thinking of you

gypsy

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thinking of you
flapping flocks of gypsy moths
dusting, hustling, surrounding
her insides under epidermis
soft silken contact from
paper thin petals of flight
just like front seat
at county’s fair
largest rollercoaster
ready to dip down
on crest of clanging metal track
each clink pulling higher
and then
release
with wild storms
swelling inside
stirring and tickling
but she was right here
in her kitchen over poured coffee
dash of cream
and smelling corn dogs
funnel cakes
hearing carney’s bark
“winner winner chicken dinner”
and her belly doing flip flops
just the same
all because
she thought of you

found

big kiss

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found
in one shared look
both know
the electricity stored,
building up over
days of weeks of months
will reach the other
magnets
his head tilts to find her
her hand finds his face
their lips soft and separate
find each other
static sparks as lips part
tongues greeting for the first time
slow dancing to their music
graceful strokes
to the melodic motion
of wet warmth washing over
their lost hearts
in finally finding
each other

de facto

plat

de facto
by the book, were it to be
i would be sealed envelope
left on counter
never posted
never sent
de jure would dictate
my heart’s place and plans
follow to that letter
what had been sworn and stated

but de facto ordains
in matters of this wild will
and our star bound destination

i did not
star light, star bright
my itinerary
it found me
surveyed my plot in space
drew out our shared borders
you next to me
me beside you

in registry
the deed plotted and recorded
on paper with the courthouse clerk

when

in practice
that plot of me
i’m actually yours

*When choosing a subject to photograph for this poem, I knew immediately it would be a survey of my dad’s.  When I went through his house after he passed he had kept every survey he had ever created.  I got it.  It is art, his art.  They are truly beautiful in their precision and intricacy.  It was so hard to throw away those pieces, but he had literally tens of thousands of them.  I kept a few.  This one was one easily accessible and special to me.  It is the survey he did for my grandmother’s land after she passed and the land was split into 3 parcels for her three sons.  

oasis

Well

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oasis
her heart shining and twisting
all at one second glimpse
one singular moment
stopped in time’s well
waterlogged with longing
bubbled bobbles from below
but under the water of want
is the warmth of know
smile on the face of still water
calm in the well’s bucket
pulled up one length at a time
his face all she needed sometimes
to remind her to drink
from the well of life
not to let it drown her
for he was always
her oasis

life’s goodness sometimes whispers

Blooming

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life’s goodness sometimes whispers
i feel like your heart is hurting
so my heart is aching too
i can’t explain why i feel it
all i know is i just do

i really can’t explain it
i was only cooking day’s last meal
but i have this uncanny thing
about tapping into how other’s feel

i wish i could reach out to you
tell you all is not dark
that life’s goodness sometimes whispers
when everything seems stark

that “the sun will rise tomorrow”
i know that’s so cliche
not quite as corny as
“tomorrow’s another day”

but these are real truths
that sometimes get us through
even when it’s dreary
you always have a friend in you

the most important thing to have
that love of who you are
i know that you have it
and that will take you far

farther than this sadness
farther than this gloom
your rose may seem to have thorns
but it will always bloom

Dear Santa

List

Dear Santa,
I don’t make lists anymore
as usually you only hit 3, maybe 4
and then you wonder if you lost
because some big things got tossed.
But since it’s time for Christmas lists
I can try to give you a little gist
of my heart’s wants, my burning desires.
What stokes my coals and lights my fires.
I get turned on by compassion and grace,
the kind you see on someone’s face.
And not just for me,
for him and her and he and she.
I gave that up one time before,
so, that’s one thing I’m looking for.
But you have that old dear Santy.
I have seen it sitting up on your knee.
Other things you have already brought me
And need not leave underneath my tree –
The way you love me cannot be beat,
at least, you know, when you’re being sweet.
You listen and care and really attend
You’re my jolly old elf, my lover, my friend.
What I do desire is one with a voice.
Will let me speak, but can make a choice.
Take control of any scene.
Take control of me, if you know what I mean.
Yet, has his gentle tender side
and maybe to everyone else it hides,
but alone with me and our shared breaths
the exteriors fall to the depths.
A heart that can speak
and wants that can freak.
But I can’t let this go away.
I want this still, come what may.
This archaic mode we hold so dear,
And I don’t care who can peer.
Santa, baby, I like writing you letters.
I think it can only make things better.
Even when we can be together
It can get us through any weather.
I’m like you, babe, I can share,
but in writing make you even more aware
of wants, desires, aches, and needs.
So, while communication has to lead,
this is one way to know our truth
as long as we don’t have to be a sleuth.
Trying to figure out what’s hid
and knowing that asking’s not forbid.
And speaking of that which is naughty –
of you and me and our bodies –
I have plenty of ideas and thoughts.
Don’t mind at all out of the box.
Stealing time, hope no one sees,
darkened alley or amongst the trees.
Crazy love, not just laying flat,
but I need another poem to get into all that.
I can say a kiss, tops the list.
The one, you know, that doesn’t exist.
Old St. Nick now you have a list to see,
so, what’s on your Christmas list for me?

pendulum’s pull

Night Sky

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pendulum’s pull
glowing orbs in midnight
tied throughout tick of time’s hands
each swing of pendulum’s arm
closing the gap, gathering gossamer
as it is no longer needed
once the brilliance
of the other awoke them
there was no longer
closing of curtain,
dimming of light,
falling back into night’s dark sky
they saw each other
aware now of their tether
neither wanted length, only tenor
awaiting the oscillation drawing them nearer
listening to metronome
appeased by its peaceful pulse
and knowing soon enough
the thread would be gone
because they would be one