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

Beaten Track Radio Author Chat (Jamie Fessenden)

Hi there!

This past Saturday Jamie Fessenden Co-hosted with me on Author Chat Live on www.beatentrackradio.com

If you missed the show – where we discussed the difference between M/M Romance and Gay Fiction as well as Jamie’s books – click the link below and you can listen in.

Also, if you’re an author that would like to co-host with me live on the radio, send me a message via email or through here and let’s get you scheduled.

 

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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

 

Because I fell in love with you again (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoLubov’ Birina

 

Because you came to me
in the night
knocking on my door
gentle raps, barely taps
but enough to send me to the door,
wrapping myself in a robe as I went

There you stood
windswept hair, leather jacket, and doe eyes
smelling of Burberry cologne and nervousness
while the thunder rolled in the pitch dark
and lightning flashed
because the mother nature was conspiring

I’d missed you for weeks, it seemed
Maybe it was a lifetime or two
the warmth of your voice
the way my name tumbled from your lips

I thought you’d never come back
and because of the wind I shivered
and retreated back through my doorway
before you stepped inside

before I could speak
you wrapped your arms around me
I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh
because I missed you – I wanted to freeze time

My hands reached up the million miles
to your sweet face and held it
and felt you tremble under my touch
because of your bashfulness I kissed your temples

I could smell the sweetness of your sweat
the hunger in your touch
and when our mouths collided for the first time
I tasted the whisky you’d drank embolden you

It was two a.m but I didn’t care
I took you by the hand and led you upstairs
our hearts pounding away with each step
because of anticipation, I shivered again

But this time you covered me
somewhere in the middle of the night
you made me call out your name
and I did so, willingly
because somewhere in the middle of the night
I fell in love with you, again

Healing Childhood Hurt (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoKat J

Childhood hurts

How does one get over a childhood hurt
that is the poem that you gave to me
and I would love to tell you it’s in prayers, in psalms
in the melody of your favorite song,

I would like to say it’s in the whisper of your lover
in the softness of his touch,
in the morning walks with your thoughts
or on your ride to work

I would like to say you can find it in creativeness
wrap it up in art and sell it to the highest bidder
or write it down in words to be sold
on Amazon- well, before it’s pirated, anyway

I would like to say it’s in therapy
‘over it’ comes in a drug called Fukitol
take two (with food)
and call me in the morning

Yet here’s the thing
I’ve learned in 37 years
of asking myself the same thing
that you asked me

How do you get over a childhood hurt?
The answer is simple
You don’t.
That hurt you will take to your grave

Now, before we get despondent
before we throw in the towel
and cry ourselves to sleep
let me offer you some solace

I’ve traced my pen
across my scars and bled out on the page
I’ve wept, and winced
and cried and lamented over how bad it still hurt

I’ve purged the infection, over and over in my art
and while the scar remains
I lift it up for the world to see
and find that others have wounds like mine

We connect.

And it’s there in that moment
this bizarre realization
that the thing I once despised
I am grateful for

You never get over it, no
but you can get through it
and you can use it
instead of letting it use you

 

Sounds of Spring (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoStudio Dekorasyon

 

I wake up in the morning
drifting sunlight through my window
grackles chatting up the neighbors
somewhere on another lawn

Fan above me whirling
nestled deep in cover warmly
lawnmowers buzzing pleasantly,
underneath the morning sun

I sit up, bones a’crackin’
reach for the ceiling I feel my back poppin’
I toss the covers aside and stand
and slip on the clothes from the night before

Dog leash in one hand,
sneaker-clad feet slap the pavement
puppy dog rushes to do his business
pulling his sleep addled master along

Noseeums float lazy
in the shadows where sunlight isn’t reaching
neighbors walk to their cars quickly
coffee cups and car keys clenched in their hands

The smells of the dewdrops rise
along with Star of Jasmine on the air
I put earbuds in my ears
and stretch my legs for a good long walk

Journey in my ears blaring
Steve Perry singing clearly
about the wheel in the sky always turning
that’s the sound of my springtime morning

 

 

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

 

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr (Precious Lord)

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(In Memoriam)

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
When my way grows drear, precious Lord linger near
When my light is almost gone
Hear my cry, hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
When the darkness appears and the night draws near
And the day is past and gone
At the river I stand
Guide my feet, hold my hand
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home
Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home (lead me home)
Songwriters: Thomas A. Dorsey