HER STORY (IN PRAISE OF COLDER WOMEN)

Patiently she waits.
She knows I planned on going out;
I do every year. And it is here
that she waits. Her eyes still
twinkle after all this time
and I’m sure her smile will await me,
when I’m done globe trotting.
It’s not suspicion that keeps her
planted by the hearth; where else on earth
would she rather be? It keeps her as warm
as a big cozy hug, toasting her frigid toes
and melting her heart for my return.
The logs burn, and I yearn for my traveling
to cease and desist this all night party.
This North Pole girl is hearty; she loves the cold
and this Jolly Old Man, doing all she can
to keep me in this Christmas game.
She’s my missus; she call me Mr. “C”.
But to me, she gives my heart pause.
And it’s all because…I am Santa Claus.

LOVE STORY

Monday comes along, rainy.
Gloomy and overcast and all past
indiscretions overwhelm. At the helm
of the mastship, safely docked
in the harbor secure and warm, nestled.
Settled in from a long night’s journey
and yearning for a good and proper
good morning. No storm warning
is signaled, for danger does not prevail.
I set sail in your tranquil waters,
making my own waves come alive.
Passions churning, turning for port
time and again. Wrapped in the comfort
of a loving shore. The more the ship rocks
the more at peace we become.
The hum of the waters lapping,
the white caps rolling, rolling.
The wave crests. The ship finally rests.
Safe in the love of a good and gentle
woman, our day begins. Monday comes
along, rainy. Gloomy and overcast but
it does not cast a pall on the morning.
Loving each morning; every good morning.
No need for warning; the days begin.

AMY

Your pencil remains
pointed and true.
It is you who wields
in defense of others;
a true and trusted love.
A friend in the human scheme,
your words mean more
with each re-telling.
I am buying what you are selling.
You will be missed and
we are diminished for it.
For it is truly a sin:
when we give in, the terrorist wins!

***For my “hometown Home Girl” – you are loved!

ALL CONSUMING LOVE

Snuggled, huddled close,
Existing for this moment.
In an instance, the insistence
of my heart becomes
the only motivation I need.
It is indeed, and you are close
and wanted. Pulling you closer
still, my will takes over,
and desire is the fire that
smolders, but never burns.
My lips yearn for your flavor,
my eyes for your vision.
There is no division of a love shared.
My hand in your hair and soft caresses
brings your face thisclose and most
of our time is taken up in the moment.
It takes us, and surrounds us.
It becomes us and seasons us.
It devours our passion and regurgitates
even more passion. All consuming and
fulfilling. From moment to moment.
Until the next moment arrives.

A GATHERING OF HEARTS

The seeds of love have been planted,
nurtured and cared for, and there
for the picking. The harvest is bountiful
and caring words are plentiful when hearts
are joined over distance and space.
Happy faces pressed together in
a kiss of love’s hearty fruit. A beautiful
expression of the affection so given.
And given in return. I yearn for your
caress; soft touches to soothe my soul.
I crave your kiss; a tender buss to seal
all that we feel. I want you to have and hold;
untold sentiments to cement our love.
Above all else, I give thanks for you.
You are the holder of my heart,
gathered to you by your loving hands.

LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

ONCE UPON A TIME…

…there sat a Princess, hidden away.
Sure, she put herself out there, but
she saw herself in a different way.
A sad “old-maid”, rather plain and yet

she never really looked with eyes,
The way that others saw her,
it would have come as some surprise
that people did adore her.

So, she went along to live her life,
a lovely girl she was for sure, 
not a mother, nor a wife, 
but friends did start to notice her.

She carried herself understated, 
but inner beauty burned.
And any man would be elated 
in time if he would learn
 
the wonder and magnificence 
this loving heart possessed, 
not the least bit insignificant, 
full of fire and zest.

The Princess had been broken 
and so her vision blurred,
and thought her “undesirable”; 
of course, the thought “absurd”

She wore her heart upon her sleeve,
while poetry exuded,
she wrote the things that she believed,
to what her soul alluded.

A maiden Princess wears the crown
in ways she does not see,
yet always cheerful, there’s no frown;
the only way for she.

One night her tower, her fine nest,
in which she passed her time,
offered welcome to a guest
who often read her rhyme.

Words possess a saving power
they warm and help and heal,
the beauty of this fragrant flower
with every word she’d feel.

A prince awaits her somewhere,
but whence she shall not know,
and yet her heart starts beating there,
his tender words to show

her all the special wonder
the Princess does behold,
enchantress’ spell he’s under
through whispered words untold.

She knows that she is beautiful
through words that she’d been given,
her life akin to wonderful
a new life she is livin’

Kingdoms hold no special charm
for Princes to abide,
but there next to his Princess’ arm
you’ll see him by her side.

For “Happily Ever After”
is “Happily in this place”,
amidst the pain and laughter
she wears beauty on her face.

Once upon a time there sat
a Princess who stood apart.
And glad that she did wait
to find her true and noble heart.

　

IN THEIR SHOES

Step by step, the journey begins. Strangers at this writing, but I know
the struggles you encounter are many. If any woman or man
insists they are aware, when they’ve never been there, well, I’m sorry.
Your story well neglected, should be projected for the world
to see. There may be bleeding hearts, but that never solves your plight.
It would be right for them to learn…

You are the young widowed mother who just learned
her heroic husband killed in Afghanistan, will never know
the child you bears. You stare at a photograph; it lightens
your heart, but you start to cry, not knowing why the man
who meant everything to you, was taken. He had given much to the world
without so much as a “Thank you” to him, or to you, an “I’m Sorry!”

You are the seasoned Grandfather sitting near the window, your sorry
existence in the nursing home has left you alone and scared. It was learned
your Alzheimer’s Disease has advanced and your family and your world
are non-existent memories. Gazing blankly at things you once knew
makes no impression. And your depression grows. You’ve become that man
who dimly sits where once your presence provided great light.

You are the bullied young teen, sitting in a light-less
room. Your struggle with your life corrodes internally. You are sorry
to be a “burden”. You hate that you are such an easy mark. You are a young man
unsure of his sexuality and searching for an identity. You hope to learn
that people are forgiving and understanding, if they only knew
that you were a rash decision away from leaving this world.

You are the woman who sits huddled with her young children whose world
came crashing down around them. You have nowhere to stay. Your only light
shines from the street lamp outside the city mission. You know
your condition plays out nationwide, but you hide your pride, sorry
you cannot provide what your kids need. You wish you could learn
of a way to step out of your destitution. You are a battered, broken woman.

So, before fingers point or hushed whispers glare, be there. Be the kind of woman or man
who takes the plight of the world
to your heart. It is only when we start to learn
of their wants and needs that we will indeed be the beacon bright, the light
that will show them that they are not forgotten. They should not apologize; not be sorry
that life has handed them an unplayable hand. In remembering them, they’ll know.

Know your fellow man.
This world belongs to all who possess it, no one should be sorry his or her lives shine less bright.
Learn to love as you have been loved. Help change their plight. Walk that mile.

NOVEMBER CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE – “Unexpected”

MUSE AND GUMPTION

I have felt for a while
that I had lost my poetic wile
and smile, but November
came to call and all that came back.
I claim my poet mantle
and give it another go.
I just hope my slips don’t show!

 PROMPT POSTING

No time frame can stop it,
it allows me to hop on it.
Getting the word to get
absurd or heart-wrenchingly
subtle seems to place me
right place; right time.
Ready to rhyme before
the world gets the word

 BLESSINGS AND DISGUISES

Blessings reign down, offerings
meant to enhance and entrance,
the beauty of the world in a
moment to make life better.
Some times the blessings
are hidden, meant to be found;
a revelation quite profound.
Some times blessing are left
in the open, tripping you up
to cause you to take a second look.
And some times, blessings
are just the people who you
have come to rely upon,
and who rely on you.
Don’t try to hide, because
you know inside, the blessings
we seek will find you on the first peek.
It’s unexpected wonder we’re under.

 FIRST SIGHT

I didn’t know you from Eve,
but I believe there was something
about you that attracted me.
Predictably, I reacted as I always had,
tongued-tied and bumbling, fumbling.
Mumbling something about your eyes,
or hair or the way you mangled the Queen’s English.
You appeared out of the blue and into view
of this hopefully, hopeless romantic;
a man of quiet confidence
and words up the wazoo. And you,
younger by nearly a decade
and a parade of failed relations
finding new elation in me.
I was looking to forget someone.
You were looking for a future
someone to forget. Our eyes met,
I had let my guard down;
you found that moment to confound me.
“What you looking at?” asked you.
“The hell if I know!” came in reply.
Smiles connected us. Who knew?
I wasn’t looking for you, and there you were.
The laws of attraction…most unexpected.

 WISDOM FROM BEYOND

Our old house,
empty then after Dad’s passing.
We were on a quest to get the place
ship-shape before its much put off disposal.
A brother still in residence,
an upper apartment meant to hold him over
between divorce and reconciliation (both came),
with everything including faulty kitchen drain
(which in illness Dad never got around to mending).
I became the pretending plumber; my brother,
an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear,
when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware
as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence.
“I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted,
but he resisted the notion with negative nods.
Mere moments brought a familiar sound,
“Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me
off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more
when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word.
My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits
were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?”
But I would swear on a stack of pancakes
that what had me quaking in my shoes was more
of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again.
I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?”
Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling
of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned.
But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over.
I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs
amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there.
All these years since, I no longer wince
at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me,
his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser.
A wiser man would have snickered at my flicker
of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for
that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind.
My Father continues to keep watch;
me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.

 ENGINE TROUBLE

                              Flying along,
skies clear with a few
clouds, but nothing to write
home about. Out of nowhere, the
turbulence kicked up her heels send
ing the airship into a raucous rock. Tossed
like a          worn      rag        doll        and
cont           rol       all        but        lost
the           obj      ect     as of      now
is            to       sa      ve       as
ma         ny       liv     es      at
any       cost.  But, look  ing
out        of      the win  dow
the       pil     ot’s ch   ute
ope     ns,   leav ing the
pan    icky  Pa ss en
ge        rs
S.  O.  L.
O
H
W
E
L L

WISDOM FROM BEYOND

Our old house,
empty then after Dad’s passing.
We were on a quest to get the place
ship-shape before its much put off disposal.
A brother still in residence,
an upper apartment meant to hold him over
between divorce and reconciliation (both came),
with everything including faulty kitchen drain
(which in illness Dad never got around to mending).
I became the pretending plumber; my brother,
an apprentice, snaking the pipe every which way but clear,
when I hear “under the stairs!”. My brother fully unaware
as I stare incredulously at his claim of silence.
“I heard you say ‘under the stairs’” I insisted,
but he resisted the notion with negative nods.
Mere moments brought a familiar sound,
“Under the stairs” it would resound, catching me
off guard and slightly perturbed. It disturbed me more
when my brother was sure he hadn’t uttered a word.
My faculties were not on Spring Break, my wits
were full about me. I was left thinking “Had I been drinking?”
But I would swear on a stack of pancakes
that what had me quaking in my shoes was more
of “Boo’s” than booze. “Under the stairs” once again.
I shout, “WHAT! WHAT”S UNDER THE STAIRS?”
Surely, a younger sibling witnessing the dismantling
of his older brother’s rocker would be more concerned.
But he yearned for the ‘project’ to be over.
I descend the ladder and end up under the stairs
amidst the cobwebs and dust balls there.
All these years since, I no longer wince
at the sound of my Father’s voice directing me,
his heavy metal plumbers snake wedged under the riser.
A wiser man would have snikcered at my flicker
of insanity. But all of humanity would crave for
that sound one last time to etch firmly in mind.
My Father continues to keep watch;
me still listening for the wisdom in his whisper.

NOVEMBER CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE – “Sort of…”

SORT OF IN THE GROOVE

It flows.
I don’t know how or why,
but I know it festers.
All the jesters who said I had lost it?
I’ve found it. Tucked safely away
until all the poets come out to play!

SORT OF A SHAME

Oh misery, thy name is laptop!
Portability gave you prominence,
but my dependence upon you
has found you over worked
and over played. To say
you’ve served me well, Dell,
is an understatement.
But dying on me on Day 1
takes all the fun out of my challenge.
So now my work is cut out for me
as long as my work computer
keeps its head. Otherwise I’d be dead.
And that would be sort of a shame.

SORT OF OKAY!

Feeling better than I’ve been
listening to friends and people
who dare to care too deeply.
It is sweetly conveyed
when said with concern
and compassion. So allow me
to convey that I’m sort of okay.
At least today is bereft of sorrow,
and things can only get better tomorrow.

SORT OF SHERKING WORK

Enough for the moment,
back to the grindstone
no time to tarry, for this scary
behemoth behind me expects
me to work for a living.
Just happy he’s giving me slack
to get back all I’ve lost.
Only it can’t cost my job.
So this poetic slob will toil
until his words start to boil
and Big Boss Man is back at his desk!

A SORTA SANTA SESTINA

November’s early chill does not sway this warm heart
from the task at hand. Kind of a dress rehearsal, sort of a role
reversal from the other ten months of the year.
Around here, hustle and bustle are the norm and true to form, I see red
and green. A controlled chaos, laced with love
and a true sense of the spirit that fills me. Christmas spirit.

That is not to say we are not thankful, because Thanksgiving Day is where that spirit
really shines. A gathering of family in celebration of that relation fills my heart
because it is the essence of the long holiday season born of love.
And let’s not kid ourselves. We are nothing without it. When I roll
out my list for the second time, I am reminded that within each heart, red
and full of life, lives a passion that lasts throughout the year.

And it shouldn’t be only one day a year.
It should be a daily diversion to pass on that spirit
in every word ever written or read
on the subject of our fellow men and women. It does my heart
good to know that the initiation of these feelings comes from the role
I play everyday. It’s not to say I take the credit, it just comes back to the love.

Many people ask, “What is love?”
It may be a forgotten art, but it is never lost if you yearn
to give of yourself. Of this gift, you have full control.
For keeping the smallest spark of this spirit
will go a long way in igniting your heart.
The first step is the start of a life’s journey; immortality in red.

It is not so much the color of the heart, but red
is the hue of the blood that courses within us all, a sign of life; a life of love.
So as I near the start of my work, I can feel my heart
expand in proportion to the sense of wonder this time of year
places in a young child’s heart, and the sense of spirit
that comes with the territory. I fill this role

the best I can. I am “The Man”. That’s how I roll!
So before I don the jingle bells and that suit, bright red,
I will bow my head and ask that I never lose this spirit.
As I hear, it gets harder to come by these days. But I love
the challenge. I’m sort of in my element this time of year.
As the big day draws near, it will fill my heart.

It warms me completely. It is the role I take on gladly.
For no matter how badly things go each year, I will be here dressed in red
full of love and holiday spirit. After all, I am Santa Claus…sort of.

SORT OF SHORT

Not a tall drink of water,
no ceiling scraper am I.
I can’t reach the top shelf
without a chair, I’ve tried.
Or paint higher than
two feet from my hair.
It runs in my family;
runts we are all.
But it comes in handy
when limbo’s the call,
or in tying my shoes or
propelling a swing.
I have no illusion
of slam-dunking a ball,
but no matter that I still stand tall.
I’m not ‘little people’,
I’m just a tad short.
I don’t smoke or drink,
no time to cavort.
I’m just sort of average,
no more and no less.
There! I feel a little bit better
with that off my chest!