Crossroads

Diverge,
converge
depends on per-spec-tive
look both ways
before crossing
before choosing
before dying.
Look both ways
and move fast.
Don't get hit.
Though you are no frog
you might hop on a log
to float downstream.
Just keep in mind
this time, no dime
in your pocket,
if you want to return
you'll have to paddle hard
upstream
or go by land
and risk
being squashed.

Workshop of Love: For Amy

If I were a block of stone,
(and I know sometimes you think I am)
You would be the sculptor's chisel.

If I were a bit of wood,
not large enough to knock upon,
you would be the whittler's knife.

If I were a screw,
I'm talking hardware,
you would be the driver.

If I were a nail,
you would be the pounded thumb
to spare my steely head from harm.

If I were a hammer,
you would be the nail
I would gently loosen from the wall.

If I were sheetrock,
you,
only you,
would be my joint compound.

In the toolshed of my heart,
you wrench me from complacency,
you drill me with passion,
and you caress my tender flesh
with a fresh coat of primer.

You have the key
to my toolbox,
and there is no
tape measure lengthy enough
to encompass our love.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

As I sit in the near-Arctic frigidity
of Winter's icy grip, I grasp
at Jack Frost's talons
frozen solid around my heart.
I attempt to pry them off
with so much futility,
but I hold on to hope.
I know that one day,
ONE DAY,
Spring will indeed come.
Spring will come,
and again and again and again,
I will cavort in fields of love
and black-eyed Susans
while the wind whistles
a merry tune to drown out
the everpresent threat
of impending Winter.

Passing By

Beneath the bridge
lurks a troll
seeking accompaniment
or dinner,
it is hard to tell
with trolls
what precisely
they are looking for.
I am just an innocent
passerby.
Not a billy goat,
and certainly
not gruff.
Just crossing
another bridge
to another place
on my way
to find
what I'm looking for
accompaniment
or, perhaps, dinner.

Cloudy Mirrors

Mirrors,
all around me,
there are mirrors.
Rear-view mirrors portray haunting memories
of what was, side-view mirrors
reveal with naked honesty what is yet to come.
I reject the overcautious claim
"objects may be closer than they appear."
I can measure distance
with the tape measure of love
that stretches from my heart
across vast expanses
and winds back to me
with a furious snap.
I am jarred and confused,
stunned and bewildered...
You stand over there in fields of denial
vacantly watching the world go by.
By and by, the clouds take shape -
horses trot, skiers careen over
cumulus jumps, and knots
are tied -
knitting together our fragile atmosphere.
I realize that, like the clouds, I have changed form.
Storms of passion, drizzle of depression,
swirling tempests of the winds of transformation,
and the sun that shines boldly to illumine
for all to see
who I can be.

The Quill You Clutch

Nerves already bobbing in the wake
of so many phantom hands
reaching from so many tollbooths.
I yearn for back roads, known by heart.
These snaking interstates through
interchangeable states -
states of being, states of mind.
Today, I'm feeling Nebraska,
and tomorrow, perhaps I will feel
the frothy, laughing bubbles of a fountain
caressing my travel-weary skin.
Your caress, your fingers like silk,
your tongue like sandpaper, fine-grained.
You are the cartographer, my body the map.
You bring together the warring nations.
You navigate uncharted territory
with the dexterity of a Medieval calligrapher.
Truth is the paper, passion the binding,
and with the unstoppable passage of time
I'm finding the quill you clutch is love.
I balance like a porcupine
solid in my precariousness,
teetering on the verge
of plunging in to the murky dangers of love
or choosing to remain safe,
high above the warmth of hearts entwined.

Periscope of Reason

I swim in the luminous pools
of your passionate gaze.
In your eyes drowning would be a kindness,
a gentle welcoming home.
You have been my point of origin,
my journey, my rest-stop of refuge,
and my desired destination.
All I asks is four walls around me,
a roof over my head, and you.
You, the soft pillow to which my head is pulled
by magnetic attraction, gravitational force, love.
Some mysterious scientific law is at work
in my heart.
Mystical, magical, and mighty forces
that I dare not embrace, yet dare not reject,
push me, pull me, lift me, toss me!
I must raise my periscope of reason,
and re-evaluate.
Consider all options.
In-vest-i-gate alternatives.
Raise my consciousness.
Periscope of reason,
showing truth through mirror tricks,
I cling to this mistress
of illusion and truth.
Her very existence is diabolical.
I stand at the roadside,
eyes opened wide,
and I pray that I will know her again.

Stuck

Melancholy tunes pour like rain
from my stereo...
Tunes chosen with care
to enhance my wallowing.
Wallowing in pits of despair,
pools of self-pity,
and puddles of longing,
I find myself mired
in myriad patheticisms,
wondering if ever
I'll see the light of love again.

Upheaval

Something of desk work and pornography
sent me shuttling out of my
hum-drum ordinary life
into this great swirling mass
of joy, heartache, and respectful sex.
Who said tenderness has to be dull?
With you, it was like the silent majesty
of a butterfly's unfolding wings,
It was a cocoon that shields me
from the harsh onslaughts of an unforgiving world.
Until your protection was really needed,
and you were with HER, legs in the air!
I rise up above what you thought I could ever be!
I am more, More, MORE
than you deserve!
I am sure, Sure, SURE
you will get what you deserve!
You, harlot of hellfire, sing evil.
I have baptized myself
in waters of righteousness
while you writhe in a quagmire
of the wretched pain you unleashed upon me.
There is no rest on this road
you have set before me.
I will not sleep until I see the lights of Santa Fe,
calling to me in the night.