Tuesday, March 21, 2017

An Adoration of Ideas

I read dog-eared books of poetry,
sketching fabric lives, in their fashion, 
As fate, and fortune . . . elaborately free,
threading my truth in wonders. . .

I trace these stories over your palm,
Lace garlands of fragrant thought for your hair,
bowed with glided joy, and lyrical soul.

Humming. . . intimate, warm into your neck,
I adorn the curve of your ear, with an adoration of ideas,
Treasure, plucked from cradled arms, and lettered gods.

A tango of anticipation, swerve my lilting lips,
A pleasurable, rocking, bobbin lathe of words,
Pleasurable for they journey to your eyes.

As I read for you Cielito,
Tie my verse between two Ceiba trees, 
Our serene hammock of swaying contentment. . .

Together, joined in rhythmic discourse,
beneath the heaven of our twilight sky,
known, to only you and I.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017


Time. . .
holds us all
so jealously
in the swing 
of her dance. . .

When we are apart. . . 
in the formal skin
of our work 
our obligations, 

We feel a longing 
for each other. . .
stretched out
over moments,
widening lips
without a voice
an unwinding road 
without signs

When we are together, 
some, might say,
we lost track of time, 
but I think 
it was time 
who lost track of us. 

As we live 
blissful eternities
in the urgent embrace
of each deep, 
lingering kiss. 

An evening disappears 
quick as an echo 
in the grey stone streets. . .

Querida. . . come time travel with me

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Remember to forget

I am stuck in the wake of us. I end each night in this room which echoes with our warmth. The packaging of my single serving days, sloughed off in each corner.

I remember the first time we wandered into this building, touring unit after unit, until we settled on the practical choice of our space. Its tall ceilings buoyed by grey walls and wide gulping windows, overlooking the Mystic River and its tapering green crown.

You intently studied each room, the windows and the all important view. I preferred the empty sound of a newly renovated building. The building manager's concise pitch rolled on, while I took pictures of you in each room. Your sharp profile gazing intently up; a pilgrim deep in contemplation.

It is freezing outside, and I am frozen inside. It has been over a month, and I am trying to rebuild my life. I am a duckling on a glassy pond, shaking, thrashing, forcing new life into my limbs and from my lungs; a little grey stone, hoping to be launched by cattail fingers to skip across the sky. . . The cold water holds me like a sepal throne clutching a dark crimson rose.

Do you remember our crane date? You wanted to see the harbor cranes up close, and I didn't want to be arrested for tampering with a sensitive facility. However the empty field right next to the port had an ancient crane, a red rust scaled miniature from the turn of the century. I am afraid of heights, but for you, we scaled the ladder to the crane platform. We sat together above the blue green water of the Boston Channel as cormorants dove and surfaced in the afternoon sun.

Upstairs, in the Boston Opera house, in the domed, wood-paneled anteroom just outside the mezzanine entrance, I reached out my arms to wrap about your lithe waist. You spun around, surprising us both, and we smiled, unable to avoid tracing each other's lips with our eyes. We leaned in, and kissed a warm and hungry mingling of tongues, a delicious smearing of lips, and the relieved sigh of bodies and limbs, delighting in their first time being entwined. As we pulled away, that moment turned into horror and then laughter as we realized your lipstick was smeared all over both our faces.

You know, you have been in my dreams . . . not as much as when you were in my life, but you are there. We are always someplace familiar. . . the kitchen, a restaurant, in bed. I almost never see your face. Then I somehow realize that something is wrong, and I urgently need to see your face. I reach out to touch your shoulder, but I slide off like a shadow at a sunset. I reach and shout. . . plead and cry. I usually wake up here, knowing the bed is empty.

I think it was the first day without you. When I returned home, the bed was unmade, and I had the distinct impression that you were here. Sleeping. I knew it wasn't real, but I didn't call out to you for a moment. A long quiet pause, as my eyes adjusted to the light. You don't need to be here, for my need to be here.

I am erasing you from my address book, so I don't accidentally drunk dial you, and plead like a senseless animal missing its cage because it is dark, and very big outside.

I remember the night I proposed to you. We were so happy in the trunk of my car, smelling the sweet summer rain, and huddled beneath the lightning crossed sky as we took in a double matinee. I felt so close to you, and I couldn't imagine a better time to ask. So I took out the little bundle of rings and asked you to marry me. You said yes, and then that you had thought this was the right time for something to happen.

I will stop here, because the rest of that evening was an awkward waste of words, and emotion. When we first met, you were so focused on mapping out what you wanted, and I was the lost soul, just recovering from the hangover of my failed marriage. Somehow that evening, I knew exactly what I wanted, and you couldn't spare the words to keep that "yes" intact. I can guess at the game, but in the end, we both lost each other.

I write because I hope this is a brick on my road forward. You, as with anyone who I loved deeply, will be part of me for the rest of my life. But I don't need you to be here to carry on. . . . the way your room in your parents home doesn't need you, to hang on to your childhood. . . just the light touch of a grey haired custodian, gently dusting away the fine sheen of reality that wishes to settle over everything.


Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The color of wildflowers

Did you sleep well?
Did your body bloom with relief. . .
wild flowers in the moonlight
My fingertips sowed then into your beauty last night
Tilled muscle and skin until they sighed in relief
And then in the dark of your room. . . 
stretching toward the unseen moon
little buds peeked out, 
yawned with a tender uncurling of leaves,
and the colors came. . .

the little white blooms, like snow blossoms
shy blue droplets of sky and sea
bright yellow joy, shaped as tiny lions calling to the moon
the valleys of your back held tense a moment, 
a sigh of relief at the end of a torrent of rain.

and then the million unnamed colors of love
the kind you saw when you realize in a daze
that our love had thwomped you on the head
and you briefly feared that you might never, ever
see straight. . . 
ever again. . .

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Yellow Petals

We learn each other with time and laughter
We hold one another in mind and breath
Our joys more numerous than lights
in the river of stars above
our city of night
pushing blossoms to the dock
pushing gulls on a salted wind

When you hold me, I want
nothing more than to be wood
smooth and cool to the touch
like the green forest air

When I close my eyes, I know you
on the tips of my fingers,
like soft yellow petals
growing through the concrete

Monday, July 28, 2014


My beautiful darling, my perfect lover, my dearest. . .
As we get closer,
I might laugh a little too loud,
You might eat a little too much,
My joke would fall flat

Roses! Wine! Sweep you off your feet!
As our lips embrace,
Perhaps I kiss a little too hard
You might poke me a in the eye
I might snore that night (it was wine after all)

Ah, but the moonlight inspires romance! and love!
I forget to hold a door for you
You might pick your nose more freely
I kiss you with my morning breath

I will not always be handsome
and you will not always be beautiful
and love is mortal, as are we

But I give you my awkwardness, 
 my romantic heart,
  my forgetfulness,
   my poetry,
    my strange body,
     my devotion,
      my neuroses,
I give it all to you. . .

I'll will always make you smile,
and when I am in your arms, 
I will always feel warm
for what is love, if not an agreement to see each other
to really, really see each other, 
and still our eye shine,
our lips curl like clouds in the wind, 
and we sigh, together.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Haikus Dreaming

Dream of you last night
Walking along the water
I am your warm scarf

When you are in need, 
I am your man. I am oak 
place your back to me

From you, I only
steal glances by the millions
return them often

Dream my hand in yours
warm, firm, and we are ready
the whole world is ours

Place your hand on me
Feel my solid heart, beating
Leaping to meet you

I hold you close, with
my whole heart, both hands, fingers
crossed, and arms open

Kiss me like a kite
caught on a tree in a storm
free me, welcome me.

For you are my moon
the moon that makes the sun shine 
and the oceans burn

Let our branches grow,
and brush, and touch, and tangle,
until our storm. . . comes

Night slips by our bed,
tangled, we blissfully dream. . .
magic, in our skin.

All works Copyright 2013 Shou Yu Qun!