An Observation On Love

The moon springs without prologue
on the unsuspecting sky
but does not carom
its' way through stars, rather
gently sweeps aside
a passage, horizon to horizon,
its wake fills silently in,
and even self-absorbed observer I
have not failed to notice
this delicate movement mimics
loves' entry to a mortal soul.

Paradoxically Speaking

(Of The Love/Hate Relationship With Addiction)

More than twenty thousand
sunsets to his credit,
some chased westward
prolonging the delight
into that which is abroad,
added to his tales of errantry
in a wilderness of fright.

Noel

These lonely pinpoints
venture forth, taking positions
in the deepening indigo.
Their numbers grow imperceptibly
'til the sky has swelled
to bursting with the glory
of their ranks.
And on That night
their number, eclipsed
by a heavenly host,
bade welcome to a babe,
the light of the world.

Resentments

The crippled beast of resentment
beats Rat-a-Tat-Tat hailstones,
mixed among the driving rain.

Snowflakes

Winter's secret beauty
born within the grey
of stormy clouds,
formless vapors crystallized
to miniature glassine sculptures
unique beyond comprehension,
drift earthward to linger a season
and cleanse a soul in reflection
on a singular Creator.

Soul Discomforts

We were free to choose,
or so they said. The heart
now afraid to leave her shell
requires warranties as well
as a performance bond,
where once it was acceptable
to be merely fond,
and feeling that fidget in the soul
invite someone for a stroll.
Those desires that become need
to loose contained spirits
and inspire bold deed,
lead roundabout
in ever-tightening spiral.
Only then
can we hear
it's plaintive viral
cry for full freedom
again.

The Pretentious I

The first person,
not being Love's enemy,
requires an awakening
to the full potential of "I."
Not professing to know you,
I do know I.
I am. . . I will. . . I do. . .
The possibilities of being,
promising, acting
require another focus,
an other focus.

Fog

You, the chaste cousin
to the malodorous blanket
that smothers cities,
I am delighted
to dally with you today,
that you've been lured
to visit once again.

My Friend's Roommate

It is said she died
of chilblains
though her heart
had long since ceased
to generate warmth.

A Dollar

Today I gave someone
a piece of my mind.
I couldn't really spare it.
I also gave a homeless person
a dollar I really might
have put to (better) use.
I feel good about the dollar.

Recovery Poem 4

Who, now seeing her so happy,
can imagine her so lost,
so confined within disquietude?
And as for him?
Why, he goes on, too,
relatively unfettered.
The brute of epic nightmare,
having paid homage
to convention and law
can think himself humanistic
and see, again,
the natural poetry
of every relationship.

Recovery Poem 3

Being as a mirror answers,
yet still a chimera
in the dense companion
that is my mind,
getting to know my character
for its more pleasant side,
I can forget, momentarily,
a season when I hurt me badly.
Totally forgiving?
Would that I were.
I plague me still
but no longer call me bonehead.

Chaos Theory

I wish to believe in chaos,
yet over time little is truly random.
And ultimately, even my thoughts
form a pattern
and words emerge.

Fancied Thoughts

Poets write of ages,
describing unadulterated felicity
with plenary simplicity,
of summers lasting through the year,
or perfect love that casts out fear,
and wisdom of the sages.
There's no famine, pain or calamity,
man and beast live in amity,
with no shortage of gold,
no one grows old,
skies will always be blue
and every man to his dear will be ever true.

Recovery Poem 2

Born to flirt
and write light verse
he grew more gray
each passing day.
Ever adroit with words
and quick to pursue
some bohemian triumph
that would never have occurred
of women to value,
his self just didn't fit, exactly,
as a shadow across broken ground
in late afternoon seems a caricature
of it's caster.
Nimble with objects, less so with lives,
those areas he found wanting
his God began to heal
in a most merciful act of Love,
deeming him complete,
a man.

No Longer Innocent

Few can remember,
clearly, when innocence
came to a sudden end,
the moment at which we ask
for the first time;
"Am I loved?"

Leaving Home

Clouds race across the ceiling
above the now-fallow vegetable-growing
alluvial plain I call home.
It's come to grow on me,
Salinas has, yet there's not
a bookstore to be found.
The crops and crowds flee
for the holidays, follow the thermals south
as geese seeking feed.
And I, frivolous wordling,
begin my plans to follow.

Words of Love

Were I Frost, or Neruda ,
ambitious words to love define
would drench my page.
But the haze that veils
as a shutting door, a wordless voice,
leaves Love's pleasure, and Love's pain
without me to explain.
Yet be assured of this,
had I them they would be yours
expressed cheek to cheek
and dear to dear.

Older

Older today (maybe some-the-wiser),

and recalling similar eve's

walking arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand,

heart-in-heart,

and discovering time's passed
unbeknownst,

but happy now,

though no longer near,

fulfilled this moment,

loved or endured.

Recovery Poem 1

On rabbit-trail paths
through scarring brier
thought's value seems diminished,
it's office grudgingly performed,
and actions deliberately chosen
lead to fells impassable.
I turn home now
no stranger to trials,
endurance now enabled,
uncontented to lie still.
What ugly feast my foe celebrates,
he will not have me today;
Rapacious creditor?  Indeed!

Language Problems

Each of us speak
in a local dialect all our own,
that alters with time and circumstance.
So why do you not understand
of what I think?

On The Days You're Not Here

On the days you're not here

They serve doughnuts,

Laughter punctuates conversations,

People stock and empty shelves,

And fish are caught.

Friends greet and lovers kiss,

Homes are built, tables are bussed,

Children learn geography

And deliveries are made

On the days you're not here.

On the days you're not here

Lawns get mowed,

Cancers will be treated,

Cars are repaired, jets fly

And prayers are said.

Tears stain cheeks and hopes are born,

Dogs will bark, tennis is played,

Mothers hold infants,

And poetry is written, and read

On the days you're not here.

Fate's Jealous Eye

I watch the world
drink in the night's romance.
How quickly I arrive
where my soul is fixed,
yet distance, and time,
drive wedges betwixt.
The jealous eye of Fate
sees perfect love and
therein places obstacles to union;
their union would be her ruin.

On a Cloudy Night

I stare fixedly at tonight's sky.
The glimmer I seek on high,
having been tucked away
behind the clouds that covered my day
presses darkness against a weary heart,
mass growing with time apart.

Stars

When the universe was new
He chose first to hang
sun , moon and stars.
He thought light first
for the night could never understand;
what knows the void of need,
of stars to guide the sailor's way,
or lovers hearts?
These clinquant alabaster chips
torn from the Pleiades, or Orion's belt,
streak the indigo
keenly aware the fate of men
who raise their sight to lofty goal.

Tidal Thoughts

The tides wax and wane,
a rhythm as old as time,
and it matters not which
for the cycle repeats itself.
And that which the tides bear
simply is, nothing more.

At The Beach

As deep calls to deep,
these waves of blue
gnash teeth of foam upon the sand
that hems my world -
a strand of light between two worlds -
and beckon me to sea,
taunting, a call to return home.

They, Some Thoughts on Life

He writes so boldly,
while suffering more from timidity
than anything physical;
the anemone closes
with the most gentle of human touch.
His, a guarded, orderly life
that lacks of emotional temerity.

And She,
she maintains that exquisitely delicate
(orchid-like) facade of completeness,
warm-sad eyes failing to conceal
a hunger, a thirst for an ardent love -
only her share, only that required
to sate a lifelong need.

Scarred they are,
and all the more beautiful for it,
their souls infused by the jasmine
of loves found, surrendered,
the wild sage of experiences
lived with and through another,
the sweetness of nameless sadness'
survived and grown through.

That Which Remains

Loves fire, burning so low
it could scarce be noticed in the dark,
and invisible to the bright of day;
Should all I value
be stripped away,
the treasure that glows,
when my heart dwells on her,
remains.

She

Before I knew her name
or ever heard that voice,
so soft as shapeless flame,
my love took limb,
for love must be flesh
or else could nothing be.

And She,
possessed of a sweetness
that is both promise
to the brave,
and a message
from radiant climes
is both answer to prayer
and destiny before me.

The Butterfly

How quickly
vanity will undo a man
sitting in an outpatient ward,
his, no minor ills
yet feeling worse
for the treatment
than its need.

Aware the ticking of the clock,
exchange of amiable words -
they never wear solid colors
in oncology,
always gaier prints
and smiles set
against hopeful eyes.

Apprehensions and myths
must be unravelled,
even thoughts deciphered,
delusions dislodged;
so many stories of survivors,
and remembrances of those gone.

The butterfly
has no consciousness of fear,
and sparrows dart without tear.
To man alone,
God's ultimate created,
is the grimness of the grave known.
Yet, there remains on my lips
a boatload of gold,
while I am found, too,
in the shadow of my tears.

Yosemite

Between sheer walls
Overhanging the meadows
And a river of memories,
You confront me
And break into my heart.

I've scaled your precipices,
Following the wind
Through and beyond your pines -
That crowd accompanies me -
As you bring me to you;
My refuge of sweetness.

For a season (a lifetime)
I lived in your womb:
This place - could it have eyes? -
Has seen through me
And seen me through
Though indifferent to my fate.
Why do I love you so?

A different light strips you
Through the day,
And joys other than mine
May lie against you,
Yet my search for harmony
Is ended in you.

Dreams of Dreams

The yellow moon, large and low,
Illum's the room, and your face,
Reveals the subtle flutter
Of your closed eyes.
Of what do you dream?

Faint breathy gasps escape those lips,
Murmurs of joys and fears,
And a voice less loud soughs
A single word made a secret to unfold.
Of whom is your vision?

You with radiant beams the heavens adorn,
In endless dance you move. In more ways than one
I'm martyred to a motion not my own -
The shapes a bright container holds.
Where are you tonight?

Parallel Lives

Parallel lives
performed in a common sandbox
relating to common activities,
yet played out alone
at two, or three.
Expecting to grow beyond,
I recall so many vignettes
without soundtrack,
parallel lives
shared without connection.

Our wings catch fire
in that downward spiral
arriving here in fear
we'll never fly again.
A desperate place, here,
heaven on earth,
where all desires rise
to greet in a fearful moment.
A small step, remembering
life's path
to a moment's hesitation
and love
that asks only nothing.

Time, and Dreams

Eight years ago
I turned my head for a moment....

and it became my life.

Last night I dreamt as I was sleeping -
Marvelous error! -
of a beehive inside my heart,
where golden bees
made sweet honey
from all my failures.

Ginsu

He tried to wave me off in his own way
my friend Bryan did.
But the beauty of a product demonstration
is the demonstrator,
and the value of a product
that wouldn't work that way for me
lay in golden moments we would share
before it took the end of my thumb.
You see - I didn't care
if I were a sucker,
or not.
Love can do that to you.

Stay a While

You of carefree smile,
Tips of small white teeth
Dividing plump blush lips,
Pause here, stay a while
With me, sit beneath
This evening sky that grips
Our hearts as though
We'd been laid bare,
Exposed for heav'n to see.
Stay here. Do not go.
This moment ever rare,
Dreamily vivid to me.

Love Pains

A mighty pain to love it is,
and 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
but of all the pains, the greatest pain
it is to love but love in vain.

Leisure of Mind

It's wistful,
the leisure of mind, to lean
on a fencepost and simply look,
and not feel the need to press
for a subtext,
being so rare.

Weary of Battle

Lionel shot himself,
Alvin did too.
Bryan is missing
For days none too few.

Cesar died
with needle in arm;
I pray , 'Dear God,
keep Richard from harm.'

Kenny's stroke,
John's cancer;
I demand to know,
'Where lies the answer?'

I've followed you Lord
as best I could;
so show me now,
just why I should.

You allowed me hope
and let me fall,
So hear me now,
Now! While I call!

If it's not
too much to ask,
Please, stop taking
me to task.

A Goodbye

They part at the edge of substance.
Henceforth, he will be shadow
in a land of shadow.
And she - she too will be going
slowly down a road of cloud,
weightless, untouched, untouching.
This is the last crossroad.
Her right hand in his left
are clasped, but already,
muffled in his acceptance of fate,
his attention recedes from her.
Her left hand rises, fingertips trace
the curve of his warm face
as it cools and fades.
He has looked down his road,
he is ready to go, not willingly
yet without useless resistance.
She too accepts the truth, there is no way back,
but she has not looked, yet, at the path
accorded to her. She has not given herself,
not yet, to her shadowland.

Doc

Holding court in his corner,
Exchanging pleasantries with many,
Courtesies with some,
Generous with a few;
Finely cut features and thinning gray
Top a threadbare well-cut coat
And ever-present tie,
Speak of generations gone, a genteel time,
Of a gracious life
Nearing sunset.
Powerful antique presence
With a laptop (it could never be a Mac),
And a medical book to the fore,
He sleeps now slumped,
And maybe dreams
Of gaier days.

Pairing Off

Again in conversations
Speaking of fear
Of throwing off reserve
The voice is nearer
But no clearer
Than first love
Than boy's imaginations
For every news
Means pairing off
In twos and twos
Another I
Another you

Redhead

An easy laugh turns her head,
Eyes that pale other blues -
The sea and the sky -
Spark clear and bright,
And draw me in a tender trap.

Cares brushed aside
By coppery tresses
Teased across porcelain features
By a breeze that mimics
Her delicate nature.

She is a dream,
Rare in its completeness,
And treasured for the sensations
That lighten my blues,
And brighten my days.

Waiting for You

Vivid cerulean eyes
Reveal a spirit,
A depth of soul
That compels I wait,
Propels my pen.


I would know you,
If allowed,
In the silly ways of childhood friends;
That you admire frogs and detest toads,
How many feathers you hold dear,
And why yellow makes you smile.

I would know you,
If allowed,
In the deepest ways of a confidante;
The secret fears that took years
To surface, a lifetime to reveal,
Those things that touch your soul.

I would know you,
If allowed,
In the delicate ways that in haste
Escape passionate young love;
The softness of your lips at first kiss,
The dewy sparkle of your eyes,
And that you blushed as you read these lines.

I would know you,
If allowed,
As the One would have me;
As your helper, leader, companion and mate,
As one who learned too late in life
The value of cherish,
the beauty of love.

Fauxbia

The deep and sonorous voice of
his defeatist self-talk was paternal,
and torturous,
reinforcing the force fed message,
"There is no happiness,
only gradients of misery,"
leaving him indifferent to the present,
careless of the future.

Reared in the shadows of perfection,
parental conflicts played out
as the "self-made men"
of a fathers' generation chased ambitions
beyond the cramped lives
of their own youth.

Affection and approval,
bestowed and withdrawn
by the performance scale;
he was a sundial
numbering only sunny hours,
with little of consequence to say,
a lucid, inquisitive and fertile mind.
His native endowment
a vivid sensibility for the beauty
of words.

He learned woman from
his quint-essential sisters
yet remained profoundly ignorant of women;
if love were happiness
it generated a loneliness
made all the more desperate
by the intimacy of severed connections.

Psychic numbness, and fauxbia,
yes, he feared being false,
had plunged him into darkness,
with his vision
of a minimum level of connectedness,
the raw ache of personal loss,
the empty feeling of helplessness.

Forced to live as that outsider
trapped inside a familys' feuds;
being bonded to survivors,
learning to live with the understanding
he would be jettisoned for others to survive:
emotional dishonesty became
necessary for survival.

Denial was the best defense
since he could change nothing
and repression had long since
ceased to offer relief;
he was too articulate
for that lie.

The tightly packed crowd
contained inside his head was
momentarily frozen by the question
"How to unlearn the lessons of his youth?"
To love and be loved, a necessary condition,
a prerequisite to a happiness
that could not exist?

Now, he works,
and writes,
and trusts in simple verities;
chaos, pacified by distance and routine,
serve to mitigate the sting
of realitys' reminder -
he'd found that so urgently sought,
only to have lost it in the finding.

An Old Horse

Like an ageing thoroughbred
Tests the reign, wanting more,
Wanting to run once again,
I am in envy, and in awe,
Of those I see who grasped
The mystery of life and love.

The rain on my window reveals
Vignettes of my life shining
Through a prismatic waterfall,
Ego inflating their importance
To enormous, and vital -
Though merely cozy, and small.

A life of rushing timidity;
I am fearful of seizing hold
Of a love so coveted -
A crush of conflicted absorptions,
A passing wave across the sand,
Its mystery in its simplicity.
Its mystery in its simplicity.

Her Eyes

Rolling her blue eyes against another blue,
the sea, or against the sky,
I cast my lonely thoughts into her ocean
where release, sweet release, begins to
subdue the bonfire of my soul.
The web of my cares fills with her grace,
Mysteries revealed, stretching
through time, thought and being.
If only she could touch my heart,
If only she would breathe into my soul,
her mouth next to mine,
Warming the corridors frozen by the rain,
darkened by too many sundowns alone.
Like the end of a long absence,
like a sudden bell, her glance
claws its way into my consciousness,
shattering a reverie;
A dawning of the spirit,
awakening a too-long slumbering soul.

What Is Poetry?

Poetry happens when an emotion finds its thought, and that thought finds words.
- Robert Frost

All the words that I utter,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come to where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm-darkened or starry bright.

Yet Another Silly Poem

You walked lightly into my life
Captivating and lovely to my mind,
At first, I did not know who you were.
Now I don’t know who I am without you.
You kissed me
I felt my world change,
You held me
I heard my heart awaken,
You loved me
And my soul was born anew

You walked lightly into my life
Now my heart knows who you are
And with every breath
And every step
I take down lonely roads,
Your hand is my staff
Your voice is my guide
Your strength my shelter
Your passion my awakening.

You walked lightly into my life,
And all my pain
You took as your own,
And all my fears
You cast into the sea,
All my doubt
Lost in your eyes,

You walked lightly into my life
And no matter if you choose to stay or go,
My life is forever changed,
Just because you loved me
For a moment in time.
And because I choose
To love you
For the rest of mine.

I Fool Myself

Love! you dealt a bitter blow,
To lay me cross the mortal plains,
Bedewed, bedimmed amongst a cloud
To weep at my enduring foe
Of harsh reality - the searing pains of
Destiny: dependable propensity
To fool myself repeatedly,
That I can ever triumph over love!

In My Life

In a wilderness of mirrors,
truths concealed behind reflections,
of reflections, of reflections,
I must be who I am
or be rendered insensate
by repeated assaults on core beliefs.

Enlightenment comes slowly,
questions with increasing rapidity,
but the search for answers
always brings a finding -
great mysteries shrouded
in complete simplicity.

A line of birds silhouetted
by a descending, golden sun
dance across the waves,
and I summon distant memories
of those times, that life we shared,
when we walked hand in hand
through the surf's break.

I could die a little each day,
the waiting killing me,
but I've lived in that cage,
too long marking days
by the passing of damaging emotions;
the loss of compassion
putting a hard edge on a life
now softened by eyes
that reignite a zeal,
brought forth in a single being,
a solitary caress.

The Coffee Blonde

Blonde and breathless,
And a flurry of curls;
A whirlwind of activity
Flowing from hither to fro -
Yet simple, uncomplicated,
Elegant, beautiful.

The window casts a light
On the delicate white
Curve of her neck,
Setting tresses ablaze
And there falling lights strong hands
Caught in simple service.

What innumerable follies
Lay waste my thoughts;
This everyday image
Calling me through soul silence,
Catching me as I read
And pen these lines.

Cycles

She rose above her surroundings,
As if by nature,
hair of burnished bronze
Seemingly hand rubbed to a fine luster.

Eyes blue and bright
As the skies overhead -
Sparkling eyes
That mirror the meadows dew.

She was large-hearted,
And merry, and frank
Because of her fearlessness,
of her consciousness of power.

Yet change set in,
With prosperity and adversity,
New faces coming,
Old ones departing.

And the next cycle,
On which none can impact,
Creates a new colony,
Fortunes repeated from the last.

Freeze This Moment

We were sitting on a hillside
Staring at the skies
The sun was dipping lower
I looked into your eyes
You saw what I was feeling
I know you felt it too
We wanted time to just stand still
Then forever there'd be me and you
Why can't we freeze this moment?
Return to it in time?
Stay together through the years
Proclaim I'm yours and you are mine?
So let us freeze this moment
Store it safely away
Even if we leave this place
We'll return to it someday

A First Kiss

Got a kiss from a pretty girl!
It lingers on my lips.
It caught me off guard
But not by surprise,
It came as much from her mouth
As from her eyes.

A Meager Life

Rain on my roof
Drowns the ocean,
And obfuscates the vision
Of my dreams.

Oatmeal and tea,
Poetry and prose,
Grace and love
My comforts.

It is enough,
You know;
A meager and
Beleaguered life.

Untitled Memory #1

The hasty kiss of youth impatient,
Like the cold north winds' blow,
Leaves want of summers' breeze,
Of lingering warmth in soul.

Natural Forces

I have felt the pull of the moon
Bearing against my body
As it draws the ocean
With a force irresistible.

I know the weight of water in a stream
Pressing relentlessly in its course,
Carving through rock and reducing
Stone to pebble to sand to silt.

I have dreamt dreams of falling,
Fearlessly, from heights unknown,
Rushing to some eternal abyss
With the speed of light.

Such forces as define physics
And nature and dreams
Are all eclipsed by this -
That power called love.

Untitled Memory #2

Your whole body holds a goblet
Of gentle sweetness destined for me.
When I let my hands climb
In each place I find a dove
That was looking for me, as if
My love, He had made you of clay
For my very own potters hands.

Your knees, your breasts, your waist
Are missing in me, like in the hollow
Of a thirsting earth,
Where they relinquish a form,
And together we are complete
Like one single river,
Like a single grain of sand.

In Third Person

He was that carpenter,
the one who walked behind the coffin
dry-eyed;
He never had made a name for himself.
And then his feet no longer moved,
because, poor and tired, he had died.

Already, other feet walked in his footsteps,
those other feet still him,
those other hands his as well.
But yet, he persisted
when it seemed he must be spent.
He was the same man again,
he was once again different and the same.

Only when that broken man was able
did he come back to life,
remaining unnoticed.
He was that man allright,
and he no longer stood out
from the others,
others who were himself.

He gave away his existence,
that was all.
He had never been contained
in a song,
or by his mortal form.
He went somewhere else to work,
and ultimately he went toward death
until he existed only
in what he left behind;
tree-lined boulevards
he would not be aware of,
wooden homes he would not inhabit again.

And I come back to see him,
and every day I wait.
I still see him,
in his coffin and resurrected.
I pick him out from all the others
who are no less his equals.

And it seems to me
that this cannot be,
that this way leads us somewhere,
that to continue is recovery.
I believe that heaven
must emcompass this man
living happy, joyous and free.

Sense-ual Experiences

I hold my sight most dear,
For I cannot smell your graceful form,
Nor feel your eyes return my gaze,
Though I think at times I can hear your smile
I cannot taste it from afar.

But could I forgo the melody of your voice?
That sweet softness has neither form nor taste.
And to see you mouth, 'I want you'
May create quite the stir,
But awakening to 'Sweetheart'
Resonates with my soul.

Could I profane my senses by giving up your scent?
Florals and lotions compete for attention
With what is woman ,
trigger thoughts, and emotions,
and memories dear.

I would not choose a flavorless life,
Unfamiliar with your tasty kisses,
Unacquainted with the saltiness
Of the nape of your neck,
The saltiness of your breasts
In passions grip.

Whatever could possess me to surrender your feel?
Soft and warm, cool and firm,
A kaleidoscope of textures, and temperatures,
And tactile bliss.
No, I choose not to surrender this.
I choose not to surrender these.

Love Lost

Drawn together, seemingly predestined,
freewill nothing but illusion,
a love so infinitely rare -
a random wave of emotion
to be surfed to its destination?
No, a power sublime,
surpassing that force binding the universe.

Were there ever more, or more intense
emotions rushing at once,
to weigh and buoy a heart?
Your touch a great clarifier of thought and feeling.
Restraint overcome,
replaced by the capacity to love
that stems from being loved.

Life flashing before me, its
realization of misshapen thought,
misspent years changing everything;
now understanding the true worth,
this offer of life unencumbered.

Every day a gift, every moment to savor,
a license to enjoy life on unfamiliar turf,
nothing more than fearless-
when that felt at night,
when we are all most alone,
a fear so great to be called mortal terror,
made powerless by your touch.

Studying your face feature by feature,
could I ever forget your eyes,
the luster of your hair,
the shape of your mouth,
the sheen on your lips.
This sum of love and beauty
encompassing a dream;
our lives before us.

Thoughts held in mind
reproduced in their kind,
love growing, ever expanding;
your inherent goodness found me in me,
showing what I might be
taught the value of family,
and roots.

In simplest terms my life began that day
though I'd lived decades without.
To see those eyelids flutter,
to watch and pray through the night
that I could fulfill my role as husband,
to be your lifelong companion,
friend, advocate, lover, protector-
that you would understand cherish-
and be a wife satisfied.

How long since we last kissed,
but a moment ago, or an eternity?
Oh, the sense of ineffable rest,
joy and completeness when in your arms;
a lover won, a wife to behold.

The commonplace,
the everyday, behind its familiar facade
being most likely to hold surprise,
the memories to treasure;
rejecting an existence
that substitutes flash for beauty,
sensation for love-
as long as there is life there is hope
that beauty, that love lost
can be rediscovered,
what was reviled
can be redeemed.