Night Beauty

Night Beauty

Latimer Reef Lighthouse offered its
beacon of hope to any wayward boat
as a gesture to warn away.

Perhaps as an accusatory finger
to admonish the embarrassed
pleasure boater – what were you
out there doing, dinner is waiting,
hurry along.

I.

Imagined you were still by my side,
remembering our warm embrace, the
smell of ocean, beach grasses, and
sand. I shifted, hoping that upon
next I turned you would be there.

The darkness was softened by the
glow of billions of stars
immeasurable, their suns and the
great expanse of galaxies linked
by what appears as powdered sugar
or cotton candy in the heavens.

Stringing the bursts of light together
creating a vast backdrop of beauty
fraught with hidden dangers. Black
sky as background, the inky
blackness of ocean serve to muster
the beauty of your face in my mind
as plain as the waves being clearly
exposed by the finger of light each
time Latimer turned to beam in my
direction.

I shift again, I remembered as I put
my face in your hair, always you
wanted excuse its fragrance as not
having been washed recently.

To me the smell is like the most
desirable fruit, the cloths hung upon
the line and then falling face first
into them, with squeals of delight
like happy children.

I saw the caps of the breaking waves
as the beacon of light turned to me
again and pointed, you you.

In my mind…

I helped you lay back upon our old
blanket, drawing close to your face
I saw the stars reflecting deeply in
your eyes. Depths I had never
imagined were projected; now held
in my arms grasp.

Latimer gave you a glimpse of my
smile, you smiled in return. We
were one during that time. I think
the waves sang and the old
lighthouse peeked from time to time
as the stars in your eyes and in the
universes above winked approval.

I wanted you in my life, your soft
passion contrasting with mine.
Your tender love enveloped and
gently overcame my desire for
fierce burning hasty passion.

You taught me patience as I
became your answer of desire
to the complex issues involving the
intricacy of romance in today’s
bustling society.

I felt we both were compliments to
each other as needs were exposed
and life seemed to mount as bricks
on hod that must be carried up the
ladder at a construction site. The
work is grueling, but necessary
to get the job completed.

Our love is like the scene before
the first brick is set, the bricklayer
ensures the foundation is right, uses
string line and plumb bob to obtain
a level and using mud sets it to
begin laying his first course of
brick.

Layer after layer this thing of beauty
comes, stack upon row must brick
after brick run.

Last I saw as you sat beside me
was your hair dancing to the run
of the wind as the sea was music
and old Latimer directed its
spotlight upon you as you were the
star each time it passed.

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The Dream

The dream is to be treasured,
more than gold, of secrets
and places where anything goes.

Valuable more than diamonds,
guarded more than pearls,
Sheiks would sell their Kingdoms
to live forever within those worlds.

They come to us unbidden by idea
or by chance, within their hidden
beauty lies terror or romance.

We can fly from planet to planet
or scale the most dangerous of
peaks; we can become all things
beautiful no matter our physique.

We can be light as feathers, as
we barely touch the ground, within
the dream our name can be Odin or
What Ever, perhaps Even A. Round.

With some terror, upon the ledge
we stand as suddenly and without
warning. Under bright skies toward
dark dreams rapid fire on mark as
time flashes by from night to
morning.

Dare say we stand by our own
graves as we grieve alone in
mourning; or make joyous
gurgling when we see ourselves
aborning.

Having graduated at the top of
our class, so esteemed and of
noble parentage be. We after
Oxford, Cambridge or MIT;
a hermit decide to be.

Dreams carry us beyond the stars
past Nebula’s and honorable
little Pluto’s gravitational
pull. I should know, I have
stood upon its small face so
elegant and tiny a place where
starlight is the only light and
night is the only companion.

Dreams launch me into the vast
depths of sea and ocean blues.
I have traversed the great depths
where the pressures are frightening
while learning to converse with a
Mermaid who speaks only Greek or
Latin. She showed me her greatest
treasure which was a pair of
women’s waterlogged shoes.

She spoke of dreams as a dry
lander being when her legs were
instantly revealed; tried on
the shoes a perfect fit as I
smiled and wedding bells pealed.

Immediately, I stood in the
desert where I searched for
lost treasure, where life and
death were granted freely
each with equal measure.

She was there again my
Mermaid beauty as though her
place must near sand;
gains not withstanding, a
space craft came to land.

We hastily boarded as a fire
breathing Dragon dove, hissing
as it missed. We hit the boosters
and swoosh were quick lifters
seeking a safe view from orbit.

She was so close I stole a
small kiss from her cheek,
she turned and kissed my lips
in Ernest who magically appeared
a former friend I held dear;
though I don’t recall ever having
a friend named Ernest.

His lips were soft too and of
a sensuous blue hue, that I
kissed him sincerely in return
which prompted us to land back
in the desert and I yelled we
best run, as a dragon was due
any moment.

Rages

Rages

 

Hello sweet darling such words are often well known,

where with the Spring’s warm wet kisses and winds

that blow from southern lands far below.

 

We as men do at times take leave of our senses as

the air is rife with thoughts of love ergo.

 

You as the breath of Summer kneeling warm to the

touch and with muted desires do you feel are not

worth stealing.

 

Love’s tangled knots and confusion thrown about

often leaves mens minds without feeling; as we shake

forth the very Earth for your favor which the loser finds

fleeting.

2.397 Seconds

2.397 Seconds

It is ritual, perhaps an act of
reassurance to make neat that
which feels askew.
It is centuries old this action that
crosses genders to me for that
2.397 seconds it was love anew.

It began with a rise of your hand
as the other was resting atop the
divide that to me seemed as though
it placed you on the other side of
the Grand Canyon.

My role in this was as an observer
who, quietly, faithfully admires an
honors you.

What felt you as the hand brushed
across your head as it seemed
for only a brief time span as it was
captured in that moment?

How can you know of the heart that
froze in loves swirling maelstrom
when in your life the act was most
likely forgotten whereas to me
it was an unforgettable proponent.

To me, a spring board of loves
continuing renewal. So wonderfully
pure, innocent and serene while
blanketing my heart in all things
this passion – as it is oft to do
when time and events bring us near
all I can do is give you the
greeting of the day.

My station is not to bring attention
to how lonely this heart in its desire
wanting the warmth of your body
to feel its strength, to cradle it in
the warmth of your hands – is this so
out of fashion?

I could sense the ridges of your hand
tingle slightly at first touch of hair
that yields as does soft cotton
candy as it molds beneath the touch
of hands before melting on an eager
tongue. Each follicle responds as
each hair is disturbed, shifting
ever so slightly and seizing that
moment to stimulate briefly the
nerves that surround each hair root.

Tickling tingling in response to the
touch movement of hand upon hair
perhaps it is a conditioned response
perhaps a response or action when
certain stimuli are present – act
initiated, action forgotten,
act completed. Who would give a hoot?

Being said fervently positively
earnestly honestly did I add
remarkably candid hold true, I
would do you an ill turn if I had
not visualized then analyzed
the event as I told you.

Shortly after putting pen to paper
and finger to keyboard did loves
struggle bear fruit upon soft pages.

Moon Burst

image-33Day touches your face even through the
night sky, lonely though you must be
from so much time passing by.

Beacon of hope to travelers upon the sea,
for land travelers you might be loathed
for making their paths seen.

Darkness rules the mane of your hair,
inky black a carpet of beauty upon
which you rest your head.

From a distance you seem clean
shaven, while close reveals stubble
and craggy the face that’s adored.

Many have desired to touch your
face, only few have done so and
returned unscathed.

Long is the fascination regarding
your beauty, foolishly marred as
though it is a duty, to poke, blast,
or drill as if its a right; not
protesting seen as if its alright.

Who stands with you to determine
what is good what is right, should not
your land belong to all citizens, and
should we as a whole determine who
jabs this or sinks that into your face
so old.