For a certain someone, as they so often like to say...
setaside2
Posts: 1,084
I have taken my time in responding to this piece because my very space was not proper enough to give emotive that this deserved. I trust that it is now.
It's strange how some nights seem to NEED to bleed together, using some sponge to blur the days in between. Such is our time in so many ways; yet puckered by moments as if a pointillist had taken control of our pen. Our voices echo in deep stereo, a muffled speaker under blankets in the back of a car. They tell us stories of one another, and dreams shared and lost and new dreams now arriving at gate 4. There appears a soundtrack of quiet music, now cedar flute, now electronic pop (you know of whom I speak) and now a plaintive voice with a single acoustic instrument. Where you succeed in that category, I can only play at attempts, it is an intimidation and an awe, but one I have learned to be content with at this time... the fact that you humble me.
Such instruments you use to speak your mind, having not had a way to express or regress or OUT in so much time... I have learned to follow in your footsteps, because of your strength (we have our specialties) and because your beauty calls to me regardless and as a mouse piped, I must heed that call. I am hesitant, a ghost faintly outlined in aura and past pain. My love was torn, rent, all pieces flit like throwing stars. And here I see the will of another facing such down either because of need for love or want of love or lack of love or I don't know what, but it appears that I have been chosen to fill a puzzle piece created by another and hewn back down to acceptable proportions by the one. Again, I bow in supplication to the better movement. The movement.
In my spring's midnight waking dream we made love in celebration of just being one another with one another under a poorly textured ceiling. I have often wished for the glitter we have so frequently spoken of, that of my youth and inspiration... and yet I take notice that such things occur in your eyes at a given moment in the day and at given times of inflection or romantic introspection. Perhaps, as of yet, I may have misplaced my glitter and you have merely found it for me, presenting it in new ways, in new tongues needing to be learned, so foreign has my language gotten and been perceived. You have such ways of capture an ensnarement (which is a newly invented word, adequately appropriate where none previously stood).
It's okay. I like it.
I rarely say that.
Though I think it more often than you may ever know... I think many things of you. These are barely scratchings, some aching heart's leavings upon your doorstep as an offering of self, a fearful step in a moment of arduous fervor. That there has been spiritual occasions cannot be denied, I was there. I felt things move and change within me, an immaculate perception as it were, and if you don't mind the possible blasphemy... I have forgotten to light my candles AGAIN.
My window is always open. I await the encircling arms and the newer smells and the ability to dream next to another fallen dreamer who had the courage to begin the dreadful itching of growing her wings back. It is true that I may stand in awe and in humility, but I will dream as your lover and I will toast as your friend and continue offer of the hand outstretched that began US... to the end.
love,
me.
It's strange how some nights seem to NEED to bleed together, using some sponge to blur the days in between. Such is our time in so many ways; yet puckered by moments as if a pointillist had taken control of our pen. Our voices echo in deep stereo, a muffled speaker under blankets in the back of a car. They tell us stories of one another, and dreams shared and lost and new dreams now arriving at gate 4. There appears a soundtrack of quiet music, now cedar flute, now electronic pop (you know of whom I speak) and now a plaintive voice with a single acoustic instrument. Where you succeed in that category, I can only play at attempts, it is an intimidation and an awe, but one I have learned to be content with at this time... the fact that you humble me.
Such instruments you use to speak your mind, having not had a way to express or regress or OUT in so much time... I have learned to follow in your footsteps, because of your strength (we have our specialties) and because your beauty calls to me regardless and as a mouse piped, I must heed that call. I am hesitant, a ghost faintly outlined in aura and past pain. My love was torn, rent, all pieces flit like throwing stars. And here I see the will of another facing such down either because of need for love or want of love or lack of love or I don't know what, but it appears that I have been chosen to fill a puzzle piece created by another and hewn back down to acceptable proportions by the one. Again, I bow in supplication to the better movement. The movement.
In my spring's midnight waking dream we made love in celebration of just being one another with one another under a poorly textured ceiling. I have often wished for the glitter we have so frequently spoken of, that of my youth and inspiration... and yet I take notice that such things occur in your eyes at a given moment in the day and at given times of inflection or romantic introspection. Perhaps, as of yet, I may have misplaced my glitter and you have merely found it for me, presenting it in new ways, in new tongues needing to be learned, so foreign has my language gotten and been perceived. You have such ways of capture an ensnarement (which is a newly invented word, adequately appropriate where none previously stood).
It's okay. I like it.
I rarely say that.
Though I think it more often than you may ever know... I think many things of you. These are barely scratchings, some aching heart's leavings upon your doorstep as an offering of self, a fearful step in a moment of arduous fervor. That there has been spiritual occasions cannot be denied, I was there. I felt things move and change within me, an immaculate perception as it were, and if you don't mind the possible blasphemy... I have forgotten to light my candles AGAIN.
My window is always open. I await the encircling arms and the newer smells and the ability to dream next to another fallen dreamer who had the courage to begin the dreadful itching of growing her wings back. It is true that I may stand in awe and in humility, but I will dream as your lover and I will toast as your friend and continue offer of the hand outstretched that began US... to the end.
love,
me.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Ahhh... an Unbeliever!!!!!!!!
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Stay a while, eh?
Cheers
Finsbury
what questions would there be of one who writes? and what musing conundrums wrap themselves about your mind? the queried quandaries will only multply with the quantities you question.
as if to say: what may I do for you? I am humbly at your service.
if you wish to know more, you may feel free to read my long and arduously self important poetry thread... if not you can always ask me anything.
ANYthing.
mmhmm.
seta
which length is unforseen, as of yet.
and yes, for this particular love letter, there is indeed a fine looking newmispanic muse out there in the sand and dust devils of the blistering southwest.
I cannot recall who she may be, however. Although, she apparently knows who she is just fine
peace be with you.
Peace be upon our... our... our...arses. Yes. Here's a toast of 14.5% South African Shiraz to the arses of poets everywhere and all the masterworks that nestle there, waiting for birth.
Cheers again,
Finsbury.
however I know that you are not, I am just playing with words, your words, if you'll allow.
a toast to you as well. but I have toasted your presence before.
with slapdash regalia. LOL and a purple pied pete.
since I have the children this eve, I shall toast thee with....
CapriSun. A marvelous California vintage.
no more soiling of this thread if you please sir. I declaration of tenuous love is not something to be trifled with, yeah?
that's right.
I suppose I'm sleeping on the floor for that.
Heehee. No! I was quoting Beckett.
I never produced a sword out of my arse yet.
BTW, I've been trying to Yahoo you tonight, mate! The system is once again flangaxtipolled. I just made that word up. Nice, isn't it?
f
f
f
f
um... you know what i mean to say :P
i suppose i'll have to sit you outside my office at 2:30 each day you are here
i was going to take days off
but,
if you insist
perhaps you could file for me?
I think things were about to get interesting between the TART here and myself.
if ya get me.
but I've got me sleeves rolled as they say... I ain't skeered. I can take 'er.
bring it on.
that is to say WHO?!?!
YOU calling a TART?
you floor-sleeping ankle-biter! down here? southern hospitality happens in reverse, so bring your garden gloves and your dish-pan hands and prepare to get busy
(ducks... runs from room)
If they were,
Would I also have your name?
I´d have to rape the big, blank, white fields
To find the core,
And challenge brains with biased lines.
Across your table sitting down,
Absorbing sounds
Not asking questions but resting minds.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.