Living the Divine (Poem)

I hear the sound of the windchimes
the first six notes of Amazing Grace
the rush of water from the fountain
and traffic outside my window

Lighted candles burning,
in my dimly lit apartment office
scented wax and a bamboo plant
and a clock from a yard sale
still with it’s selling price

my desk is gorgeous
wooden, polished,
with a lamp in Tiffany’s style
bought from two retired republicans
gone off to live the rest of their wealth
in Arizona

a pair of inexpensive earbuds
that sing rock and roll when I work out
a brown leather wallet filled with credit cards
my favorite a golden American Express
my mother never thought I’d own

I am a homeowner
a dog walker
a bread baker
and a love maker
to a man, I call my husband
while the Virgin Mary watches over us
from her spot on the wall

I have a good life.
Dear God, I have a good life
when did all this happen?
how did all this happen?
what divine accident was I a party to?

The Three Magi (Preacher’s Kids)

I was a child on Easter Sunday,
in the back of the family car in my white Sunday shoes, grey vested, and grey pants
the door opened and your father stood there with a smile on his face
he was so tall, and he blocked out the sun
I thought I was seeing God for the first time…
then I’m a little older and the world is frozen and blue
black branches from sleeping trees reached upward and scraped holes in the clouds and caused the snow to fall quietly
on Belle Isle and we were sliding across the frozen pond
you and your brother and I and mine
we traded ice skates for the soles of our shoes….

Time passes in my mind
images on an old camera reel
and it’s pouring down rain
and we’re shirtless
your brother, you, and me
running and splashing and throwing ourselves on the lawn
pretending we’d been struck by lightning
and we laughed until our sides ached
We were the three kings, three magi, from the Bible
and instead of frankincense, myrrh, and gold
we had hymnals, and pews, and blue carpeted runways
where we’d flee between the adults
around the white painted former bar
and across the street from the party store where the Arab man sold us Faygo and hid his girly mags
when your father asked him to.

I remember…
cracking my head on a telephone box
your appendix surgery
long treks to churches where the people were so much more rich than us
but they didn’t know who was in their midst
three magi, three kings, ready to take flight
anywhere we wanted to go…

…and then, it was one last night together
one last dinner
I think that is when I first became acquainted with the concept of loss
there was laughter, adults talking, there was food around my father’s table
and I silently prayed that time would crawl to a stop
but God didn’t hear me or he denied my request
even for magi such as me
and before the night ended I waved goodbye to you all as you piled into your van to go far away…

I remember the time before time knew who we even were
and the years and the miles we’ve trod across
has stooped our shoulders, and added lines to our eyes
just hearing your voice tonight brought all those memories back hurtling back
from the dusty reel I’d had packed away
in some unkempt corner of my mind
my dear Christopher, Matthew,
there really isn’t much of a point to this other than to say…

I know the way life is
the complicated lives of three kings, so different from who we were
time has had its way with us
and the grape juice has turned to wine

My poem has a purpose, though
there’s a method to my prose as the Witching Hour draws close
and the spirits press themselves against the veil
begging for me to go to sleep
so they can whisper their stories to me
and that is, with the simplicity of the little boy that remains somewhere deep inside this tired man’s soul,
to say, “God, I’ve missed you.”

I’ll see you two in that space where we’ve never aged
after all, the pond is still frozen
in that space where
the rain still falls
and the white-tailed deer on Belle Isle
watch curiously
and the blue carpet runway is lit for three wild boys,
three kings, three magi,
to take flight

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?”