words, expressing me
are all I have...
no glimpse of hazel eyes
or sun-bleached hair
no picture in a picture book
no style of dress, or flair

words, I send to you -
absent all politeness
and the small observances
of face to face review;
missives - as the art
of me

love expressed is founded
on what you show me
of your heart -
and so we start...

an affair - of words.

I placed a call so we could talk
and got the voice called "mail"
but my voice dies
without your eyes... to smile
tho' I speak of many things

Another day, another time, I'll
dial again, perhaps,
and if you're there
we'll speak and laugh
of wires crossed... and possibly of kings.

I place a call so we can talk
and hear the voice called "mail"
but my voice fears
a stranger's ears - so call me
just... a miss that progress brings

kjohn saw the gauntlet thrown,
and aspiring to claim it
as his own
leapt into the fray - with
rapier glancing
wit, word, wit
leaping, sparring
wit, word, wit
wit, word, wit
great girth heaving,
stardust settled, mitre gleaming
kjohn mounted to the throne.

O', Mithraic majesty!

we've only met, and yet
I sense a kinship
grounded in a history of
small but forceful terrors;
it's said that baggage
carried silently
weighs more than burdens shared,
and strangers, by some ironic twist
reflect a truth
that mirrors sometimes hide.

when healing takes a lifetime,
we sanctify vaingloriously
the expenditure of time
and energies
that could be better spent.

Brass rings don't care
who takes the prize!

an
echo
calls
softly
from within

so
sweet
to feel
taste yet again...
the confection,
velvet whispers
along forgotten skin

~

born a McGuinness
raised an Adams
Scot's or Irish tragic history?
matters not - Gibson got me with his Wallace
history's mystery!

.

bittersweet

long after you've gone
the memory clings,
with the warmth
and the intensity of
mid-day sunshine

your touch
cleaves like skin
caressing my psyche in absentia
in the private hours
between darkness and the dawn.
a euphoria lingers... and your eyes
still seek my soul
long past your leaving.

how melancholy...
to discover the uncommon,
singular joy of you -
and be caught in the riptide
of all my yesterdays.

i
am
the
poor
share
apples
oranges
red wine
mandarins
break bread
and celebrate
with
me