Beneath the tablecloth

There are things we have only in spirit

because they are gone from our senses,

Every sense except that

which speaks to the sacred place within. 

And there, is also the place of longing;

It is the epicenter of the wish for fulfillment.

At the core of our nature, there is a need

to fully touch and be touched in Love.

Time is a magician's trick 

it snatches the table cloth away—

plates and glassware unmoved.

When suddenly more bare,

we see it for what it is, shells of fallen trees,

memories of gathered love once there,

and now gone to time and air.

Longing is the space between our open arms,

It is not empty, but filled with faith;
it is simply…waiting

Against the Current

 

the deepest river flows
and from a vantage it seems so slow
that the change is barely perceived.
from the twig in the stream
watching the shore line, fade
like a dream we try to remember and hold
it is suddenly fresh, then old and
gone cold as a fire-less hearth;
cold like the night in unwanted loneliness
cold, like the spring rain on bare skin.
the deepest river
speeds away as we watch it yet stays
long enough to make us feel--
like a long sought kiss, one that we miss
before and after-- and the woman
borrows the deep river, and i find it,
in her wide dark eyes

Author Notes

inspired by Current  by Alan Soldofsky  . 

The Poem Poem

A beginning risen from the cool, damp ground

into morning’s fog;  as the low clouds spawn

on half winds and notions of air, and filled in sound
rolling surf calling unto the coming dawn

Rising in a subtle crescendo as deep velvet overhead

Bent into a warmer blue in the slow march of the East

And the fog gathered like welcoming spirits of the coming day

As wet grasses and seaside dunes gave up all hope of holding dampness

To bathe with the rest of us in heavy air and morning mists

A clan of deer stood in silence, and slowly began  retreat

Into shades of trees and fern covered crevices

Carved by snow melt streams, fed by overflowing springs

And Moon wandered near, and I could hear

The tinkled beams on the window glass

And in the drifted senses passions wear

I undress time, admit a grudging pass

Such as the times, the early fingers of sun

Brought the forest sounds in to a rising chorus

As the silence that filled darkness lost its hold on mystery

Morning reveals…the world begins to shed night hungers

Wet boot steps shed drops and splatters splashes

the next step that occupies the delicate remainder

As thought holds true as the Pole Star, courage washes

the dust of  the long journey, and yet a bit longer

It is to home, and to a memory of love; where

Tender breath warmed skin and

Eager hands embraced the edges my face

And I was a precious moment.

For what use these determined dreams

And the seeds carried  far as hope believes

She is  the fertile heart of life, and it seems

the part of home that I can never leave