and allies we’ve been—
fellow travelers in the far east.
Here I am, your man still,
still holding on to your hand.
Here to make reality
a holy promise made
the Spring I was shaken awake
—to meet once and for all
with clean hands, clear eyes,
open hearts and a blessing
for each other upon our lips.
A Poem, some pictures and a musical background. Mixed with love. Loved mixing it. Lots of love in the mix. The words to the poem are HERE.
Blessing The Wounds
You sent me alone to the concert hall
Where only half the notes played
Until the music discovered your face—
Your smile alive in the smiles of my friends.
You called to say you weren’t coming
But when I turn around, there you are,
Reflected on each one of my walls and
Weaved in the silky sheets that cover my bed.
I spread you on my morning bread,
Drink your sweat to calm my thirst.
My palms rest on your skin. I press
My fingerprints, branding forever your flesh.
Thirty days I walked, my eyes shut
And in the darkness of my steps
I follow the warmth of your breath
Through the dessert to the valley beyond.
We learn leaving from some lovers,
Only one can teach us the way back.
Blessing the wounds we’ve carried,
Our true love joins us in the search for home.
There’s a child that lives just under my skin
Who refuses to come out until I’ve settled some things
Let go of others, learn to breathe.
He only comes out when threatened or pleased
And is quick to decide whom he won’t play with.
His temper is short–the length of a smile exchanged
Between two strangers who briefly meet.
Everything’s a reminder of the playtime he’ll one day enjoy
When he learns to be good.
There’s a child living between my desires and my need,
Thirsting for acceptance and comfort
–my embrace he awaits.
Poems flow easier when the air is stacked with lava vapor and mint
And Lucinda is singing o’ sweet despair, somewhere south-west of me.
Your essence awaits my arrival, everywhere I follow these aching feet,
Like a recurring old melody, it climbs up my torso, breaching my peace.
Feeling your breadth take residence under my fifty-something skin
I come alive, the way I’ve never lived, instantly transformed, released
Of all I fear, soothed again by energy emanating from your fingertips.
I surrender to you. I let go of the grip. I plunge, head first, into your sea.
No reassurance. No answers. No need to know our lives beyond this.
Grateful for all the support.
Please check out my IndieGoGo campaign HERE. The manuscript is going back to beautiful California for a short visit with the editor, A. Victoria Mixon.
Even if you can’t contribute at this time, help me spread the word.
and other creative types. From the stupendous Maria Popova at Brain Pickings:
Famous authors are notorious for their daily routines — sometimes outrageous, usually obsessive, invariably peculiar. In Odd Type Writers: From Joyce and Dickens to Wharton and Welty, the Obsessive Habits and Quirky Techniques of Great Authors (public library) — the more dimensional and thoroughly researched counterpart to Mason Currey’s Daily Rituals — Brooklyn-based writer Celia Blue Johnson takes us on a guided tour of great writers’ unusual techniques, prompts, and customs of committing thought to paper, from their ambitious daily word quotas to their superstitions to their inventive procrastination and multitasking methods.