Within us

from The Feathered Sleep



Love is a drowsy hand

held beneath quilt

and long after it has gone

you remember

the familiar warmth

and though the day is raw and filled with white clouds

you walk the dog through the uncut grass

remembering how it felt

to touch.

Love is a pain, sharp between your ribs

as if blunted knife has found purchase

to imagine one moment in this world, without you

and yet, so often

love is a terrible morning, waking in disbelief

you no longer walk beside me.

Then love is all you have

to hold onto, when the day swells and charges

emptiness spitting her spite in your face

your only recourse, to reclaim, that drowned memory

of when you were both without suffering

no worn streaks of tears tracing your jaw

nor the wink of life fitful, in the candle of your eyes

stillness, in yet unbroken reverie

stretching forever…

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The Old Guy … In My Opinion … #06

from geezer94


The Old Guy … In My Opinion

Old Man


Old man sitting alone in the dark.

What was just yesterday,

Now a long distant memory.

Oh, the past lurks behind all of us.


In silence, rocking endlessly,

Without direction,

Without purposeful intent,

Without a breath of protest.


Old man sitting in the dark,

Watching the parade,

Of unrealized hopes, denied ambitions,

Of dreams that withered and died.


The darkness hides so much,

And can be a Master speaking harshly.

But the light of day whispers promised truth,

To an old man sitting alone in the dark.


jem © 2018



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As Mary Was Here for God

Something in the way he moves, his grace, the
way he struts his stuff.

This I know, I want him, I want him in the worst
way; but my love for the Woman keeps me from
taking my man.

The Woman is here for me, as Mary was here for

I shall descend upon her tonight in a glittering
display of astral affection and leave her with
an ancient mystery;

I am the holy trinity in search of a womb.

  Image and Poem Rob Goldstein 1984-2018




A Semi-Literate Boy Named Bobby

I was a project kid, pretty but hard to make.

Most of the men I let into my life started in pursuit but stayed as teachers.

I was bright and gave my full attention to any man who was willing to teach me about the world of art.

The music I knew was the music of my parents and the other kids in the projects.

From my Father I got Porter Wagoner, Buck Owens, and Skeeter Davis.

From my Mother I got Dinah Shore and Kitty Wells.

From the other kids in the projects I got Motown.

With the music of Motown I learned I could dance and for me dancing is still spiritual.

Everyone said I moved like a black kid, and it was true.

Black folks were my friends and neighbors.

As far as I was concerned I was a Black kid with pale skin.

I figured that Blackness was as much about class as it is about race.

My friend Paul knew I knew my ‘place’ in Charleston’s antiquated class system and that I wanted out.

Paul lived in the rich part of Charleston; the historic district near Battery Park.

He invited me to lunch one especially bright spring day.

He poured tea and showed me a decorative plate that was inlaid with hundreds of shimmering butterfly wings.

Paul liked exquisite objects.

We stepped onto the patio that overlooked his garden and I brought a branch of wisteria to my nose.

Paul said that he wanted me to hear a record.

He said he wanted my opinion.

Then he placed the Beethoven Violin Concerto in D Minor on the turntable.

I heard the needle drop, and then a timpani followed by woodwinds.

I listened as Beethoven told me a story.

I had never heard a story more complex and profound.

It was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen or touched.

And I never stopped listening….

Beethoven Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61

by Yehudi Menuhin, violin Wilhelm Furtwangler, cond Philharmonia Orchestra of London Recorded: 1953

  1. Allegro ma non troppo