I only feel right when I’m alone.
It’s only when I am alone, that I am with God.
God accepts me, myself, and I
So, that’s why I don’t talk to people much.
People expect things, want things, twist things
God does none of this.
The breath that breathes out of me
Comes from he, she, it, we.
People do none of this.
It is when I am alone, I feel whole
More than me, who befuddles and cuddles too much.
I just want to be alone, with God
The God of Compassion
The God of Love
The God of Man, but never man himself.
I can be alone with man,
But I cannot be alone without God.
My heart is impatient of its eminent swell upon the arrival of you,
There before you was a slow ebb of a pulse, pacing closer towards something new.
To be kissed , tender & wanton, exacting & with intent,
My heart will surely burst at its seems and no longer lament.
My mind tries to find pace with my expectant & internal heaves,
Swelling to heightened & fearful pauses of your possible leave.
A softness most like a feather, upon a cloud, descending to earth,
Do I wait soundlessly & blind for what your kiss will give birth.
Feelings of longing and anxiety of dread if I make this mistake,
To allow you in, lips first & eyes shut, a kiss cannot be faked.
So I take this risk because in the end the effort is not hard fought,
Once again taking this chance to a bliss met in the middle is sought.
Just to be kissed is all this is about, no more & no less,
When this is achieved I shall breathe again, then we shall rest.
8 years, not withstanding, humming along with the tides of change,
Restless still and yet a pull from a cord attached at my navel into direction unforseen.
Bothered by sudden red colors, drawn to cool blue attractions, and longings,
For tempered hues of stoic resolve.
Stumbling, drunken and blinded by self-grandiose, it hurts less to dally in shadows,
Rather than fearlessly take possession of the generated light from within and radiated.
Water welled eyes get no sympathy, and no amount of pure intention is
Enough to calm foiling needs.
Hard up, hard down, nothing sets my heart to full distress than deep thoughts of failure,
To be vulnerable, and open to attack, unarmed and tempted to flee sight unseen.
Pure intention is not enough, foiling, an no color can keep these veins,
Clear for no sympathy remains.
Be My Saturday Morning
Let that first feeling of goodness present rise within me and spread.
And allow me to bask and gaze as you reach across my body like the first mornings’ rays.
Forever at this moment I will remember best, watching life breathe in and out of you.
And greet me on a Saturday morning with a smile of mirth, urging me to want you.
Evening prior to the morning, a night filled with laughter, flirtation, friendship of knowing.
Fearing the ringing of an alarm, the call of a phone, awakening me from a slumber well labored for.
Whatever leads us to this moment, hard fought and victorious, leave it behind as you look across to me.
It flows from me to you easily, never stopping, always passionate and sometimes rough.
And share with me the knowledge of the ages, explore unseen possibilities. Learning never ends.
Insatiably hungry for life beyond the morning. Be fueled for the day ahead, and nights with me.
Be My Saturday Morning
The poet shall know no love for himself, but perhaps more for others.
He finds it easier, ye necessary, to blind the audience with sentiment than with true literal perfection.
Give the adoration and affection to those hungry for it with words to melt the heart and swallow the brain.
It is with perversity, gnawing and sinful, that sharing words filled with nothing,
Yet formed into something,
That any real satisfaction resembling love will occur.
The poet shall know no love, except maybe for a dimly lit table in the corner to commiserate.
Ashtray full of cigarettes and discarded prose, a glass of some liquor, and tonic to wash it all down.
Thankless in wake of writing something of use, but foolishly wanting the words to live on their own.
How sad and daunting the whole fling with words, nothing will ever replace the warmth of a listener.
The poet shall know no love.
Seasons go by and I remain unchanged, for my legs you see, are rooted to the ground.
Words bypass action into supremacy over my body, but my pillars stand strong.
My ability to eat red meat, raw and bloody, ensures my survival making me more animal.
Friends and lovers are the spice of my uncounted years, taking precedence over myself.
Family is to blood as these words are to me and I cannot relinquish either easily.
I will never live up to the standards and expectations of those who came before, so I don’t.
My will, my soul , my very being stays in place and never moves.
Flexibility is taken advantage of when guard is down, and I cannot allow that to happen.
Time will slow and stop for me at long last, to rest from all this manipulation.
These fissures of my brain tremble with shocks while processed thoughts make their way.
I feel an aneurysm coming at each turn, one to knock me off this self-contained pedestal.
Awaiting rest from long rushed mindfulness to bleed on to crushed steps of my temple.