In the lonely hours, your memory haunts me beautifully.
-
The undertaker’s gloves touch what was once hopeful and full of life.
He lies there, eyes open, but they see not and he is not.
The sterility of cold skin against cold metal is like a thousand winters.
The time for contemplation has ceased;
He lies; Still, he lies.
The darkness behind the eyes is like the ink of a black pen
Burst open into two round spaces of translucency and left to settle.
The discoloration of his nonexistence
is not found in the beauty of any rainbow.
The body has given up the ghost,
But does the ghost know it has left its shell?
The undertaker’s experienced hands will be
The last semblance of care given to him.
He does not know, for he is not present in the body.
They will cry over him;
they will shower him with flowers, but he will not know.
When he was here he counted the days and the hours but they did not show.
Yet they now stand there, teary eyes with a glare.
That they would throw dirt on him and walk away
Without even the remembrance of a genuine memory is blasphemy.
The undertaker takes it all in, for he has seen it many times before.
In the interim between life and death he contemplates his own mortality.
The living go on, and the dead are mourned;
The solemn faced undertaker, the last recorder of them that breath no longer.
His last job is done for the night; he turns off the lights
And says goodnight to his silent residents whose souls have taken flight. -
Her beauty was uncanny.
With her wares she had seduced many.
She was dainty and friendly;
Within her bosom the bones of men she kept buried.Her voice was a lullaby;
Unknowingly, in her presence I started to cry.
Then I wept at her feet
And said to her, for you I would die;She pulled me in with seductive stare.
In the blinking of an eye within a glare,
I suddenly felt an unwarranted fear;
Again in astonishment I stared.She had the devil in her green eyes;
Abruptly, blue turned to grey skies;
It wasn’t until later I had realized,
She was the devil in disguise. -
In the millions we gather and cry together; we hold hands and sing by the banks of the river. Our stories of pain are illuminated in our eyes. We have loved, we have lost; We have endured the lonely winters. Each one of us, we bear our own cross; to each other we are healing and light. As the dark night approaches, in the dusk we again recapture the happiness of our youth. Laughter ensues; we chase butterflies as the fireflies join in our joy and light up the night’s skies. We are here; we are scarred but we are here. We commune and dine together and wipe away each others tears. We recall the hardships and joys of our many years. In a vision I see my mother and she is there. We release and the river overflows from all of our tears; we are light beings, and our redemption is near.
I have found my true love again, and as we lie together, I have rediscovered the most secret and sacred parts of her. Oh for so long I had dreamt of again being lost in you; at this gathering of the sorrowful I have again found you and poured out my heart to you. For so many winters my heart wrote you letters that can’t be heard or spoken; we have suffered, all of us, with heavy eyes we had read the vile and disparaging words the world has written of us. With mocking words they eulogize us though we still live; they seek to bury us alive and wipe our memories eternally from the face of the earth. In our deep love for one another, we have found our healing and our rebirth. Step by step through dark clouds we reach heaven’s gates; as we enter, we hold hands together. At the golden round table our banquet awaits.
-
Strong winds cause running tears to be blown back from a solemn and beautiful face. Arms outstretched, in her green dress she dances alone in the dusk at her own pace. With bare feet she steps up on the ledge and it is there she contemplates, saying goodnight to the world and with a final bow leaving behind this place.
-
I love you. Dead to the sentiments of this world I arise in light yet resurrected in you. You are my life; you are my breath; if your love should ever fade from me, you are my death.
-
Pleasing you is my greatest pleasure.
You are the most precious treasure.
Never leave me.
Stay with me forever.
-
Baptized in dark waters of pain I arise reborn to reclaim my name. I have tasted the sting of bitter cold; I have walked through the hottest flames. Indifference and numbness renders me somewhat listless. They scold me with harsh words and haughty admonishments. From their defiled pulpits they scream mispronounced words they don’t understand in improper contexts. I look down upon them from above the clouds and I laugh; they swear at me and throw obstacles in my path. I transcend their petty attempts, for they know not of pain and the strength from tribulation that is gained. They know not of sleepless nights and the weary eyes that weep under the blackness of dark rain. I look through their windows and see the sickness and cirrhosis of their souls. Their rapid aging from the years of wickedness and perpetual lying, causes blackness and hardening of the nails and the brittleness of bones. I sit and contemplate my thoughts as a righteous king on his throne. To think they could lie in wait to wound me would show the stupidity of their audacity. They thought they would take advantage of my anxiety, but in their futility they couldn’t find me. I transcend; I transcend then begin again. Submerged in dark waters of agony and writhing pain I arise with fire in my eyes to conquer and reclaim. My enemies must vacate the throne upon which the sword and scepter bear my name.
-
In adoration I look upon your beauty.
I touch you and heaven touches me.
I am infused with love,
But do I confuse love with lust? No;
I know, because in silent reflection
My heart whispers to me … Love, love, love.
I am yet resurrected in the tenderness of your voice;
It is in knowing that you love me
Is why I have cause to rejoice.
It is you that I call on;
It is you who has rescued me from the storm.
My tears fall but I am not betrayed,
For the falling of my tears is not pain but joy displayed.
My burgundy rose; my morning dew;
Be my deep river of passion,
And let me immerse myself in you.
Let me taste of the sweetness of life.
In your glory you stand without a ring,
Yet from the start you were my wife.
Yet from the start you were my life. -
It is in darkness that we have found our true selves. The madness of isolation forces vivid memories of first loves and intimate moments to surface. The restless wailing of souls pierce the eardrums and release emotions within us never before experienced. We grasp these moments like we try to recollect a beautiful dream. We drink sweet wine with tears streaming from our eyes; tears drop in wine glasses. Overcome, we stand one by one and tell tales of love and memories well remembered. As I recollect it was in December that I first clung to my mother’s neck and with love she held me. “You are a good son” are the last words my grandmother would tell me. Red roses on each headstone are gently placed as dusk approaches, but in my heart is their memorial. Smile upon me now oh mother of my inception and in my desolation comfort me like a new born baby.
I have tasted of the bitter portion of misery and wish to consume it no longer. I have dreamed heavenly dreams of walking the endless halls of Valhalla. In the abyss my eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness; I have become an involuntary recluse. It is not I who has left the world, but it is the world that has left me. Passersby see my frailty, and in ghastly astonishment they shun me. The emaciation of once strong muscle and the gauntness and thinness of stretched skin over protruding bone is alarming to their delicate eyes. I am a spectacle of illness in their imaginary perfect world. A leper to be outcast and spat upon in disgust as they pass by the gates of the city. I had once hoped to find love again but found only deception and torment. The days go by, but I refuse to count. Their false pity and insincere well wishes are spotted very easily.
My faith wanes. Will they label me an apostate and seek to burn me at the stake? Will they convict me of heresy if I am no longer willing to pray? Weariness takes over, but insomnia does not allow any rest; the last memory of my love is my head resting on the comfort of her breasts. Hope can sustain, but hope can also be a stark reminder of pain. I stare into the mirror and he stares back at me, but who is he really? I seek answers, but in the interim I long to begin again. At last reborn.
Intimate Compositions 