She has only ever inspired me,
conspiring with such passion within me, imbuing every inch of this flesh with the keenest and cruelest desires.
And I, poor needful soul that I am,
have only ever clinging adored her, imploring my baleful beloved Luna for one night more in her arms.
Yet now, she peaks at me disdainfully
behind these distant dreamy clouds allowing me nothing more than the memories of her I desparately treasure.
Oh my dearest soul, mournfully
do I invoke you on bended knee, bowing graciously, gravefully, come to me, for you have made of me
truly a lunatic, completely unhinged,
ready to leap from this terrible height if only for the impossible chance of touching you one last time.
The ghost of spring wanders here,
aimless and anxious and waiting to be reborn in small immaculate petals.
With tiny timid steps it traverses
winter’s indifferent graying skies longing to repaint the world verdurous.
How lithely it will bend itself to the task,
its eager fingers caressing these hills, birthing blues and greens and such blessings.
I watch, and everywhere I go here,
each trembling step I take into this winter, I see you—the very image of spring!
For in you fecund hope finds a wondrous home.
In you is life and laughter without equal, and a beauty that deftly reaches beyond time.
Winter in Göreme, Turkey (Nov 2021)
A mist shrouds this ancient land
as the gloaming grays the skies in ashen pink hues that stubbornly refuse to reveal all that I know must be there.
Where are the gossamer threads
of light glancing gleeful off the water? Where the playfully sauntering greens that grin from each layering leaf?
But the richest colors I have ever known
silken sweep across your cheeks, descending deftly down your hair like the wondrous warm russet of dawn,
the ever rising intimacy of the sun’s
first light before which even the gods— curating creators of all we behold— humbly bow in worshipful obeisance.
The welcoming warm sunlight
wavers over these eager paths piercing simmering shadows illuminating ambitious need.
Peaking cedars point envious
crowns towards the heavens where cooing doves glimmer as they float on penciled wings.
In the years that spread before me
loom shapes and shades only barely discernible, yet somehow staggering my uncertain steps.
Yet what I see most clearly of all
imbued with the most vibrant tones that singing shimmer across my heart is the gift of joy you blessed me with.
And for that
I will always be grateful.
There is a song that stays
playing through my thoughts so compellingly calling me that I cannot help but soulful sing it aloud again and again wherever I may be and whoever might hear, following each and every note as it teases my memories from their reluctant slumber, drawing needfully my thoughts into a most insistent longing.
And I welcome it.
The voice of my soul sings to it,
as I youthfully caper and dance and delight in the zealous joy that such a melody instills. The sounds are like colors, painting fields and flowers and the dreaming deepest woods, and even a distant strand where feet dive deep into the sand, and laughter splashes over the waves. You are the song I love to sing, the song that urges me to hope and desire, and to moonlight that glows across your so beautiful face.
there are strands of time
that are effortless to follow as they wrap themselves gently meaningfully around my heart tugging teasing me forward to discover in the midst of all that is common around me that which is truly majestic
those moments now bid me pause
and wonder at the pleasure of far more than a memory but an enduring vision of sensual you in summer enchanted, like the kiss of a sunlit day blessed by the barest glimpse of the eager adoring moon
painting pouting petals tickling timid toes
dripping ice cream digging in the dirt
whispering wonders singing so sweetly
reflecting such beauty tendering honest tears
offering the biggest boldest love of all
God, how I miss you,
my little dears
My wee Cooper, Asena, and Leona Ellington
Life thins her
tearing across her skin, shreds of being trickling down down like rivulets of blood that never cease to flow.
Time wears her
bears down upon her, bending her over, molding, forcing her on with merciless intent, or without purpose at all.
Man abuses her
refuses her voice, rejects the veracity of her very being while craven crawling between her taut thighs.
She sings her!
She rises and rages and whispers a wondrous vision that none can deny, so vibrant and whole despite the scars.
because of them.
With the encouragement of some dear friends here on WP, here is me reading “the bravest of all,” a verse I composed inspired by my past and by dear Allison Marie Conway from her beautiful collection Luminae.
Too timid these steps
as I cross over pushing gently through unseeing crowds showering nothing of the silence I crave, fearful of the throng.
They dance and sway,
and I, staring at the sand glistening around my feet plead not with her but with my own heart for a chance to live this one moment whole.
I see her standing there,
her back bare beneath the adoring moon, pursued by many, loved so richly, but by none so passionately as by trembling me.
Which is perhaps why I turn
and trace my steps back into the town, the sounds of the players fading behind me, loathing once more this poorly forged heart.
Coward that I am,
my hands shaking as I order another drink knowing all too well that the bravest of all are the ones who feel everything.
I have known death well enough,
known it as most have— from a safe distance, and yet have felt it intimately and oh so painfully.
When my mother passed
I was lying exhausted having rushed that awful distance to see her one last time.
I cringed at how incapable
it—I!—all seemed, her lying there quite probably not hearing my quavering voice.
And when my mother-in-law died,
I was in a train casually traveling back to her side without even knowing that it was too late.
Yet now there is this—you—
mo ghràidh, facing a loss all your own and here this distant I quite trembling can only wish you well,
and hope beyond reason perhaps
that you may feeling sense any regard, any warmth this my aging heart can most eagerly offer you,
to hold your so tender heart
as it breathes again.