We awkwardly try to

get comfortable

on the bed.

The subtle dominance

of you

hovering over me,

me open to

whatever might happen,

ready to go with it,

shivering with possibility.

You kiss my neck,

a dead bedroom

coming back to life

after years.

Your lips

lovingly and passionately

explore me,

your hands

touching me everywhere,

my body hungry for all of it,

bliss coursing through my veins.

I feel loved,

cherished,

wanted,

desirable.

I touch myself

then guide your hand

to touch me

as we kiss,

as you nibble my ear,

as you kiss my chest.

This is what I needed,

to wade in the shallow end

before we go deeper

another night.

Maybe this is all I need

sometimes,

the simple pleasure

of kisses and touches

and being with you,

the rediscovered sensuality

of gentle foreplay.

Your rekindled desire

is a gift

i look forward to opening

again and again.

watching a mind
slide one millimeter
at a time until
one day you see it has
wandered far away

jumping puddles
without umbrellas barefoot
blinded by the rain

A little dark rabbit with tall ears

jumps onto the back of the gazebo,

a weathered gray in contrast, 

and runs to the front, hops with practiced

grace onto the white rock path, pauses,

then begins running circles in the flower bed

in and out of view among the lilies, bee balm,

yarrow, milkweed, then back through the gazebo, 

makes an abrupt stop, stands on hind legs,

looks about, then takes off running again, 

loop after meandering loop, forward 

then backward, over and over. Speedy 

Gonzales. Perhaps there are two.

I stand watching, a good 20 minutes.

All that energy, only one little rabbit. 

My favorite thing at the cusp of a new season
is to listen to Vivaldi’s interpretation 
and let the musical pictures fill my mind
while looking out at my modern cirucumstances

It sends chills up my spine as I see and hear
similar scenes converge and my senses are overwhelmed
The birds outside are singing as the birds
in the music are chirping merrily

It makes me wonder where he was when he wrote
such a stunning work of art.
Was he inside at his desk, or was he out in a
field of flowers, birds, trees and bees?

As the music turns more frantic, the scene outside
my window is still serene, but I can still feel
the peace of the day, even in the active movement
of the exquisite musical masterpiece

I wonder if he knew that his creation
would be enjoyed for centuries to come
and bring peace to the hearts
of more people than can be counted.

We chose to have the parents meet over dinner at my house with one he concocted with his newly acquired culinary skills from the CIA.First, he created a stunning charcuterie tray of grapes, a bird carved from an apple, fresh pineapple chunks, assorted cheeses such as brie, Manchego,gouda. Dad prepared their favorite old fashioneds with bourbon garnished with a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry in lowball glasses from his portable bar in the dining room. He toasted, “To Linda and Jim, may they continue to love and care for one another as they approach marriage.”The entrée was baked halibut sitka topped with a creamy sauce dotted with fresh green onions and fresh dill garnished with a lemon slice. Parslied buttered new potatoes and steamed asparagus as sides.  I watched and acted as his sous chef. He explained how important the presentation of the food is to all the senses. That’s why I chose Grannie’s Noritake China to use.  Only brought out for special dinners like this one. He bought a bottle of white pinot grigio to serve. He had learned about fine wines at culinary and was teaching me. All I knew was Boone’s Farm from college days or dark red communion wine from church. For dessert, he prepared individual chocolate souffles topped with a dollop of whipped cream and a fresh raspberry with a mint leaf for presentation, youknow. Stellar! I was in love! I was so proud of him and this gourmet meal but the kitchen was a disaster. Creativity can be messy. On a glow, we drove his parents back to their house across town when his mom burst my bubble. “Do your parents always drink like that?” she asked.  

One, two breaths of fresh air.

Grandma returned
as a newspaper publisher
like Ethel Barrymore
in Deadline USA
She’d seen it all
elegant and battle-hardened
each deadline a Tiffany scar

I was her editor
her Humphrey Bogart
We sat in the newsroom
talking coverage
for the next edition
though I can’t recall
what made page one 

Then I woke up
our partnership dissolved
the newsroom darkened
the presses relics
a-holes with X accounts
fancying themselves
“independent journalists”

The real Grandma
didn’t write and would
never pick a printed fight
She probably watched
Studio Wrestling
more than she read
The Daily News

It was just a dream
thin like smoke
from a candle snuffed
a board game
with missing pieces
But in a wisp of time
I had a boss I loved

And who by fire, who by water –Leonard Cohen (from the Machzor Rosh Hashanah)
 No one gets out of there alive –Jim Morrison    

Stop worrying about
Inconveniencing the living who
Don’t want to be bothered by someone
Screaming, crying out, moaning, leaving messes  

Stop worrying about dying quietly, without fuss so
The living won’t be discomfited
Scream, rail, weep, gnash your teeth
Rattle, hum, wander, sleep  

Go gentle into that good night
Or rage, rage, rage, leave it with a fight
It’s your life, your dying, your death
Don’t worry about how You breathe your last breath  

The last exhale comes to one and all    

Walk into a forest, one

that hasn’t seen you before,

in a land you’ve never visited,

or, better yet, not heard of.

Where nobody will look for you.

There will be places, thinned,

where you can see the sun,

the trees beyond the trees,

a path worn across the floor.

Like the endless false apologies.

Don’t let these fool you, or

birth some hope of escape

that will nag at the parts of you

she left without atlases of scars.

Not that such parts survived.

Keep walking, then penetrate

so deep you can see nothing

past the crazy prism of colors,

the palette of the varied pains.

She was an experienced artist.

Stay. Let your self dissolve.

Be a fungus born of old leaves.

Then wake. The scars will stay,

until you’re reminded how to love.

Which is not the same as forgetting.

(after the 1901 painting, “Forest of Fir Trees,” by Gustav Klimt)