Treacly

People trudge on
Living their lives,
Trains shudder past
Carrying more,
To other destinations.
Congress grass in tattered clumps,
White-washed walls and creeping ivy,
Two steel grey rails
That seek to guide me
Slide on by
In gooey motion.
A fan turns slowly
Through treacle-like air
And it washes by me
Like a viscous dream
All because you kissed me last night.

Bits of my Soul

This word,
Yes,
This one,
The others too -
They're little
Bitsofme...
Bitsforyou.

I hope
You like them...
I know you do...
These bits of me
That all love you.

Existence is Yours

In a time when I existed as just a thought inside your head,
An ephemeral phantom with no existence,
I thought that life was beautiful...

And then I lived it -

A swishysquishy
Soft, worn thing,
An achybreachy
Lovelorn thing,
An ecstasy
Of light and fire,
A troubled dream
Of faith's desire.

In a time when I existed
As more than a thought
(Though perhaps not yet
In your head,
Lost among your tresses),
I thought life was beautiful

As I lived it -

A dripping wetness
That beat you down
A smug heckle
That's tossed around
A door locked
To hide your fears
A child lost
In forgotten years..

And now I exist
As thought and flesh and more
I exist as me, your love,
Just yours
And life is beautiful...

I don't just think it anymore.

Oceans of Peace

We found a giant shell once,
Of a coconut hollowed out.
So we dragged it to the water
And pushed off in it together.
We smiled,
Lay back,
Legs entwined,
In that little brown bowl upon the sea
And if we bothered to look out,
Which we did,
Though not too often,
We'd see a blue expanse of peace
Reaching the horizon
And flowing on beyond it,
Stretching from Mystery Isle,
Unto the Cliffs of Longing,
And down past the Dreaded Gulf of Fearfulness,
Right till the Cape of Abundant Hope,
And past, on, to the Straits of Stability,
Which joins the Ocean of Deep, Transcendent Love
To the Sea of Ignited Passion.
And so, our gaze would drift along,
Flying upon the breeze,
And swimming with the tides so strong,
Cross the seven seas -
One, each, for a day,
That marks the passing week,
One, each, for a way,
In which our joy we'd seek:

Sunday's peaceful slumber
In your arms so warm and loving,
A home formed deep within us,
Two hearts together, beating.
Monday's holding back,
Because we know, somehow,
Within you and within me,
That the week will catch us up,
Buoyed upon its breakers,
Thrust together we'll be.
Then Tuesday will come
And, our strength worn thin,
Eyes locked
In heartfelt conversation -
To longing
We'll surrender
And to love
And one another.
Wednesday'll come and we'll go,
Lost in each others' swoon,
The oceans heaving and sighing,
As we pass the brightened moon.
Thursday will come and we'll try,
A battle never won -
To pull back and swim against
The currents' egging on.
But again we'll fail,
No matter how we try,
And be swept along like seaweed
Towards the eastern sky.
Friday will dawn
And we'll smile our
Smile of happy lovers, lost
In the glow of who they are.
By Saturday, our love
Will need its own expression
In energetic release
Of more than conversation
And, like a thunderous
Wild, mad storm,
We'll rock this makeshift dinghy
And be drifting along - Suspended,
Hanging, in the air -
Floating, almost
Upon the love we've shared.

Numbers

Some numbers mean a lot
And some mean nothing much
And others merely represent
Abstract things and thoughts.

Some numbers are sweet
Like the two of us
Or the three servings of sauce
Or the eleven o'clock deadline
That keeps getting extended
Or the 6.30 - 7 a.m. wake up call
Or a single pink candle
Two days past its due date
For a new year, all our own.

Some numbers are hopeful
Like a hundred years
Of a beautiful love
That is and was and always will be
Meant to be.

Some numbers are cruel,
Like the ones that stop you from eating
Or the limits imposed upon us
To keep our hearts from beating.

Some numbers are fearful,
Like the hundred years
Until a future,
Although that's come down
To ninety-seven or maybe even ninety, now.

Some numbers are powerful
While others seek to control you
And these should be avoided
Or we'll lose you to forty two.

But all numbers -
Whether big or beautiful,
Whether small or scary
Whether high or hip of hairy -

All numbers are meaningless alone -
A set of squiggles without real form -
(As am I, if we're honest)
Without meaning and you