You Are No Help To Me

I think, what happened, why?
it's all I ever seem to do.
Dwell on why.
So much so I don't recognize
this entity that is me.

A charge to implode
is always set.
Unsteady is my condition.
I need strength not sympathy.
Your pity does me no good.

Go away,
and don't come back,
until you can help answer why.
And help me find a way back,
from the hollowness inside.

Never Again

I tried to explain.
I feel,
but not why,
I know,
but not how.
Please comprehend,
please say
"I understand"

No, don't sneer, don't laugh,
but you do.
Why did I try to explain.

Goodbye.
I won't do that again.

Untitled

My body is the saboteur,
that lead me into you.
Unfortunately my heart did follow,
a willing co-conspirator.

Untitled

With first touch of skin
labored breathing begins.
Senses on fire,
eyes echo a plea.

Thoughts become one,
no spoken word needed.
Fevered pitch carries us
outside of ourselves.

The two of us watch
the two of us in movement.
Entwined bodies
far above and away.

Raw sensuous desire
blurs edges of body.
Ravenous waves of passion
crest and subside.

Too soon the bond breaks,
breathing slows down.
Minds become separate
as focus takes hold.

Eyes once again lock,
pulses now quicken.
Lips seek to caress,
the dance starts anew.

The Request

It matters not that my prayers
are answered,
only that they are heard.
For it is in the very reception of my supplications
the answers therein lay.

Three Strikes You're Out

So few got second chances,
they failed miserably on the first.
Of those that did,
only a handful managed
to entice me to stay for more.

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Confidence shattered,
trust is broken,
one too many times deceived.

Defenses are garnered
within to protect,
a fragile existence conceived.

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Is there but one soul
travelling the centuries,
recycling through bodies,
inhabiting new minds?

Does it take what is learned,
when it moves on?
Does it choose who to be,
or is it luck of the draw?

Perhaps all the answers
are within DNA.
We are just denied access,
the password forgotten.

Dive in, the waters fine

Genes, you curse them or praise them. They are the bits in us that create tendencies to be what we are. If you are fortunate to know your family history, you can speculate who you got what from. I am one of the lucky ones. I know my family genealogy. Music abilities came from a great grandfather, art from a grandmother and writing and cooking from my father. Daddy was a bi-vocational minister whose sermons reflected love and humor, but his life as a pastry chef paid the bills. Mother recently let me read a few of the many poems Daddy wrote. My gene pool runs very deep.

A Page Of Life

I turned a page of life gone by,
and found,
four blissful years of love by you and I,
spent.
Tender passions oh so great and still it was,
greater,
than any love I have ever known,
and,
I owe it all to thee my Dear,
Beloved.

E. V. Hudson - 1945

Where To Start

I was recently asked this question, "How do you start to write a poem?". Well Ron, in most instances it starts with one of hundreds of one liners. A few words or a line comes to mind and they are added to a journal I began keeping years ago. That journal is perused for inspiration. Words may jump out and scream "Use Me!", or in some instances have yet to evolve into a poem. Here are a few contenders;

consummed in joy
my heart soars as I leave myself far below
I stayed too long
lamentations reach no ear
sexual ambiguities
past and present meld into one
love has a ravenous appetite
pay heed to what is in the rear view mirror

I am Singing

I saw myself fall from the sky.
I watched as I soared swiftly by.
And as my music to no one played on,
I heard the silence of my song.

Untitled

You should be scared of me.
I'm driven by passion,
too intense for you.

I suck the breath from your body,
leaving you drenched,
too weak to move.
I lock my eyes onto your thoughts
and rip them from your mind.

Swollen lips brush your cheek,
whispering goodbye.
Departing you empty,
totally sated,
but not calling out for more.

My Heart No Longer Drips With Bitterness

The bitterness is finally gone,
it drips no more within.
The journey complete,
my essence repaired,
that battle I did win.

The Longing

I ache for you to feel,
lances of touch spearing the body.
Infusing all cells
with realization of mind.

I long that I could speak.
But language of words spoken
simply fail to define.

Esquisite sensations
levetating above
no ordinary skin,
sublime.

The Forgotten

Memories supressed,
much like puzzle pieces.
Easily lost, some tattered and torn.
Pictures no longer fitting together.
Boxes now pushed to the back of the shelf.

Untitled

The simplist explanation is often correct,
Occam's Razor states.
And entities must not be
multiplied beyond necessity.

So a list is made and tallied,
but it is equal on both sides.

Crazy or sane?
which is correct?
Neither seems simple to me.

The Dance

Do you feel like exploring more poetry? Go to www.poets.org or www.famouspoetsandpoems.com. These two sites often showcase modern American poets. Billy Collins and Rita Dove are on both these sites. Their words reveal a more contemporary world, more relevant than the works of Walt Whitman or Robert Frost. Most colleges post poetry by students, an excellent place to appreciate auditory paintings verses visual paintings.

The Dance

I drift,

the numbers don't stand still.

They move, they swirl

and dart about.

Formulations cease.

Minutes pass, movement stops

focus finds its mark.

I breathe to start,

the brush is poised, but the paint has dried.

The canvas is still blank.

Jeff

I push through
to touch the weakened beat,
filling my hand.
Transcending the body
beyond this space.
My eyes must close,
the sound too bright.
I reach to grasp,
to turn it off.

It was mine to start,
it is now mine to stop.
His heart is gone,
as is part of mine.

The Match

My mind refuses to let my body sleep.
I pull my pillow around my head,
as if that can hold back forming thoughts.
I toss and turn as they come fast and furious.
Bouncing back and forth across the skull,
like a tennis ball between players.
The body exhausted finally wins the match.
I drift to sleep,
but the peace is invaded by dreams.

Love is all there is

Emily Dickinson is considered one of America's greatest poets. Born in 1830, she lived a reclusive fifty-five years in her Father's house. Of the almost two thousand poems she penned, only seven were published in her lifetime. For one who never experienced the world, she possessed an unfathomable, intellectual understanding of humanity.
"Life is so startling", she wrote, "it leaves little room for other occupations". I could not be a recluse, I enjoy the company of others and the excitement of being out in the world. I do envy the time to be totally devoted to one's talent.

"That love is all there is, is all we know of love",
Emily Dickinson did compose.
Oh say can you see, and if you can then show me.
Is my take on that illustrious quote.

There Are Places the Mind Should Not Go

Now I lay me down to sleep,
and do not pray my soul to keep.
Instead I will my thoughts to cease,
deny subconscious dreams to start.
Not to seek forbidding places,
tortured memories too fresh to see.
Driving back the screaming visions,
back to where the mind should not go.
Hoping that the morning light,
finds my sanity intact.