The Path of No Path

Perfect Storm Wet From your soft whispers My ears drink in the delicious nectar of your words Sweet lips   stir deep passions Scirocco winds envelope us the storm grows hot Following the perfume I seek the source of your wet Velvet folds swell and open my tongue translating   Sensuous runes on your outer gates My lips utter silent words the ocean rises and swells Plundering deeply into your Storm Temple Scorching waves crash Thunder and lightening erupt Joining, we are the perfect storm

Fall Approaches Geese soaring Northward Reflections on the river Sights from bus window

Naked             I like rain. There is sublime joy from walking in it. Unique is the passion play between warm, fragrant earth as it opens to receive the powerful spring rainstorm. To me it sounds like homemade Fajitas with peppers, onions and fresh spices sizzling in a cast iron frying pan. There is however, a particular kind rain at the Oregon coast, specifically in Newport Oregon, when wind and rain combine, such that, within a half a mile of the coast that it will rain in a curious sideways fashion. As if the world had been tilted ninety degrees. This horizontal rain has its own beauty, but after three straight days of it, I too was ready for some change. It was, after all, the second week of June. Nearly summer. I was jittery. Jumpy. Though not a coffee drinker, which I know in Oregon, is just plain wrong, but nevertheless, it was like I was on my fifth double mochaccino. Whatever that is. I needed to get out of the hous...

The song of your voice echos in my heart, each time I say your name. I see two elder tress. Over time we have grown close together, each in our own different part of the Great forest. The leaves and the tiniest of our branches have discovered each other. It will take time for our branches to fully intertwine. I want to savor and enjoy each moment of that with, YOU!

When I first saw it, I knew what it was, but my mind had already suspended my belief that it was possible. So it is, I believe, with many things in our lives. We see something, but we do not see it. We see the object, but we fail to, or choose to, not comprehend all of what is presented to us. When I was ten, for example, if you had asked me what an elephant was I could have told you. I loved elephants when I was younger, and to this day I feel they are amazing creatures. Back then I would have even shown you pictures I had drawn of elephants. But nothing prepares one for the first experience of seeing an elephant. The grace combined with immense size. Subtle, delicate seeming footfalls, and a massive trunk that can, with great skill and tenderness snatch a peanut from a child's hand. So it was to be on this day. I would see it, know what it is, but it would take hours, for the meaning of it, to sink into my soul.             It ...

Out of Munchies I crept back into the apartment and pretended to fall asleep. My mind was made up. I was leaving. No one knew.  I had come home from the Navy, only to discover that I was homeless. My father, who  had remarried while I was in boot camp, had sold the home I grew up in, and moved his new wife and her four kids into a new and much larger home. This new place did not include me. My involuntary, non-participation, in this new "family" unit, was made all the more clear when I discovered two important details left out of the wedding announcement. 1) All my stuff had been disposed of. All items from my childhood, from school projects to class photos, from stuffed animals to GI-Joes, and all my non military clothing had been thrown out. It was all gone. 2) My one remaining possession, my motorcycle, I was told, by the step-bitch, was still here. Just before she wailed, "get that piece of shit outta' MY garage!"  Walking out to the garage, I quickly f...

Cut, deep. I do not want to write. Pulling on words. Dental floss with that scraping sound as you pull it out of it's container. I never seem to get the right amount. To little and and i end up throwing it out and starting over. Too much and I feel guilty for wasting such a precious commodity. My words feel that way this morning. They smell, stink actually. Rhyme of reason is abandoned as meter and measure fly out the window and into the trash heap. What is one to do with such obvious crap? Again I am sliced open. Cut. Harsh is the shining blade of a trusted one that cuts you deep. Bone deep. Deftly with an oft practiced stroke my heart is neatly, cleanly sliced in two. So perfect, and ever so swift, such that my attacker is long gone before I realize that I am nearly bled out. I am an easy mark. Accepting of others, open and welcoming. It is my nature to be this way. I will not change. Those who keep their skinning knives sharp, their vorpal, killing words honed and ever ready....