Fragile Flower

My delicate love, in your days of life,
such strength you showed standing upright
as a challenge, as a stand;

you grasp with all your might, clinging
to your small spot of land.

I passed and daily did I admire such as was
displayed by your strength, sheer beauty;

I could not understand how as grass and
weeds were trampled all around, you stood
straight, fragile–not tall.

You wavered not, challenging all dangerous
movements upon which you stood; the ground.

Courtesy of

Courtesy of


Sea Dreamer

   I loved her. It was enough. 1749 seemed a difficult time for making a life for one’s self; not to mention a home, and family. The many self owned businesses manufactured gin and as a living was to be made from that.  Some people, me included preferred to earn my livelihood as had my father and his father before him. The love of the sea and its profits could make any man feel good about his work, and a modest profit besides. She was not yet with child and my heart knew that try as I might time and fortune would answer that riddle. She was most beautiful and was the answer to my hopes for someone who would share my life dreams and hopes.

   She was of a modest height coming to the bottom of my shoulder, her hair was the color of cured straw and her face held tender lips and eyes that were soft as the coming dawn. My mind drew comfort from being her husband. As such I was pleased that she kept house and was willing to quietly urge me to assist in chores that were not normally those of a man. Bear in mind, that this is between we men and are really not of a mind to shout from the rooftops those things our wives are able to encourage us to do. Things like tending the garden, and painting the house and such.

Mind you men folk, keep this to yourself.

She helped me as a fisherman, by aiding me to pull the boat from the beach and down to the water’s edge. I loved the strength I saw in her body, hair flying askew; legs and the beautiful arches of her feet as she strained and sweated along with me to float the tool of our livelihood to sea. I often enjoyed watching her mend the nets and she was more than able to do such work. She is the day to my night. I see her as a life mate for me. My purpose to provide for her was manifest. By my willingness to don a large warm sweater she knitted and row out into the sea where our fortunes awaited, was the greatest gift I felt as a man I could undertake.

Her world was my world. She was very special, almost unique. It is noted that from Eccles on Sea to Waxham she was known for her abilities in healing. I know nothing of those arts, but I am inclined to say that since they do well; they can not be bad. My love for her clouded my reason at times and in this manner I was content. She was demanding only to this extent that we have one day of the week and the odd holiday for our time spent just for the two of us. I could not see the harm as this gave me time to enjoy the forest which we both loved or the beach which we loved with equal measure. We would oft times walk, or picnic and finding a secluded area we loved with a hunger as though our lives were too short. She is beauty personified by the radiance of the sun; she is the pale underside of the leaves which contrast themselves against the gray skies of the incoming North Sea storm. She is the warmth and softness of the gentle spring sun. Her lips hold the moisture of the summer rains and her skin smells like flowers and her touch as kind as the innocent ewe seeking milk from its mother.

    I see her as my soul mate. I prayed that one day we would need not work so hard but live as the gentle folk in Surrey. My day at sea was to row out several miles and not return until my barrel was filled with salted fish. I left before sunup and sometimes returned after sundown. Always, she was there with lantern as I departed I could see her as I rowed east or the same as I rowed back upon returning toward the west. I could only refer to her position but she held true and never wavered. Upon one evenings return she wore a strangely colored smock, I deemed it not prudent to ask about it but waited until she wanted to tell me. She was fearful of my reaction but when she explained and seeing the mirth in my eyes I asked her to hug me and she knew shortly that the color caused another sensation within me. She smiled hugged me tighter and we fell into the consummate joy as our bodies answered each others beckons. She described it as an accident while she canned berries, wasting some upon her smock she tried in vain to wash it out. It would not so she decided to use the cloth to wash the kettle. The warm soft color like that of the rose would not come out but resulted is this new color seen only on the great paintings of the castles. We have not a name for it, I imagined berry color. She wears it for me when we retire and it is with great amusement that I enjoy it.

On the day that it occurred I was looking inward and not outward until the force of the gale hit. My nose was focused and remembering smelling my love and not my surroundings. The wind struck my boat with a mighty heave and the waves came up suddenly. I was forced to retrieve my nets and turn towards the west and home. The waves came up higher and the water washed over the gunwale. I paused often to bail out the water and knowing the wind was pushing west it gave me some comfort in rowing. I could not see my love with the lantern and hoping to do so I turned to look for her. I was not able to see the shore but I knew I was going toward them. It was just a matter of time when. My hands were bitter numb from the cold and my mind was seeing images of days of love and my darling’s fathomless eyes. How I longed to be in her arms this moment. How I wished to deeply to feel her fingers in my mouth. I wanted to touch her very spirit with my tongue. While I bailed a wave larger than most tore away one of the boats oars. I screamed in frustration. I could but helplessly sit and bail hoping that the wind would push me in towards shore. Such was not to be as a large wave crashed over the boat and spilled me and all my trade works over and into the sea.

    I have never felt such anger as I strove to swim away from the wreck only to find my legs entangled in the net. I felt myself being pulled down down towards where the sea was calmer and she seemed to wait with the lantern. I smiled and she smiled in return and I loved the brightness that enveloped us both. I kissed you and you kissed me in return. I love you so much.

    She waited until dawn and with lantern in her numb hands she returned wearily to their cottage. She knew he would return and prepared food for them both. She would constantly check every day until he returned. I came to you every day and I stretched my arm out towards you but I guess you could not see it. I was angry because I realized the stupid net held my arm pinned to my side. You would be proud of me. I held those stupid crabs off for two months before they consumed my flesh. Had it not been for a nosy squid that took a plug of my flesh, then after that it was every body help yourselves. I should have caught more of those and cooked them.  I can not see you now, I have but hollow eye sockets; but I know in my heart that you still wait. I love you so much and I will be faithful in paradise until you come join me. 

Oh yes, the color of your smock is pink.  Continue reading


life marks us all.

life demands all but asks for nothing.

life finds our glaring weaknesses and brings out our most hidden strengths;

life challenges us by the minute, tasks us on the hour, and grants us little or no reprieve by the day.

life gives us our own reasons for declaring we are here and staying, not for the moment to rise, burn brightly, then drop as rapidly back to earth as falling magma or volcanic rock, disappearing forever into Earth’s embrace.

life decides not that it is the way of we, a people, who have long entertained and pondered the eternal heavens;

life ordained that we were not granted the insight or mental abilities to say yes to the first word as we understand and thus consider done our march toward the eternal search for truth.

life provides – i see answers; yes. but they are not mine to accept as being one true way, but rather a series of truths to be constructed together, pondered, debated; then accepted.

life determines that it consists of knowledge, passion, curiosity, steadfastness, singleness of purpose, love, humor, wants, fear, anger, dread, peace, tact;

the list might continue unabated.

Wishing and Taste Her Name: Andrea


that sleep will gather like your hair
falling over your eyes and make you
drowsy drowsy…

feel the boat rocking on a warm
summers day…rocking gently rocking…

feel your lovers tender touch body
warmth as that of a gentle spring sun…

kissing you gently like the light
touch of a butterfly…

here there on your eyes, cheeks,
caressing your nose, chin, ears…

soft lips brushing slowly, tenderly
across your face carefully to slowly
grant you the truth of self…

your desire ebbs and builds with the
boat gently bobbing on the water…

still air allowing the sounds of nature
and distant play of children to add to
the serenity of the body…

your mind seems to be adrift on a sea
of motion…

floating, warm, secure and at peace
for the time with life, nature, self.

I love you.


T. H. E. Sun


Taste Her Name: Andrea

Wine has ever enriched the lives of
those that partake of its delicious
quality. The struggle continues to
put a name to its wondrous appeal.

Andrea – her name softly vocalized
conjures a vision of trees shedding
the willowy down of spring.

Just as the grape plants are tended,
nurtured, and appreciated; so are
the vines that will bear the precious
fruit are prepared for growth.

Inspired by trees that release new
growth the arboriculturist is lovingly
there when a vine needs attention.

Andrea has hair that tangles, and
eyes of serenity where a soul might
find peace.

Skin that identifies a life lived,
not patronizing; she is totally
unapologetic and honest for she
is the gift.

Gives not ground, asks not for relief.
Passionate and understanding as she
knows fully that one day does not a
lifetime make.

She is tender, strong, gentle and
merciful where it is required. Yet,
valiant and ruthless when threatened;
but loving.

Like a Merlot, smooth when mature,
yet, crisp and haughty when young.

All accepted with equal measure, while
understanding that life may not always
have happy endings; it is the journey
from here to there that is most memorable.

Captured Beauty: Hair

Captured Beauty: Hair

Trembling, cascades as fierce as
falling water as swiftly surging as
a roiling stream.

As straight, as woven together as
though by design brought forth by
as passionate a task lends its origin
to a higher harmony.

Still and elegant, regal as royalty.
Firm and demure with finely textured
curls, do in fact complete the dream.

Straight firm, relaxed or stiff, folded
as overlapping ingredients to build
an angel food cake. Softly softly.

Tiny spikes would make one hesitate
before planting face within those
deliciously treacherous spines,
break suddenly; mind shouts mistake.

Except these spines – spikes that look
harsh and frightening to the
touch are surprisingly tender and delicate
to the touch while emitting  a rich aroma
of shampoo, conditioner, or setting gels.

Perhaps worn haphazardly, without
attention being paid to the fashion
deities whom abound in magazines or
haunt the television airwaves – twenty
four seven by 365 as the market will bear.

Wonderfully askew, there is beauty
there too, to be tamed or lovingly
harnessed, losing self with in folds,
frill, waves or masses of tresses.

Falling beauty cascading upon chest
to envelope face with beauty and grace;
as finely textured hair like soft tiny
springs enjoyment do bring  like tiny
virgin forest each hair curl to its place.

Silky masses of strand upon strand
lie by its neighbor as molecule strings
one beside others; form chains of
unbroken desire.

Touching the cascades do suddenly
disappear and like a skydiver plunging
through clouds resistance seems,
but is not there.

Matted not, but upon tightly coiled
springs each when touched yields,
then like life tightens to resist.

Curls so small and delicate too, did
nature not create such wondrous
intricate details of beauty may my
hand enlist.

Touch tenderly, caress gently,
loosing my senses to absorb all
textures, all descriptors of hair.

Yielding such beauty, matters not if
hair is long or short – strands  or curls
a woman’s hair does not define her.

Bald is beautiful and in cases
necessary as a temporary
receipt paid for fighting to survive.

A standing ovation for all who have
entered that fight and fought to win;
whose baldness marks a new
beginning from velvet down, soft
buzz to crown fully or majestically
rise – hair can orchestrate or send
a message to all.

Hair is a part of a persons gift to
what is seen or desire to project to

There she is again, pulls up to the
stop sign, braking causes her hair
to fall across her face – just like a
moment frozen in time; she is
beautiful and just as quickly tosses
it out of the way to safely proceed on
her way.

It matters not if by natures gift or
a persons skill is one blessed with
a head of bouncing beauty;
matters not if hair is there at all – it
is the persona of a woman that
makes her a cutie.

Poetry Thursday.

Tidal Merger: Wind

Tidal Merger: Wind

Swirls of hair evidence winds intensity,
motion claims the buzz cut, or like
closely knitted thatch or mats tremble
creating an individual loose extremity.

Mindless at winds mercy, strands
dance or resemble the beautiful
boughs of the great willows that
hug faithfully the waterways.

Rising falling twisting turning the
wind owns all. With buildings the
effect is increased where the cities
decay may fill one corner of an alley
leaving clean the other side.

Hair waves majestically, while upon
another shakes sporadically.

Hair strands clash sometimes
violently, always sensually;
remarkably wonderfully tantalizingly
adept at leaving the owner beautiful.

Hair as lovers embrace becomes a
fluid or comforting focus for face
fingers nose eyes ears arms tongue
lips combining every sense to
heighten the awareness of
interaction between lover and loved.

Hair wind-borne as it kisses
your face, and to your beloved, enjoy
the power as hair chased by the air
movements tickle, blind, and enhance
passions experience.

Wind creeps around the collar or
openings of the shirt, blouse or
sweater; powerful enough to
pierce the bones when wearing
materials like leather.

Wind waves flags, banners or
bunting, it shakes the houses, barns
and concrete buildings; our very
wallets or purses have fallen prey
emptied – often leaving one wanting.

Wind cleanses our air in valleys, in
cities, in towns. Some times leaving
some  with relief or dread or sorrow.

While we read or speak or as time
passes, the nature of wind will
always impact the masses.

You define winds beauty perfectly,
your hair shifts with subtle abandon
or streams like underwater grasses
while the invisible powers caress,
stroke, and manipulate your beauty
as I watch, grateful to be as close as
I am while watching nature’s
environs do that which I desire to do
but, am limited to sonnets, poetry or

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.