Day 33: Someone Special

This dream of someone special drags me down

like a black horse with lantern eyes

to an underground cavern steeped

in chill and ankle-deep water.

Somewhere a pipe drips and echoes

as the mare tosses her head,

and the light seems to flicker.

This happy ending detoured

halfway to paradise.

Were we ever headed that way?

or was it just the hungry cry

of my bones that put hooks

in your heart and called it love,

waiting for you to drag me home,

bleeding all the while.

I’ve touched pleasure

till it’s sore and swollen

then shamed it before

the world for ceasing delivery.

This isn’t the love I promised

or dreamed of soaking in

till my fingers got wrinkly.


This passion demands and aches

and shows my love

by bending my ribs outward

and asking you to cover

my gaping need.

So without you cold rushes in,

dust and pieces of gravel

stabbing my innards,

even in a room full of friends.

I guess love just hurts.


With you near, I had you so high

on the pedestal I built

I could barely make out your face

let alone hold your hand.

As you in turn placed me up

we lost track of who was higher

and who was lower,

and even when we met in the middle

it was only to notice our reflection

in the other’s eyes was gone.


Equal was sacrificed gladly for love,

since only love would satisfy.

But like settlers off the boat

with rich prairie fantasies,

we’d marveled at love’s possibilities

and found ourselves on bare, dusty ground.

There was always better,

until there became here.


Let me learn one day to love

love’s humble rolling hills

and level playing fields,

to lose track of paradise

in a kind word.

May I seek fullness not

by cracking ribs outward

but by noting the stars

they already contain.

May I see them so well

that one day if we meet again,

instead of looking for ourselves,

we seek out the comets

in each other’s eyes.

With gauze on our chests,

may we take our time

and instead of stripping love naked,

making ready to devour,

may we stop long enough

to politely ask its name,

and listen with great tenderness

to its story.




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Day 32: Snow in January

Art buds in baby roses

on the limits of my hands

reaching out for elements

until I clutch them in prayer to my lips

to save them from the crush

of closing doors.

The road ahead wavers,

horizon in the desert,

and on either side businessmen

and professionals call

the name they think is mine

with promises of things

I’m not sure I need.

And all the while

through my ribs

I hear the whisper of poetry,

sultry as red silk,

come back to bed

As the clothes fall threadbare

around my knees

and the houses get smaller,

the city streets know

the tread of my bare feet till dark.

And only then I return to four sweet walls,

remind them they are

a place to lay my head

so the words can slip into my ears

and form simple dreams.

This gentle ambition

soaked in through my pores

is growing louder than the voice

of the coward who lives in me.

And I’m beginning to trust

the questions to these answers

are already on their way,

sure as snow in January.




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Day 31: If Me Became We

A passport or a hand,

to have and to hold.


If our branches intertwine

and our roots become locked,

can the rain hit both our leaves?

If I let myself fall into you,

can I still climb with white knuckles

to the edge of my self?

Say we twist our hearts in half

and I take yours and you take mine,

and over a hundred years

we bleed each other’s blood

and measure the pulse of our lives

by the beloved’s beat,

would both still be whole?


If I took handfuls of dirt

from the bottom of seven seas

and locked them in a jar,

or wound my legs

around a thousand lovers,

or crept up a ladder littered

with paper money and accolades,

would I become more of me than

I’d be if I spent the days

in love with you,

the way you deserve.


If our promise was the ground I stood on,

even if it turned to quicksand,

is it any less firm than the

castles of cloud people hang in the air?

If we chose to believe in an “as you wish,”

would you and I pay the price?

Or is dissolving the only way

to a world that lives

in grains of sand?




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Day 30: Digging Up Mountains

The song in the mountains

is a bittersweet lament,

an open, pure yearning.

It echoes through caves

and muffled in snow, is swept away in the wind.

The awakened, the heart simple

as an unfolding bud sings of peace,

and of loneliness?

Were our wounds scrubbed clean,

excuses ripped open to let light rush in,

sear the soul raw and translucent.

Were we but vessels with warmth

seeping from our fingers.


Or if we sank into earth,

into the mud of each other’s skin,

messy, broken yearning.

Sensuous climbs to ancient ruins,

and tumbles down into waiting arms.

If alone we spend a hundred years

digging for truth, with who,

when that joy is learnt,

can we share the news?

When the secret of how to love is found,

is there time to offer it up?


Might there be other roads to the sun?

When was I taught a heart must be

flawless before it dares to cleave?

When was the cut made between Love

and loving you?

Give me your hand, darling, the way down is steep.

Through a broken, healed binding,

may we study the galaxies

we’re formed of underneath.




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