Gay Writer needs your love (I swear to God it’s not what you think)

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unsplash-logoDmitry Bayer

Hey Everyone.

I am really excited to bring to your attention something that I think I should have been doing for a while now.

As most (all three of you) know that I post my poetry online for free, I have decided (my husband has decided) that I should post them as well as my fiction online through Patreon.

I know this whole system is somewhat controversial but I try (at least on my Patreon page) not to be. The access is broken down into levels that I think are pretty cool and would allow me more writing time and more focus on content creating instead of running around Hell’s Half Acre (Hi Sam and Dean).

Besides being a poet, I write fiction. Mostly gay fiction in the paranormal genre and if you’re an author like me you know that when you type ‘The End’ the real work is just beginning even if you are traditionally published.

I would like to deliver the best product I can to the people who spend their hard earned dollars on the stories and poetry that I create and I just need some backup ( Marvel or DC doesn’t matter) to help me do that.

So, without further ado – here’s my site www.patreon.com/fefeeleyjr

Come by and visit.  I hope you like the place.

Thank you

Growing older (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoDylan McLeod

It’s 12:20 in the morning
I trace my tongue over a broken tooth
my back hurts from too much work
and my eyes are grainy and tired
I’ve turned another year older
a few more laugh lines around my eyes
a few more frown lines upon my brow

and yet, I am not the only one
I can see the age in my husband’s face
the sharper look of a man in his thirties
the youthful fat now melted away
leaving a refined brow
and sharper eyes

New questions parade in my mind
things I used to never think of
am I aging gracefully?
What does that mean?
Am I living a good life?
What does THAT mean?

I shall close my eyes soon
and sleep the rest of the night away
and know that in younger days I could stay up til dawn
caffeine and nicotine and a pretty face

Yet, I think those days are gone
and my beauty, and my mind, and my body
need their rest
for I am one year older than last year
but I really feel this year
deep in my bones

 

If only I…(National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoDemetrius Washington

 

If only I had leaned into that touch
that September morning before you left
the sheets pooling at your hips
my body sore from the night prior

I had lain awake all night
your head on my chest wishing
for the morning to refuse to break across the sky
leaving us naked and bathed in darkness

I saw the hurt in your eyes
at the sudden sullenness in my gaze
as I bit down on a thousand words
of panic at the back of my throat

I loved you
with your careless hair and your soft grey eyes
and your warm body and your powerful back
the shape of your lips that kissed me
and the submissiveness

If only I’d taken care
to dress with you and walk you down
the flight of stairs to my door
and kissed you once more before sending you away
into the morning sun

You had another life
was it a job? A home? A wife?
you wouldn’t say and I didn’t ask
when we met at the airport bar

I didn’t care then
but I do care now
if only I’d listened to the voice that warned me
somewhere underneath my second
bourbon and seven
when I saw the tie you were wearing and smiled

You were here on business for a month
and you were my lover as well
and we worked til daybreak often
laughing and drinking and lovemaking

Do you want me to come back?
No, I didn’t want you to leave
If only I’d said that
I wouldn’t be left here with only the smell
of your body on my bedclothes

Til the end of my days (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJames Bold

 

IT was more than just where I lay
staring up at the ceiling of stars above my head
In your love, I had found a rose garden
white blooms as far as I could see
and there I thought I had come to the river
to drink and dance and sing

but the more I loved you
the less steady I was on my feet
until the citrus scent threw me over
and I fell backward into the briars of emersion

In exquisite pain, I lay here
my clothes were torn and my hands wounded
tangled in a miserable mess
as the vines wrapped right around me

It was then I realized the danger I was in
and it was then I realized water didn’t feed them
and to my horror, I didn’t care
as I watch a crimson drop of my own blood
fall to the ground and disappear

It was then I realized how much Pain I was in
and it was then I realized how little I cared
for I would lay here dying til the end of my days
in your garden under the stars above

Til the end of my days

I Don’t Wish to be Friends with the Past (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJonathan Bowers

I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Tis like tiptoeing through a graveyard of broken headstones
crumbling
Where sculpted angels with folded wings weep
And forgotten crypts lay dark

I’ve grown, and changed, and got older
While yet the lay still where I left them
In the same spot, the same plots and stories to tell

I visit from time to time, in my thoughts and in my mind
But I try not to linger, though fondness begs me to stay
To touch the faces of my beloveds like I used to
In the past where they lay

But all my fingers do as I brush their hair back
Is pass through without moving a single strand
For one cannot touch what used to be
The way it used to be
And here, I am the ghost wandering

I’ve known lovers, and I can still in mind trace the peculiarity of their bodies with my lips
But there is no memory in the way they feel any more
Not their hands
Not their hips

No, I don’t wish to be friends with the past
Though occasionally I return
To walk amongst what might have beens
Before my soul remembers what is touchable here and now

 

When she broke free from the clouds (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoA. L.

 

I can see it so clearly, now
in the silver current of the river
I remember a woman so vibrant
a living prism
that shattered light into a multitude of colors
when the sun broke free of the clouds

She was an artist, you see
her world was of red, and blue, and sea foam green
and bring them together in harmony
like Monet, Michelangelo, Divinci
when she could break free of the clouds

She understood the collective unconscious
it spoke to her, as it speaks to all
who sing the words, write the script, dance the dance
with the flick of her wrist should conjure images
when her mind was free of the clouds

Yet, the sky was often overcast
a mesocyclone dulled her afternoon
and faded the pallet so richly hers
and brought storms with wind, and rain, and hail
the clouds cast shadows she could not break away from

There is a certain weakness artists share
a flaw of sorts in our matrix
an unquenchable desire to connect
and the ability to hear all of humanity
so when a strong guiding light shines it can distract us
but all that glitters is not gold
and though the clouds may gather, it does not mean rain

We are artists because God is an artist
no longer do you fragment the light
that comes from the firmament
and though your brushes may lay still
you are the light that burns forever
they day you broke free of the clouds

Silence and the rest of you life (Poem)

I took yesterday (4/4) off from National Poetry month to observe the anniversary of the passing of Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. as well as the birthday of the late, great, Doctor Maya Angelou who would have been 90 years old.

So, I would like to continue today with a poem request from a friend of mine about the end of a relationship. I hope you like it. And if there has been anyone out there who’s been a fool for love, trust me, I feel your pain.

 

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unsplash-logoKinga Cichewicz

I have scraped myself off the floor
of reality so brutally honest
I have doused myself with holy water
to wash away the tears I’ve shed
I’ve born the weight of this family
the results are a little bottle of pills
I take daily
I’ve changed my name
my jeans size
my hair color
I’ve changed my habits
and my country
I’ve held your fevered head in my lap
I’ve held your sex
your tear stained cheeks
I’ve rocked and cradled and cooed and died

But out of all of this passion
I have born one single truth
I did these things
yes
I did these things
for you
with you
to you
and I can undo them just the same

My name is Gloriana
I am a queen in my own right
I am tempest waters raging
I am daytime and I am the night
so if this love is over
let it be over and let it be done
let me return to my country of origin
of my native people
my native tongue

For I am the ground you tread upon
I am the rocking chair where you sit
I am the memories you’ll carry with you
I am the rock, the awning, your bed

So when I go, I go swiftly
soft as the sighing of the trees
and all the pleasures I have given you
I will pack up and take with me
there will be no more tumble
no more fire in your hearth
All that will remain will be silence
and the rest of your life to live

 

You loved my fire….

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unsplash-logoMohamed Nohassi

You said you were attracted to my fire, passion
you saw me burning from ten thousand miles away
We were born on the same date
two children of the God Mars
and I was enchanted by your kindness toward me

It was an easy thing
Fire and fire burns brighter, higher,
illuminating the night
You pointed out the familiar
and I could taste the same poison
on your skin, I was familiar with

With ease, our sex, the weight around our neck
bound to who we are by social chains
I found a friend that I needed
a doppelganger, an echo, perhaps vanity
seductively talking to my own ego

You’d crossed the bridge and created love
without the complications of the flesh
a pure thing, this little inferno
which promised the potential of a future
a friendship to span the ages

Yet something went wrong
a cold east wind blew in through the night
and before I had known you crossed back
across the gulf leaving me holding
the little inferno in my hands
making excuses for yourself the entire way

But one thing you weren’t expecting
was the actions I would take
as I cast the friendship down and watched the bridge burn
I realized fifteen years prior when I didn’t burn so sure
I would have acquiesced to the idea of time and place and purpose

Yet, that isn’t my truth now
I rage equally in love and in hate
in fear and in pain
I burn in the night the same for all who needs me
but I do have one question,
now that your choices have been made
and the bridge between us has been destroyed

“How do you like my fire now?”

 

Enough Gold To Hoard

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How did that happen?
Where was the tipping point?
I must have missed the exit sign
on the freeway of my feelings
and kept driving

Did I have the radio on too loud
was I caught up in the music?
Did I allow my mind to wander?
I have awareness but did I use it?

Or did I want to keep going?
Did I choose to pass the off ramp
and see what another stretch of freeway looked like?
It’s still blacktop, white stripes, my hands are on the wheel
but now I don’t know what to do.

Caught in the once familiar
I stood and looked at myself in the mirror
and heard the words spoken in my ear
I smiled and felt sexy
with new clothes and my prowess
now I am dressed to the nines
waiting for the phone to ring

I’m annoyed
that’s always a dangerous feeling
needle pricks inside my brain
that has me wondering and feeling foolish
I can taste copper inside my mouth
as I bite down on angry words
now the dragon’s been bothered

I hate when people do this
speak the truth and call the shadow what it is
make clear roads in, identify the moment
and the vanish as a sort of punishment
with whiplash-like ferocity
leaving me asking, “What the fuck did *I* do?”

Nothing. I didn’t do anything.
You made you feel those things.
Fantasize those things.
Dream those things.
Just like I did.
My guilt is mine.
Keep yours.
I have enough gold to hoard.

Poetry Book (Review)

The first book review for my new Poetry book happened today.

Five stars!

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“This is a book of free-form poetry, containing the poet’s musings about nature, youth, seasons; reminiscing about family, lost loves, faith and religion, and life in general. Some are profound, others less so, but I think poetry, like music, speaks to each of us in a different way.

Personally, I prefer poetry that rhymes, but my standards are pretty high. In my opinion, the best poem in the English language is “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, and nothing will ever top that. The rhyming and alliteration is that poem is beyond brilliant, but Poe was a genius beyond compare. Free-form poetry, on the other hand, is more like short artistic essays about feelings and moods. Having said that, some of the poems in this book of poetry will provoke a very emotional response. For me, there were several that I enjoyed; the ones about trees and nature, and those about lost loves, but the ones that moved me the most are ‘The Rain Remains the Same’ and ‘The Man by the River’. If you enjoy poetry in general, you will enjoy this book.”

To read it on Amazon follow the link here

To purchase your own copy click the link here