Waitinng for release

Touch and go: Tango in Harlem remix 

In darkened halls
Slight movements
Commence

The press,
Caress of
Words,  burning smooth,
Smoldered hot 

Carying tension 
Potential energy 
Waiting for release 
Waiting 

Like her 
Soft smooth seductive smile 
Slips desire unspoken 
As hidden truth slides, and bides 
Carrying of the potential energy 

Waiting for release 

Waiting 
Tension trapped 
In body faultless 
Form design 
Though she would never admit 
He would always remind 
With words heavy
With touches light
Carrying tension of the potential energy
Waiting for release

Waiting 

All the while
Beauty sits 
Brazen 
Lips full, 
Lips ripe 
Draw to trace 
Cross cushioned cheek 
To the prize of eyes 
That mirror reflections 
Tender song, of her soul 
Under the weight 
Carrying tension of the potential energy 
Waiting for release 

Waiting 
For 
Release

Ain't it just like rain?

Counting Crows: The Ghost in you

Darkness falls

As

Forward leaning

She smiles

With

The grin

That pulls

You in

While

Almond eyes

Push
A simmering

Welcome?

Challenge?

Both are lost

In the shimmer

Half-light

Where time

Can stand

Candid

Where it wants

It doesn’t matter
Never did

For in the dark

In the touch

The caress

She smiles

Forward leaning

As

Light rises

Mask of reality

Eurythmics: Here comes the rain again remix

It was in a break between the heavy rains this morning, there wasn’t much time.  I grabbed the leashes, I took my dogs for a walk.  At 5:30 a.m. if you want to know the exact time.  In that space, the diffusion of the misty air made the earth appear if it was under repair.  As if somewhere in the night reality struggled to repair itself.  My dogs however were not focusing on such thoughts.  As testified by the pull of the leash they longed for relief, and discover the brave new world. 

The atmosphere was heavy as I approached the single arc light.  One large overhead halogen, that was what was used to light a nearby dog walking area.  A central green pole holing a container of 100% biodegradable… poop bags.  Though right under the container is a sign warning  of a fine if pets are not picked up after, one still has to watch their footing.

I had just entered this set apart sanctum when my eyes caught something.  On the ground a shadow moved.  My dogs immediately leapt to discover the unknown.  Though frustrated that the dogs were distracted from the business at hand while I was getting wetter, I simply pulled tight leashes, holding them back.  Probably nothing more than a field mouse I thought.  Driven from the shelter of a break of nearby thin and straining trees along a dirty stream, it had sought out safety.  That’s onl y logical.  That’s only the struggle for life.  I, like my dogs however, wanted to try to figure out what it truly was.  So I tried to move closer.  Slowly, and always making sure the dogs were controlled.  As I passed near it, it however remained merely a morpious shape distorted by the fractured haze that encompassed the ground.  Quietly it moved from the fraction of light towards the darkness, a sliver of shadow that longed to meld back into its larger form.  It made sense.  So many things found comfort in the dark.  A refuge erected where it could once again seek comfort in the void.  I could understand.  Sometimes, for lack of a better word, reality is harsh.  It is so much more enjoyable to linger in the comfort of the half-light. 

As I would be gone most of the day, I continued to walk my dogs.  Naomi, the older half-lab, began to act very curious as we approached a corner in the buildings.  The tension on the leash was building.  Her paws began to dig into the ground tugging urgently for her to encounter what was hidden just behind the wall.  I was about to should “Heel” and pull back on the leash she had already turned the corner and had begun to excitedly bark and  pull desperately at the leash.  At what?  I am not certain.  It could have been a possum, it could have been a cat.  All I caught was the briefest glimpse of dirty white gray and mottled tan fur before it crashed into the darkness provided by bushes.  A pulling back of the leash, and the dogs, though controlled, continued to furiously sniff at the ground.  Back and forth a continual haunting searching for any clues as to what may be hiding in the darkness before the mask of reality is securely fashioned and fixed by the light of day.

And yet…

As always…

Whenever it rains like this, I always think of her.

And I know, that however distant, however far, however close, she…

Thinks of me. 

In those fleeting moments before the mask of reality is securely fashioned.

Pirate Eyes

Bjork: Big time sensuality remix

“Prepare to be boarded”

Her pirate eyes

Softly spoke

As she drew alongside

Hoping the mist

Would hide

The glide

Of her hand

Up his arm

His glance focused

Frozen

On her buccaneer smile
“For King, for country,”
He replied
As his arm
Glided across
Her swooning hips
Undulating

To the currents movement
Writhing below
In an attempt
To forestall
Her pressing forces
Advance
“Prepare to be boarded”
Her pirate eyes
Smiled
As she felt
His press
Pull her
Jutting attack
Soft silent
But forever forward
The seductive press
Meeting each advance
In a delicate dance
As he began to focus
On the nape
Of the neck
Of her vessel
The pressing blow
Across the bow
Meanwhile under
She felt the waters
Surrounding caress
Touching
Soft flow
Tracing down her exquisite hull
While the inextinguishable fire raged
Through the dancing
Heated lips burning with every touch
No quarter would be offered
None would be given
Now half open
Her crew could barely contain
Or refrain
From the passion of battle
In the fog of war
Her pirate eyes
Softly spoke
“Prepare to be boarded”
Before desire forced their closure

Love will flow

Sting: Fragile remix

 

Love will flow

The story

That burned inside

A smoldering struggle

To breathe life

To radiate
Warmth

To reality

To words

Crouching on the page
Ready
To leap
To fly

He could see her eyes
Follow

His sharp print
Tensioned holding
On the page as
Her delicate fingers trace

The line

Forever a line

The raspy texture

Of the page drew her finger

Not wanting to loose

Daring not to cross

Yet

Desperate
To feel

To make real
Memories
The caress

The words
Call
The return
That which waits

A smoldering struggle
That burned inside
The story
Love will flow

Until
It reaches
The shore's embrace

Everyday people

Sly and the Family Stone = Everyday people

So it happened yesterday.  I was updating my CV: curriculum vitae—little more than a fancy word for a resume.  Anyway, I was going over some of my prior publications.  It never fails.  We always love to read what we wrote at a time in the past.  It has an ability to take us back to where our mind was at that time.  Memories can come flooding back.  So it was. 

Anyway, I was overlooking some of the articles I had written for the Texas State Handbook Association.  I had written articles published on both prominent Texas African-Americans as well as lesser known Texas officers who had fought for the Confederacy in the Civil War.  Two positions that seemingly resided at opposite ends of a historical perspective.  Perhaps.  Close inspection however,  reveals some interesting things.

Take for example the history of Marcus George Settle.  You can read the article if you want to.   His story is pretty interesting.  He moved to Texas when it was a republic back in the 1840s.  You know, back when Texas was seperate and different from any other part of the United States.  Way back then... not like today, right?  Well anyway, like any Texan, he made his money anyway he could.  For him, he found his trade in tending a farm and raising cattle.  He was able to do a little better than scrapping by for within ten years he bought his first slave.  Four years later he bought another.  In four years he sold both.  By the outbreak of the war he had bought two young slaves, a nine-year old boy, and a thirteen –year old girl.  Now if the story, and if history ended there Marcus could easily be written off as ‘just another southerner.’  The only problem is… the story doesn’t end there.

Marcus fought in the war.  Or at least signed up to.  By the wars end he had sold his land.  I wasn’t able to find if he still owned his female slave at the end of the war or not, but the little boy… he adopted him. His name was "Little Frank” and they rode together supplying livestock to the US Army.  By 1871 he had had enough of Texas and rode out to California.  He settled in Norwalk, California and opened the first church that area had seen.  Although that community may have been surrounded by the nearby city of Los Angeles it was a prospering city.  Now if you read the article you would have gotten that much so why am I writing this?

I am writing this to tell you an interesting story that the article left out.  Proof that Marcus loved his son.  He had served as lay minister there at the Methodist church for one year before a tragedy struck… his son Frank died.  His boy was only fifteen.  Indeed, as he was the pastor, Marcus presided over the first funeral that area had.  Now here comes the historic point.  Marcus was buried in the ‘black’ section of the cemetery.  Now all if this is what can be gleaned from the records.  Later actions however, show the love that a father can have for his son.  Why?

Well ya see this situation was not acceptable to Marcus.  He wanted Frank buried by his side as well as the other members of the family.  This was unacceptable to the Church board so… Marcus left the church.  He returned to raising cattle.  When his wife died in April of 1896, he followed her in death eight months later in November.  He chose for his wife, and later himself, to be buried next to Frank.  At least in death at least they could be reunited.  Article didn't print this part of the story, too divisive I suppose.  Of course you can check out a picture of the graves of Marcus and his wife.  They will show the stones of Marcus and his wife.  A close shot.  They mention the story that Frank was buried separately, but not the fact that he was re interned.  If you did further research you would find the picture of the "original" burial site of Frank Settle.  A historic marker placed before he was later reburied next to his parents.  Too bad division is always easier for some people when at the end of the day, in every way, we are all just everyday people.   

The Look

David Bowie Dead Man Walking Acoustic 

The look. 

It forever would be in her eyes.  Precious jewels multifaceted were reflecting a shared hope.  Of what?  We were together, what else mattered.    

Souls burned fierce to dance, to twist, to savor the joining of one into the other.  The most painful distance just happened to be in the diminutive distance that separated.  Time would stop.  They could live forever.  They would live forever.  All they had to do was look into the others eyes.    

Masks could slip.  Acceptance was total.  Yet they knew, there was a time for words glorious.  But now was not that time.  Time, if only for a moment, was fixed.  The gentle touch, the pulling close, this is what was needed.  With each caress eternally explosive energy was drawn from the other to build.  Build the passion that could so readily be seen.   

Desire rising.  Forces became too strong.  I pull you close.  The power is too great that half-open eyes must close for the communion of souls celebrated with the burning contact of the kiss.