Seeking

Several of the boys — old enough to think we were tough, not yet old enough for scars — followed the prophet as he made his way into the hills. We kept our distance, hiding behind rocks and trees, never getting close enough to be heard, fooling ourselves into thinking he was not aware of us. When the light faded we turned back; for the rest of them he was gone from memory by morning. He stayed in my thoughts. Many years later I made the climb, searching for the man who went searching. I found his cave after three days. There were no scrolls, no records of visions, no cure for sin, no diary of pronouncements on how life should be lived. No, there was merely a skeleton, hunched naked by the ashy remains of a long cold fire. I sat next to him for several hours, contemplating what he must have seen in the last flickers of flame, before leaving him as I found him, and heading back down the mountain.

Seeker of secrets,
unholy union; power,
knowledge, vanity.

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A Stretch

To say she loves me
would be a stretch,
but I always recognize
her knock on my door.

The first time she said goodbye
she left a hole,
a place for thoughts and hopes
and despair and wonder
to rattle around and bounce
off one another until each was
nothing more than broken litter
scattered across the floor.

To say she loves me
would be a stretch,
but I always recognize
her knock on my door.

The second time
she left a hollow shell,
an emptiness devoid of sight
or touch,
on a continual search to fill nothingness,
never able to find rest,
finally nothing more than broken litter
scattered across the floor.

To say she loves me
would be a stretch,
but I always recognize
her knock on my door.

The last time…the last time
is difficult to forget, and to remember.
I know there was a great deal
of lost time,
the smell of old leather,
the salty taste of tears,
and the trail of black feathers
she left in her wake.

To say she loves me
would be a stretch,
but I always recognize
her knock on my door.

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Heat

125 degrees on a sunny day

I was born in Mississippi,
where heat is different,
not just a topic of conversation,
or an inconvenience,
it is a thing,
an oppressive, all-encompassing
existence,
a wet sauna towel
wrapped around you all day.
It is hot, but escapable.

125 degrees on a sunny day
within 30 minutes

I spent four summers in Florida,
heat there is movement,
it washes ashore with the waves
to scorch the sand,
becoming a violent spectacle
inland,
a convulsion of thunder, rain
and electricity,
the rut and fire of every sudden tryst
played out overhead.
It is hot, but escapable.

125 degrees on a sunny day
within 30 minutes
inside a parked car

Georgia is home now.
Heat here is a young woman
playing games with her new
sexuality,
teasing you into pursuit
and anticipation…making you wait…
then stunning you with her
fire and ferocity,
each encounter breathtaking and sultry.
It is hot, but escapable.

125 degrees on a sunny day
within 30 minutes
inside a parked car
with no escape

.

.

A trial began here this week of a man
accused of intentionally leaving his 22 month old son
in a hot car to die. The evidence suggests he spent at least
part of the time the child was in the car
sexting with teenage girls.

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Lighthouse

The lighthouse has been
abandoned,
there is no one left
to man the post,
but the waves still crash
on the rocky shore,
the waves still crash
on the rocky shore.

Technology has taken the place
of humans on watch,
the lighthouse man
left no son to man the post,
but the waves still crash
on the rocky shore,
the waves still crash
on the rocky shore.

Ships safely pass the island
on stormy nights,
unaware of the dark lighthouse
where no one mans the post,
but the waves still crash
on the rocky shore,
the waves still crash
on the rocky shore.

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Gathering Rosebuds

Ah, young man,
I would not hear you witless speak
of that which you consider rare
or name beautiful.

Your eyes merely witness
the brief threads of erotic grace,
pleasant, desirable, but empty
of that which feeds the soul.

Now, mistake me not,
cherish that which youth provides,
fair and supple skin,
wistful days and endless nights,

but lay claim to what runs deep,
seek out the root of love,
the hand you will hold
when lights dim and time is short.

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Morning

There was a moment
when colors graced the morning,
before clouds converged.

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Morning Haiku

The rain is so light
It is like snowflakes falling,
dancing on sunlight.

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