Category Archives: Affairs of the Heart

Rumpled Bed

This room is not mine
with its tousled sheets,
remnants of bathroom fixtures,
books, dirty clothes, debris
scattered about, layered in dust,
looking like a whirlwind
had swooped in, scooped it up,
and dropped it whatever –

It might not even be his –
the memories of another woman’s
scent still fills his nostrils,
befuddling his clouded mind –
making “letting go” a distant dream.

I am but an infrequent visitor
who lives in a fantasy
that one day he might look at me
with those golden brown eyes
and know that there was a love
who would not leave
when another
more tempting morsel
flavored her palette.

I looked about the room
knowing yet again
I have given my heart
to someone who couldn’t return
the intensity of feelings
in equal measure –

Seems I have spent this life
in the shadow of other women –
Their midnight stirrings
sharing the same bed
I so sparingly sleep in.

Searching for a Panacea

Searching for a panacea
we drift in somnambulance
seeking the respite
to this long-suffering despair
cloaked in remorse
we wrap its dull edges
about bodies
tired of futility,
from meaningless pressures
offering no consolation
and hold tightly
for fear of drowning’s end,
in morose morbidity
should even an integer slip.
Discouraged, disillusioned –
but a spark remains
always there,
lurking in shadows
of some inner force
to relinquish pain
and surge forward
onto a more brightly lit path,
one more than existence,
but rather of life.

Remember Me

When drafty, cold sheets
embrace you –
clean, cool air
your only companion,
wrapping bracing arms
about you . . .
remember me,
remember me.

When the only touch
lies in your own caress
and you rock back
and forth,
holding yourself,
loneliness a cloak,
ripped and tattered,
shabbily contenting an empty husk,
remember me.

As you wake with a start,
and reaching down,
feel shame
and a touch of disbelief
as your sheet
sticks with a tackiness
born of dreams . . .
Remember me.

i drank the nectar
of deep, warm recesses –
then you were gone,
leaving an empty cup
tilted over, with rusty edges
on your stand.

One morning I was held by
the savoring sweetness
of sexual desire,
next choking on a
bile of bitter rancor,
spitting out bits
of broken dreams.

So when the time comes
for you to yearn, plead,
beg for fulfilment,
wavering shadows in
the dark becoming
your only company . . .

Lick the drained cup
for the dregs of what was –
will never again be –
do this in remembrance
of me.

What’s In a Name?

Lying in bed
gazing in darkness
reaching over to touch
an empty body
between threadbare sheets
close by – but
never touching
My Husband? Lover?

Does it matter
what the name is
when the function
stays the same?
A rose by any other name, etc.
Bodies filling spaces
useful playthings
meant for frittering away
another night’s boredom.

Used for stuffing empty holes
filling excess corners
memorabilia of the mind,
cluttered junk
receded into dusty, dark places
retrieved for a quiet chuckle
on a frosty night.

What is your name?
Forget it – don’t tell me.
They all sound the same
in the end.

 

Until his return

Wearing his shirt
holding his fragrance
unique unto him alone
close to me
so that many miles
might not seem so far.
Sheets changed
night before he left
so his essence
and each night
until he returns
I can hold pillows
and dream of a closeness
physical boundaries
don’t permit.
His stamp in dreams –
the sweet savoring
of those precious moments
only lovers share –
as I linger
in fantasies of love
until his return.

Cautious re-entry

Somewhere beneath angry words
and pain of hurt feelings
lies that love, small and private
between you and I.
Touch it . . .
reach beyond shallow fears,
with critical demands for perfection
and petty stabs of insecurity
to find, nestled in the hollows
of raw, aching need
that one fragment of emotion,
pure, untainted by abuse
and draw strength . . .
to search further than cruel torture
and bridge that yawning gap
so we might meet once again
in that private world of caring
found one night in the past,
and begin to renew our faith
in the love we have found
to search for peace,
a common ground of surrender
to love’s cautious ways.

Intertwined

Twins under the skin,
we blend and merge
only to separate, redefine,
and begin again.
Clones in many ways
yet strangers when glimpsing
sides not seen before within
our own beings –
high intensity  and gentle understanding
mark our progress
into this strange dimension
of loving communion –
an affirmation of ourselves
through the eyes of each other;
registering new strengths
and frightening weaknesses
through continual interweaving
of complexity and analysis.
When final comprehension
begins to dawn,
the picture changes,
as new sides emerge
and twins begin combat
with equal strength –
only to flair again
into fiery, playful passion
and a quiet linking of souls
in an osmosis of emotion –
ebbing and flowing –
attraction and repulsion
by that seen within
and viewed in each other,
companions in a duet of desire.

Emergence

Each day with you seems a reprieve
or a rare gift given to wonder and delight
Anger may flare, wills clash,
passion builds to a roaring crescendo,
yet for every hurt lie a hundred gentle memories
of softly lit eyes and hands caressing
in tender ecstasy either pliant or powerful.

I seek your presence as a thirsty soul
searches for water among arid plains –
and feel at home with tempestuous moods
or quiet perusals –
content in that special brand
of soul touching.

 

Flowers and Toys

Is the pattern
instilled within so long ago
to begin again –
running, constantly running
from one wild flower to another
longing for a sweeter scent
or more vivid, delicate petals?
And who, this time,
is the fleer to be –
you or I?
Each fear entrapment,
a seeping of the soul
subtly transferred to the possession
of the other.
Both have sought through
countless meadows,
seeking that rare blossom,
headier in fragrance
than all the rest.
Like children at Christmas
we grab one toy to our breasts,
proclaiming it our favorite,
our most precious treasure,
only to cast it aside
in favor of another –
stuffing memories into small places
squeezing stuffing from edges frayed
only to leave a soiled vestige
of childhood fancy
lying half off the shelf,
to tumble down forgotten.
Is the pattern to begin again –
if so, which of us is the toy?