Love
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“That is why I write – to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance.” Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept Recently, something caused a fundamental shift in my awareness of my conjured reality. I finally began acknowledging my time was short on this angry blue planet. In an…
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My Love is a Rusty Old Backhoe Dirt polished fingers of steel Dig deep in your velvet softness Scream to me how it feels Ice sky tinges your mounds Pulling furrows in straight lines Push deeper in furtive ground I pour my intention in your furrows Build storm walls in your newly plowed mind Weep…
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When Anne and I fell into the rhythm of Anne’s dream and my mission, we bonded in a way that transcended all our challenges. We met each day with a joyous heart and gratitude for each other.
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She could not hide from my intuitive power as I sensed she was no longer present, even when her body succumbed to orgasm and the fog of closeness and sweet words.
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I learned so long ago from an abandoned child whose life trajectory proved that if you believe in yourself, others will too.
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In the afternoon, we returned from working in the forest or with the crops and animals, and we both went to the spillway, where Anne would pour the water over me while I wiped the dirt and sweat away.
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My mind played in vignettes with no music or sounds of sweet words, just those haunting large brown eyes above freckled cheeks so soft and smooth. It seemed an assault to me to abrade her skin with my beard and calloused hands.
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He always tried to lead our little threesome in the jungle and Ann allowed him every indulgence except sex, which Pete could not understand. She nurtured her errant knight with food, kindness, and gentle but bloody effective persuasion.
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The day I looked up from my labor, my fashionable loin cloth no longer new or foreign to me, I arrived at a divergence in my life’s journey.
Hyperion Sky 