With My Eyes

Behind you,
the window blinds closed.
A faint early morning light
Surrounding you
as you slip from bed,
clutching a silky robe.
Your cloak of confidence
worn to shreds by the shyness
of your fingers flexing
round the collar of the robe
before you slip it
over you—
my breath
stolen
away
to look at you then–

Then I knew–
Byron had it wrong
with all his talk of night.
As did Botticelli
with his giant shell.
As I watched you
slip from bed
in the early morning light,
a word occurred,
just a word, a simple thought,
ran through my head,
I’ll not say it
for you’ll not believe it.

Since I can not give you
my eyes
with which to see,
and with your own
you see only flaws
and imperfections of time
magnified, as do we all, I know.
Yet add the all, the total,
the in and out of you
together,
you
standing there,
golden,
your fingers clutching
the collar of a silky robe–
my breath
stolen.

Had Byron or Botticelli seen,
perhaps then,
with their high art
and immeasurable talents,
it would have been captured,
as so many artists have tried
and failed to do.
Then you would see
Yourself with my eyes
that see—
in this soft, golden light of early morning,
a being of some ancient religion
who decided to take flesh
and walk the earth.

In a lifetime,
my words never capturing,
my talent far too small,
too paltry, too pedestrian
to ever encompass
all—
everything I see
in
everything I feel
for
the everything
you are

Featured Post: If You Could Be Mine – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Friends surprise with a birthday dinner.
Then out to the bar for a few drinks.
They laugh and wink
When a tiny little thing
With long, dark shining hair
That looks so velvety soft
That to touch it would be
To fall up into a rural night sky
Of inky black laced
With the light of
A thousand stars,
Smiles at me,
And with the encouragement of her friends,
Asks me for a dance.
But she is young,
Much too young for me.

But I like the way she moves as if just for me.
I think I could do this just like I used to in my youth.
Something stirs within as if of old muscle memory
Of how to divorce the physical from the spiritual.
Yes, just like in my youth.
I could take her home,
Whisper things like,
“If you could be mine….”
And really go to…

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Featured Post: The Truth That Never Hurts – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a garden?
Of the Texas sky?
Of a home?
Or an empty house?

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a love?
Of the human heart?
Of a parent?
Of a child?
Of a dog?
Or even God?

When did the truth
Contained in each
Contain no pain?
No hurt?
Not a scrap?
Not a speck?


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

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13 Years

 The requiem played
 So softly in the background.
 Our words stuttered to a halt,
 And we listened to this--
 The breath between words 
 Not said in the silence
 Between us.
 All the while the strains of the requiem
 Filled the ever widening space
 Between the words of lies and truths
 In the deafening silence.
 To relieve the pressure in our ears
 We talked of all the daily banalities
 Of work, of dinner, of lunches,
 Of the silly things the dogs have done
 That made us laugh.
 We talked over each other
 Stumbling in a strange vocal dance
 Until finally tripping into silence
 Before a final goodbye is said
 With your lies and my truth unclaimed.
 But the requiem played still--
 And then silence. 

Featured Post: Ash – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Gather and pile
the wood neatly.
Stuff the paper
Torn from notebooks.
Pile the ribbon tied cards
High and wide.
Take a torch,
Or a lighter,
Or a match,
And light this pyre.
Let it warm the night.
Stand near enough
To let its heat
Make the body sweat
Away what remains
Of promises made
Promises kept
Promises broken
Promises turned lies.

Let the dead words
Burn in the flames
Of the pyre
Curling and turning black
Within the orange and yellow.
Mourn the death
Of words diseased
By lack of meaning
If you must.
And when it is done,
Cover your head
With their ashes.
Then let the rains
Wash you clean.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing…

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Shadows

In the shadows of the mountains

Where beasts have fled,

Leaving behind cloven hoof prints

In the inky muck of the forest floor

Beside the pristine waters of a rushing stream

Near the fading timberline here,

The scent of decaying pine bark and musk

On a faint icy breeze

Weaves all into the forest primordial.

Nothing human can be found

In a fear filled chest.

A Dream of the Wolf

 A whipped dog,
 Head down,
 Eyes, lowered,
 Ears back,
 Haunches drawn
 Dreams the wolf--
 Sharp weapons of tooth and claw,
 Armor of hide and fur,
 Heart of a free, wild warrior.
  
 A dream of the lone wolf,
 Who may find comfort
 Here or there 
 For a season.
 Then moves onward alone
 Before what will come 
 As the whipped dog knows,
 Always, always does.