"Kissing" by Alex GreyThe fire which ran oh so hot before is down to cinders and ash. There's still a bit of heat there because I can still see smoke, but it needs a bit of fuel to kick start it again, to warm the morning meal. Where are you, my old true love?
My travelogues, my posts, my words to you here are all lacking poetry these days. That drive I took over the mountains and the resultant posts were focused on our old days and ways but still I came away from that drive with a newfound realization that time has marched forward many leagues past that old trip of ours. And while I thought of you the entire way I realized that all I could see before me was the road. I wondered about our words, wishing for a window to the past when we took that trip, for a way to hear what we had to say, for a connection to that happiness we shared, one that gave us so much to talk about.
Today I was in the backyard, out by my car and heard a bird call out. I looked up against the sun and couldn't quite see the bird perched on the top of a nearby fir. The new neighbor lady came out and asked what can of bird it was. Outside of a pair of binoculars and my Sibley's I couldn't even begin to tell her what it was, but you, my dear, I am sure that you could have.
I think of words, of circumstance, of instances guided by love and mutual admiration and know, without a doubt in my heart that if we were still outlaws together, here in this time and place, that things like birds and music and movies and love wouldn't be much of a chore. I do know that family and money and relationships and God would be, but, then again, those kinds of things always are. We would have prevailed and the poetry would have flowed unimpeded.
I suppose, then, what I worry about the most these days outside of finding work are the lyrics to our song, to our battle cry. I sit back sometimes listening hard, waiting for those old smokey stanzas that the warriors tell around the fire to surface, for I don't hear them coming out the my stories that I write for you these days. I hear my words and they are not songs of passion but more morning stories that one tells the patient wife as she prepares the breakfast meal for her mate before he goes off into the world.
I think of my tales of late and know that I had to bank those flames because I was hounded, because you were made vulnerable, because if I didn't take the hit and keep those words to myself they would have hurt you with them. The authorities turned my words of love into something I never imagined them to be, words to hang me with. I had to make sure that they were not used against you, to hurt you or harm you in any way. So I got to swing in the breeze for my sins and those harmful files were closed. A good compact with God or the devil if I do say so myself.
I have had to keep more than words to myself, my love. Mi Novia, who has come and gone and gone again, was one to appreciate but not understand the long term impact of that old story of ours. A die cast romantic, she wanted more than I could ever give and has gone back to being just a friend. I suppose that we can never have enough of those but still. I would rather have someone close in to laugh with me in bed and in the kitchen than someone I have to call on the phone to see if she needs a loaf of bread from the market.
I think of poetry and know that we spoke it fluently whenever we picked up the phone or dropped emails to each other or gazed into each others eyes back in the day. I think of poetry and know that I dropped it by the pound just walking around the track, speaking words to you out loud as the miles ticked by. I think of poetry and know that we lost volumes of it when nwpts57@yahoo.com and lovelandtokrl1963@yahoo.com were scrubbed, but, hey, I can't say or do anything about that because that was all this Mexican's doing. I set fire to that highly flammable mixture of words and emotion and watched it all burn down to ash in a fit of pique. Too bad, as I was the keeper of that flame and instead turned it into an uncontrolled wildfire.
Jane, I worry about losing that touch. We have been apart a long, long time and that spark, that wildness, that old free wheeling nature of words I had in me to share with you has settled down to something that feels akin looking at a great painting hanging on a museum wall. Maybe I started that novel a bit too late, or maybe, just maybe, just in time. We'll see.
Nevertheless I know that those words, the ones past "good morning, M", need to be augmented somehow. And I know one thing that would do it.
M, I need to see your face again, plain and simple. That would go a long ways in helping me to bank that old fire, to warming my ragged heart, to putting a touch of heat behind the words, the poetry, that I still write for you. That's just part of our old agreement, Jane, that you would make the time and I would write the words. A little bit of your time, even minutes in the aisle of the local supermarket, would go a long ways to setting those old words on fire once again.
Yeah, just to see your face.
Ah, your face.
Miss, truly miss, that face.
Love, your WHMB
My travelogues, my posts, my words to you here are all lacking poetry these days. That drive I took over the mountains and the resultant posts were focused on our old days and ways but still I came away from that drive with a newfound realization that time has marched forward many leagues past that old trip of ours. And while I thought of you the entire way I realized that all I could see before me was the road. I wondered about our words, wishing for a window to the past when we took that trip, for a way to hear what we had to say, for a connection to that happiness we shared, one that gave us so much to talk about.
Today I was in the backyard, out by my car and heard a bird call out. I looked up against the sun and couldn't quite see the bird perched on the top of a nearby fir. The new neighbor lady came out and asked what can of bird it was. Outside of a pair of binoculars and my Sibley's I couldn't even begin to tell her what it was, but you, my dear, I am sure that you could have.
I think of words, of circumstance, of instances guided by love and mutual admiration and know, without a doubt in my heart that if we were still outlaws together, here in this time and place, that things like birds and music and movies and love wouldn't be much of a chore. I do know that family and money and relationships and God would be, but, then again, those kinds of things always are. We would have prevailed and the poetry would have flowed unimpeded.
I suppose, then, what I worry about the most these days outside of finding work are the lyrics to our song, to our battle cry. I sit back sometimes listening hard, waiting for those old smokey stanzas that the warriors tell around the fire to surface, for I don't hear them coming out the my stories that I write for you these days. I hear my words and they are not songs of passion but more morning stories that one tells the patient wife as she prepares the breakfast meal for her mate before he goes off into the world.
I think of my tales of late and know that I had to bank those flames because I was hounded, because you were made vulnerable, because if I didn't take the hit and keep those words to myself they would have hurt you with them. The authorities turned my words of love into something I never imagined them to be, words to hang me with. I had to make sure that they were not used against you, to hurt you or harm you in any way. So I got to swing in the breeze for my sins and those harmful files were closed. A good compact with God or the devil if I do say so myself.
I have had to keep more than words to myself, my love. Mi Novia, who has come and gone and gone again, was one to appreciate but not understand the long term impact of that old story of ours. A die cast romantic, she wanted more than I could ever give and has gone back to being just a friend. I suppose that we can never have enough of those but still. I would rather have someone close in to laugh with me in bed and in the kitchen than someone I have to call on the phone to see if she needs a loaf of bread from the market.
I think of poetry and know that we spoke it fluently whenever we picked up the phone or dropped emails to each other or gazed into each others eyes back in the day. I think of poetry and know that I dropped it by the pound just walking around the track, speaking words to you out loud as the miles ticked by. I think of poetry and know that we lost volumes of it when nwpts57@yahoo.com and lovelandtokrl1963@yahoo.com were scrubbed, but, hey, I can't say or do anything about that because that was all this Mexican's doing. I set fire to that highly flammable mixture of words and emotion and watched it all burn down to ash in a fit of pique. Too bad, as I was the keeper of that flame and instead turned it into an uncontrolled wildfire.
Jane, I worry about losing that touch. We have been apart a long, long time and that spark, that wildness, that old free wheeling nature of words I had in me to share with you has settled down to something that feels akin looking at a great painting hanging on a museum wall. Maybe I started that novel a bit too late, or maybe, just maybe, just in time. We'll see.
Nevertheless I know that those words, the ones past "good morning, M", need to be augmented somehow. And I know one thing that would do it.
M, I need to see your face again, plain and simple. That would go a long ways in helping me to bank that old fire, to warming my ragged heart, to putting a touch of heat behind the words, the poetry, that I still write for you. That's just part of our old agreement, Jane, that you would make the time and I would write the words. A little bit of your time, even minutes in the aisle of the local supermarket, would go a long ways to setting those old words on fire once again.
Yeah, just to see your face.
Ah, your face.
Miss, truly miss, that face.
Love, your WHMB
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