three blue candles

three blue candles in a row
where she knew she shouldn’t go
in a room of closed desire
smoke now circles ever higher

lying thoughtlessly has crept
promises have not been kept
but she does not care somehow
in the feeling she has now

for the burning justifies
broken vows and sequent lies
as she bobs her pliant head
three blue candles by the bed

Like A Book

Our laughter turned into a sort of rhythm,
Our rhythm turned into a sort of dance;
As motion filled with music filled with passion,
A double-bed became a vast expanse —

A journey that it took a while to finish,
Two pioneers upon a new-cut trail;
And she was like a book I couldn’t put down,
Except I had to read it all
By braille

For Love of Dancing

For those of you keeping track at home (and if you are not at home, why aren’t you) this is day 20 of my 30 day non-poetry writing challenge. – Owen


For as long as she could, she danced: wherever, whenever. Every day.

She didn’t dance because she was the best at it. She didn’t dance for the attention. She danced for love of dancing, for the pure joy of it.

Long before I met, and fell in love with, and married her, she had this other love. Through the ups and downs of childhood, and adolescence, and a turbulent young adulthood, and a failed first marriage, she had this.

Music made her want to dance. Dance made her free. For real joy always comes both from the outside in, and from the inside out.

She was very good at it, and it did garner her a lot of attention. In addition, she got to the point where she could be paid to do it, and to teach it, so she did both.

While she was still a teen, she had been told she had structural deficiencies in her knees – parts weren’t there that should be – and that she probably ought to give up her more athletic pursuits, as one or the other of her knees could give out at any point.

But given the cause, she reasoned, that was ultimately going to happen anyway. So she danced: wherever, whenever.

When I showed up in her life, she had three daughters, and all of them danced as well. The eldest was slim, graceful, and her body expressed itself naturally in dance: but she loved dancing for the attention more than the feeling, and so ultimately fell away. The middle girl loved the creative aspect of dancing, and dreamed of maybe being a choreographer; but other disciplines offered her the same chance for creativity, and so she too fell away.  The youngest danced only because she wanted her mother to be proud of her, so she fell away the soonest.

We have a niece, though, who has continued to dance and to teach dance for love of dancing. Even with a young family, and a busy career: because not to do so is unthinkable for her.

My wife’s knees eventually got to the point where the kind of dancing she loved was not possible anymore. But we can, and do, dance some at wedding receptions; I also often catch her dancing with one or more of our grandchildren in the living room, as the familiar signs joy on her face have me falling in love with her all over again.

“Dancing”, for you, may be some other thing. It may be riding a bicycle, or running, or playing basketball; it may be writing, or going to the movies, or participating in poetry readings; it may be music, or painting, or drawing, or cooking, or surfing, or blogging — but, whatever it is, cherish your joy. Nourish it. Love it while you have it.

For the lessons of love and joy are the same: they’re born, they grow, they will change, and they will ultimately pass away. Part of life is about wringing every bit out of these experiences while we can, then letting them go when we must.

So dance for as long as you can: whenever, wherever.

Every day.

the night divides

the night divides into an "us" and "them" --

and lost is individual and twice
the argument both pointless and ad rem

and through the {that feels good} and {oh that's nice}
is something rather 

                    vague and 


                              imprecise

upon the shallow moorings of the dawn --


       the night divides into a "here" and



"gone"

If My Eyes Had The Power

Slow Dancing Outdoors

If my eyes had the power
To reflect your beauty
You would know
And never have another doubt

If my hands could transfer
The warmth you make me feel
You would know
I would climb the face of any cliff
To be with you

If you could share for a moment
The scent of my passion for you
You would know
You are loved wholeheartedly

If my words were but better vessels
To carry to you half of what I feel
You would know
And never again doubt
That you are cherished
Completely

The Song of Summer

Summer Song

Sing again to me of Summers gone by
When careless winds blew through flowing hair
Sing to me of time spent in admiration
In laughter, and in the music of new souls

The song I still remember
But I need to hear you sing it
Do you remember the tune? The words?
Do you remember Summer’s fragile kiss?

And whenever lovers play
Where the sea meets the sky
Underneath a drenching yellow sun
The song is still remembered
Still sung

Sing again to me of Summers gone by
When love burned wildly on our shoulders
And every night was spent
Only when we were