of green holes & things ,,,,

there is no sign that he was here 

no faded band of white where the ring encircled
no token

no locket or braid of silver 

( unless you count that initial carved on my upper left arm when i was 17 .....)

( but it is an indistinguishable secret )
( well, and now ....  that other thing ... ) 

no welts or bruises of indigo blue & purple-black
though, there is this bruised heaviness sometimes 

there is no box of memorabilia stashed under the bed, in the closet

or at the cedar-bottom of a drawer

no outward trace 

exactly ....

but

as you peel back the folds

of peach, pink & bone around my heart ...

you will find a blossoming infinite hole that remains

marking - defining

the sureness ...

steeped in music, words, yearning & years

smelling of honeyed-moist-earth & green growing things

you can still feel the imprint of his finger-tip tracings

that followed the path of my blood & moonlight

i've grown accustomed to that shadow weight and you can stand in it's thundered fire 

and you will know.

holes

are

loves token

a perseid august-falling . . .

at a young age, I knew that scars were
best
kept
on the outside  . . rather than on the inside
it felt peaceful & ordained somehow
to bare a badge of injury - pain
to bruise
to bleed
to ultimately form thickened stretched skin
pale across that badge
webbed & tatter-woven
inside scars suffocated - binding tight to the hollow spaces
ringing with infinite sharpness
scar me up & lay me down
etch the line morel-black & paint resplendent
to elude the phantomn pursuit
THEN, we find
love ....
and the teeter-totter balancing act begins
love is discovered under bridges
-  the balm to our scars; inside & out
ending the requirement to bleed. . .
shining during the passage
Love :
the unbridled joy-love heard in a meadowlarks song,
the love of a grandmothers hand upon your back coupled by the smell of oatmeal
as captain kangaroo ping-pongs, the smell of summer coming from your mothers skin, the presence of a father sitting for hours at the foot of your bed watching as you slowly breathe yourself to sleep under his quiet vigilance, the soft ginger prickle of a baby's just-hatched hair beneath your lips, the easy comfort of a friend & the companionable love of men , , yes, men. where laughter, glory and the sky become tamed, and the rockem-sockem ghost-love of a man with sparkling walnut eyes that asks a willing surrender, a tacit understanding and to trust it's intimate quantum-rising.
the mark it leaves, the pain endured, the story told . . .
scars ride shot-gun on the outlaw love-trail
coloring us in aqua-forgiveness under a perseid night that lights the path home
Fehu
Love is the scar-divine.

moon in virgo

radiant pulse . . .
throbbing against skin
inside-out, yes
folded
yes
travelling sideways with no map
NO MAP !!
committed to finding action in a subtle flutter
soft
sometimes the movement is weak - fractured . . stored behind a
blue door locked with the weaved-golden-wound of twilight
locked tight in the perfection of turquoise love
open & believe
believe . .
light-cast out
cast out - trailing embers of possibility, passion & connection
the fire is lit
solitude is sought
and the noise & rustling of others is clearly marked by the grey thick-crayon-outline of wait
mercury retrograde . . .
sweetest nest hold me ;
swallow-feathered with nine-inch nails & frankinsense,
first-snow & lavendar : the ruby-boxed-ribboned-memory of the smell of your skin,
the surrender found in a kiss, your kiss honey-delicate, wet & warm
turn
shift
splash & be . . .
intellectually walking in love
emotions hot - fatigued - distant
action, non-action . . . the beating pulse of summer sun in leo
i will make my home between three planets trine
swallow-feathered & waiting

basil & dill

this culinary corner of shadows & light
retro mystique
tired, warm, beautiful
music drifts across stainless bowls
pinchings of herbs
hand-carved spoon measures
gathering in ...
" and we'll learn, learn, learn ... wait your turn , turn, turn "
yellow-finch-bluejay-white-birch sun shines thru the window
open to pressure & heat ..
heat .
cooking
boiling sweet baby potatoes
golden & red
slicing, dicing
present
intently being ...
celery
garden warm ;
basil
dill
parsley &
chives
adding
blending
absorbed in this simple measure
( it's a summer salad for fuck-sake! )
and
suddenly you are behind me
breaking into my now. .
solid yet veiled
strong & just
heat rolling
eyes close,
leaning into the smell of basil & dill
garden & green
I fall
deeper
against the between
breathing in, breathing out
basil & dill
melt my moon & tend this sun
blended with the shadows of this day
once more tired and beautiful
and mine
basil & dill

96% full

fireflies spark past my window

like forgotten falling stars

or, is it shooting stars?

remember that night in june when you

were there for me?

found always in june--the labyrinth weaves the path

back to you

always summer

when heat & starlight paint the pages of of our lives in

the muted colors of the plains

golden bleached to white ...

meadowlarks sing to a dawn ripe with 

raspberry hope 

&

the smell of sun-kissed skin lingers in the '69 mustang

along with a bottle of dime-store wine

kiss me & hold me fast

as this moment will not last

and fireflies leave their psychedelic trail of tears behind for you & i

blindfolded by fear & regret

hear the trucks from the interstate singing of wanderlust & tomorrow?

tell me a tale steeped in story & family & loss

and i will love you thru to the other side ...

this side

that smells of mountain pine & wild iris

scarred

but true

fireflies & shooting stars

yes

always in june 

wow

i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
and how successful i've become
adept really , , ,
quite stellar
i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
not to remember your voice
reassuring, smooth & over-easy-brown from the 5237.2 miles away
i try not to remember the happiness . .  crystal pure-poppy happiness
drop me to my knees happiness
that came with the surrender
the sureness
i try hard to not remember
the playlist of our connection
every month of our being
the soundtrack of relationship
sophomoric & erotic
how funny is that ?
giddily ridiculous & orange-pekoe-wise
collide ;
whispers of gods & lovers, hemingway & guinness  & gaga
sweat & anal beads
sweet baby james & beowulf
dragons & orbs
contrast of age against habit habit habit
thrill against routine & the expected
in acknowledgement of the hardness, lies the recognition of the missing ,,,,
the hole has changed  - no longer jagged & sharp
it it cold
devoid of canterbury bells & lichen
along it's scar
it does not smell of honeyed sunshine man-skin
but
ice
it smells of ice
polar ice, like where-nobody-can-live-ice
i haven't even thought of that hole for some time now
felt that fracture
and i almost miss the sharpness
the sting of the wound
the keening of the sorrow
almost .....
has my heart grown harder ? smaller ?  more fragile ?
no, it has actually grown brighter . rounder . fuller.
fragile - yes.
which is why
i try hard to not remember you

A Sunday kind of missing ....

 thinking of you today
on this Sunday after CBS Sunday Morning  & Meet the Press

Sunday

Sundays were pot roast & golf-on-tv-days
sleepy nappy days ..
when I was very little
I would steal away to your bedroom with some treasured book &  fall asleep  -
my cheek waffle-printed from that nubby white bedspread
that smelled of Canoe
sleepy nappy days ....
and yet today, I am thinking about all the things you saw in your lifetime ...
things beyond pot roast & Sundays :
your childhood, illness & fishing and that big brother you idolized ...
the complete wrapping love of your mother, and the brutal Irish-Love of your father, fishing, school, excelling in every sport you tried your hand at , poverty,  and going to war,
your love of New Orleans, fishing, how you extended your hand & your friendship across lines of color, fishing,  crossword puzzles & reading ,
golf & fishing, the lives you touched, the stories you unfolded, the generosity of your heart.
I miss you Dad ... not just  a Sunday-kind-of-missing
but an every day kind of Missing
however ....
it is still a  sleepy-nappy-Sunday-kind of Missing
that leaves it's nubby-white-waffle-print forever pressed upon my cheek & heart