Category: Love Quips (Page 3 of 4)

I see a flowered field, fed beautifully by the light rains of spring. There, the romance of butterflies and the lust of bees reign, and a moment of hope is born.

She is sitting there, carefully enjoying the scents around her, while listening intently on the nature around her. The softly bubbling brook behind her highlights the music in her heart, and suddenly I can see nothing else around her.

My gait becomes slower until, at last, I pause. My legs are not used to the stillness, and my chest is not used to the reminder.

“Breathe”.

She has stolen my breath, and with it the last vestiges of sanity.

There is nothing that separates us, save the wall of flowers so cleverly sent before me. I try to mark my path, seeking the divides between the randomness laid before me. She sees me, too, and begs me onward. Lovers sometimes meet that way.

The distance seems meaningless, inconsequential in the power of this moment. Yet, we need to bridge it. We know that space and time matter, yet not as much as the moment we have found. She calls to me, I answer, together we will find out way.

She stands. I smile, knowing finally I will not have to solve this thing along. Suddenly, my journey has become our journey. Suddenly, my steps have become our steps. “I am coming!” I hear her shout. “I’ll meet you there!” I shout back, not really knowing where “there” really is.

We carefully begin those steps, not wanting to destroy an ounce of the beauty all around us. It seems that nature responds in her way, as the flowers seems to part, the creatures seem to scurry, and the birds seem to tease us onward to our destiny. With each step, a flower kisses us gently, each moment forward provides a scent we will remember.

Finally…

Yes, finally, she is in my arms. We kiss, and suddenly the Sun feels warm. We embrace, and suddenly I feel the light again.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, repeating the words echoing in my heart. I would never imagine such a beauty would be waiting for me, but I know her words were true.

“My love,” I reply, the words suddenly escaping my comprehension.  I need not speak, I can feel her reading them in my soul, and I find myself reading them in hers.

I don’t feel lonely much in my time alone. Aloneness has  given me the space to dive deep, to feel the essence of the power of my own intention. It has made me strong and, more importantly, showed me my own strength. Strength, I’ve learned, has little to do with muscles save one. It resides within your chest.

Aloneness is what has brought me to this meadow, and fear is what has kept me from it. Along the way I’ve met the fearful ones, those who wear the masks of something deep while bathing in something shallow. I’ve danced with those who are so consumed by their own darkness as to become lovers of it, desperately describing the light they have found. I’ve played in the shallows, looking for something more, my observations never a judgement of others, but more of an understanding of me.

Such was the gift of failure, the gift of emptiness. She was here, in my arms being strongly held, being protected from the eventuality of autumn. I could feel her own testament, her own gratitude in the wild footsteps she had taken, knowing in my arms is where she belongs.

She looked up at me, directly in my eyes. “Be damned the winter,” she whispered. “We are here.”

I have a dream…

There is a forest, planted long ago. There life has flourished, and nestled in the soft, plush meadows amidst the beautiful songs that echo through the Universe, springs a pond. A pond so beautiful that words cannot give her justice. You simply need to experience her to understand.

The pond is graced by a waterfall that feeds her indescribability. One can hear the roar of power in the rush of water pouring into her. She is connected to something there in the falls, and I can see a multitude of rainbows dancing about within its mist, and there are always a variety of butterflies playing dangerously close. They seem to know how close they can get without being swept away forever. They may touch the edge, but will not survive the power of this flow. They know, so they only touch her surface, and she is saddened that such beauty will not bathe within her, but she also knows that such beauty must survive to be appreciated.

I look at the beautiful scene in front of me, overwhelmed by its magnificence, but drawn in by her essence. It’s clear to me that the pond is certainly the waterfall, and the waterfall is certainly the pond. Neither can exist as they are without the other. We, those who experience such a place, can appreciate it because we’ve also nearly died in the desert. Our paths are littered with the skeletons of those who were not strong enough to make it, their fortunes left to the harshness of totality. The fortunate ones arrive here to marvel, to bend their knee to drink, and to bathe in her beauty.

I take her in, and want to be taken in by her. I want to swirl in the clear, cool waters and swim to where the falls meet her surface. I want to dive down into her and feel the chaos there, at a depth of some discomfort. I want to be tossed around a bit, have my soul thrashed until I understand her better, and then make my way back to the places where she finds her serenity. I will find nature there, that certain place where she gives to the Universe, and the Universe gives right back.

To a man who has not felt such serenity, the feeling cascades over me like the touch of her essence. My mind drifts off to what may happen if I never leave, and she accepts me as I am. Yet, I know that my skin may wrinkle and my body soften in the safe non-resistance of her, and I pray the shore may be enough to save me.  I need to feel the dirt and the stones, the sting of bees looking for food, and the fear of sleeping alone in a forest so full of danger.

Danger. He laughs at it. What could happen to him that hasn’t happened already? There  is no death that he fears, there is the lack of living that scares him. A renewed vow wells up inside him. He will live fully until he dies, and he will smile at the wounds, regardless if they came from the ass of a bee, or the claws of a bear.

The laughter mixes with the sound of the water embracing him. He’ll stay here for a little while, and then he will enjoy the shore until, finally, he ventures off to seek the living he so desires. She will always be here, and he wonders if one day he will call her home.

Originally written on August 8, 2016.

There is a woman. A strong, beautiful woman who knows so many things.

She knows the passion of her heart. She offers it in her words and shares it in her eyes. She stands tall against the tide of time, softly protesting the sincerity of her truth while gently holding onto the sanctity of her innocence. What a marvel she is, a candle held against the new-moon sky, a note written on a sheet of paper that completes a maestro’s symphony.

She knows the strength of her weathered mind. No force of nature bends her knee, no ill-intentioned heart corrupts her sweet intentions.  She’s ridden the mighty waves of the past, and has yet to surrender to the shore. A humbled man cannot know such things as she, he can only try fathom this wonder that stands before him.

Yet, for all the things she knows, there are many things she doesn’t.

She doesn’t know I sit in wondrous silence, basking in her light. She doesn’t know I see her nestled perfectly on a distant horizon, rising gently with the songbirds, reminding so many a new day has dawned. She doesn’t know that I exist, for I am but a star on the other side of her own rising sun, unseen in the light, anonymous in the blue-and-orange hued morning sky.

She’ll doesn’t know how the wonders of the world are lost to me when she stands before them. She doesn’t know how all else is forgotten when she smiles, and how I’ll never be able to explain the reasons why.

She doesn’t know how hard it is for me to catch a breath when she shares herself, or how I force myself to forget her in the placeholders that I find. She doesn’t know so many things, but I know one. She exists. That hope, that wonderful feeling discovered in what seems like an insane notion of my mind, may be the only gift she ever gives me.

A gift she has no idea she’s given. A light she has no idea she’s shared. These things she may never know, but she doesn’t have to. Sometimes that is just the way things are meant to be.

I want to say goodnight to you in the way my heart prescribes. The way I always should. The way I always will.

Look at me, my love. Hold my hand. Kiss me in the way you want, demand from me all that you may need. Do not hesitate to issue such commands, and never forget the moments I could only pray for this kiss, and all those times I stared at my empty hand, wishing yours was there.

Let me love you back, in the way my heart demands of me. Let me hold you tightly in the flickering flame of our candle, following the music of our souls while reminding you that once you needed me and did not know it, and once you called for me and did not know my name.

Put your head on my shoulder, the shoulder that would carry you through hell if need be. Fall into my arms, the arms that were made strong to hold you steady when your knees buckle in the night. Taste my lips, the once uncertain lips which have now met their destiny.

Hear my words, words seldom issued in this man’s life, oaths uttered to you as a vehicle of truth, and nothing more. Hear my silence, the subtle gaps left between the gasps of our ecstasy. Lend your ear to my chest, place your hand over my heart, to feel the strength of all I am, and all I am willing to give to you.

Each night I close my eyes knowing their opening is not guaranteed. Each night my final words will be those promises once made to you in my solitary darkness, and they will be whispered in your ear before we sleep. Should these be my final words, I will have lived my life to the summit, and will have departed knowing I have fulfilled my greatest dream.

Now, I will find my night’s cocoon, climb into it…and say you name one last time today. It will be my goodnight wish that I have a chance to say it again tomorrow.

Goodnight, sweet love…

We all know the feeling. We see her, our knees crumble. We hear her voice, our hearts begin to race. She fills our minds with her thoughts, her fears, and her dreams. She occupies our thoughts, inspires our intentions, and raises our frequency to levels we rarely see.

We all know her. She is beautiful, and her eyes make us swoon even as we try to keep our composure. Her mouth makes just the right curves when she smiles, and her image sends us flying into the outer edges of our Universe. She sets the bar, and we will always seek to meet it.

I know her well. I’ve talked to her countless times about many things, some meaningful and some benign. She’s inspired words I’ve etched words into the fabric of my day, and give life to inspiration that have brought many to tears of joy. My god, there is so much life to knowing her, and so much a truth to the utter sense of all she is.

Yet, there is nothing I can do.

Sure, I could be the bad ass in the room and feign indignation. I could act like I don’t care, that the moments we share have only the slightest meeting. I could tune down my intensity, resist my own desire, and pretend that her wine has a bitter taste, and her words a shallow impression.

That’s silly. There’s nothing I can do.

I could be “the man”, and act like she doesn’t matter the way she does. I could hold back on the strings of truth I send in her direction, the pearls of wisdom I give her as a gift when we converse. I could do so many things…

…and then I realize, there is nothing I can do.

I can’t make her run to my open arms no matter what my version of truth may be. I can’t make her call me in the middle of the night just tell me all her pains. I can’t force her to do a fucking thing, and for that I am grateful.

You see, there is nothing I can do.

That is the way it should be. I should adore her where she is, regardless of the tears that well up within me at our distance. I should honor the spaces where she struggles, despite my want to carry her through the smoke. I should smile as I always have when she finds her loves, be there when she has her pains, and let her know that there will always be someone there when all else fails.

Wait, perhaps there is something I can do after all.

Despite my story wishing things were different, that for once a heart was in tune with mine, and that the timing was perfect for a resurrection of my hope, there is always something I can do. I can accept the pangs of hurt, of remembrance, that whittle their way through my flesh and change my point of view. My truth is not a universal one, and there is no one who need ever hold my hand.

In the meadow where I go, in the brook that bubbles by my ears as my eyes shut to see the Universe, I realize a certain truth. I am a lover. A hard-scrabbled, complex, rough around the edges lover. All that I can do has already been done, and now all I can do is, well, nothing. Except that something.

Peace.

I’ve written to you a million times. Some words have made it onto stone, while others have been left in the ether, I hope blowing in the winds heading in your direction. I do not control the currents, yet the bottles I have cast into this Sea are meant for you, for the hopeful union of our time, our space, and our journeys.

Through the moments I have cared for you, my heart has been its purest. Though my secrets live and die with you, my intentions once hidden now exposed, the purity remains. Though my own insecurities echo in the chambers of my mind, my heart remains steadfast in a certainty of its own. My soul knows, and I feel no compulsion to disagree.

I can see the crumbled mountainsides of my past, the debris of time strewn all about the roads I once traveled. I can see the smoldering ruins of bridges I have burned, and of the remnants of the places I once played destroyed by the sacred winds. What I once saw as destruction I now know as rebirth. What I once thought was disastrous I now know feels beautiful. What was once death is now alive, and life itself has taken on a meaning all its own.

I tell you things I used to whisper, and I whisper things I used to keep deep within my soul. I’ve watched you through the peephole and stared at you in the sky. I’m not sure where I am going, yet I know every step along the way has led me here. I’m not sure where you are heading, but if I but have a moment’s breath to smell your fragrance, I will have lived my life for real. I will sit in that space with you, inhale your scent, and live with the memory forever.

There is a depth between us, and a depth that surrounds us. I can feel its eternal bottom, and I know the truth of this reality. What seems crazy to the mind rings true to the heart, and the chills felt  and the sighs heaved speak a language of their own. I’ve heard them, I trust them, and though my mind sounds bells of insanity, my heart beats remarkable oaths to the promise of this moment.

What am I to do but share with you this truth? Who am I to turn to when the pulsing of my heart calls your name? To which voice am I to obey, the one within my mind or the one within my heart? I want to carry you through the smoke, drive a hundred miles to change your tire, hold the space and time you need while never letting you forget the depths to which I’ve risen just to see you smile.

One day, as my hopes and dreams are played where I sit, words will be used but be unnecessary. You will feel my fingertips raise bumps upon your back, and you will know. You will feel the power of your hand in mine, and you will find the truth. You will falter and I will carry you. You will call for me and I will come. All that you have sought, that’s been seeking you, will be found in me, and I will be found within your arms.

Hopes. Dreams. The sanctuary of fools, the monument of the insane. Let me be a fool. I have nothing worth being sane for. I would rather wake to you, get your coffee, hold your face in my hands, and kiss you with the rising Sun. Sanity seems a darkness in which I’ve lived too long. I wish to walk in the light of craziness!

Yet, the reality. I sit and breath in the realm of the conscious. Yes, I will wait as I have. Yes, I will be here when your cracks are whole. You are not alone as you face those beasts, and if my blood is spilled upon the soil where we stand, a beautiful garden will be born. If the wind is taken from my sails, I will build my home upon the sea.

Goodnight, my dear. I will write to you again. I promise.

There was a time when you were but a hope, a dream. Some think that marriage is a sacred union, but in truth the most holy of unions is at the moment of conception, that moment when a man truly becomes one with a woman, when the hopes and dreams of two humans unite in one form all to her own.

Like some tiny pebble, you were created. There you were, a bundle of humanity exploding within the womb. Like a dim light soon to be a rising sun, you sat in active stillness waiting for your moment. Like some wonderful promise made to the Universe, you became something from nothing, a universe all your own.

Like some enormous stone splashing into a finite sea, you were born. A tiny spark became a big bang, and the world was given a glimpse into what was to be. A dream was born into a babe, a babe into a woman, a woman into something poorly defined by words.

The words “happy birthday” are, to some, offered in passing to note the day you were born. I wish to offer them intently in honor to the dream, the promise, and the reality of you. You are heart that bleeds into the ether, onto paper, and into my heart. You are a kindred spirit in the creativity of beautiful things, a passionate soul given life in a beautiful form, and a wonderful human being set forth on a beautiful journey.

So, “Happy Birthday”, and thank you for being born. Thank you for living, for your experience, and your future. Thank you for the gifts you give the world, for the little one who graces your own life in a way you share, and for the happiness you bring so many. Thank you for your service to others, and for bathing us in that splash that was your arrival.

With much love, I offer you this piece of me, to that piece of you that knows.

Peace.

I sit in stillness, allowing what comes to come. Finally, a phrase sets in like a mantra I’ve been longing to hear.

What do I see before me,
In those calming seas of blue?
Some angel came to sign a song,
A song that we both knew.

So together we…

Wait, this is such a foreign concept to the soul confined to solitude. Awash in a sea of people, bathed in the unique bonds of friendships and the sordid details of a single man, I’ve stood confined to my own brand of solitude. I’ve put my toes in many wonderful ponds, and basked brilliantly in many beautiful sunrises, yet alone I lay dreaming of a day when the whisper is real, and the feint breathing I hear is something other than my cat daring me not to move.

So, together we what?

Do we  hold hands and skip down the weathered path, singing that song only the two of us know? Do we kiss passionately as the evening falls, awaking early to repeat the messages of the night before while ushering in a brand new day? What is it we do, or should I never ask the question?

I struggle to make no assumptions, though the timely visions come rushing in my head. I’ve made that agreement, the one that bears no expectations nor grants any assumptions, so where do those visions come from? Spliced together like a long-lost movie, I see the very things I’ve sought take form from the very moment I saw her face splashed wonderfully across the ether.

I sit with this vision, passing no judgment except the smile broadcast brightly on my face. This is no assumption, and I am creating no expectation. I simply see what is there, and what is there is the answer to the questions I’ve been asking, told to me in the manner that I’ve seen most things of beauty. I don’t create as others do, or so I’ve been told. I simply see, and hear, and translate things that others may not see. What I see here is all that’s I’ve ever seen, save the mist now taking form in a manner of truth I can only sit back and observe.

I feel a wave lap lovingly on my beating heart, its spray gently washing my skin and its chill reminding me of how beautiful this contrast is. I can feel the goose bumps rise all over my naked form, touching me in places I’m rarely touched, in a certain way absent from the journey I’ve been walking. My spine straightens on cue, and my crown reaches for the spaces where I’ve always felt her touch, where I’ve always heard her voice.

Beneath me, rises an objection. Fear, that snake whose head I’ve often tried to crush, speaks.

“Are you sure? What tales of truth can your spirit tell to prove such insanity?”

“Please,” speaks my heart, “let this cup pass. Yet, let thy will be done.”

The Master simply sits, and the feeling I have learned to trust remains.

“So sure am I,” said the Master to his heart, “that I have swam across an ocean and moved a million stars just to find a space to meet her.”

“So sure am I,” said the Master to his fear, “that I have borne a thousand scars and carried a heavy cross just to hear her sing one word.”

A tear rolls down my face, the light is born within me. Uncertain of nothing but the moment, expecting nothing but the present, and assuming nothing but the wave that bathes my soul, I stand in peace before my altar.

So together we will walk, in the way that we shall walk. Together we will see, in the way our souls will see. Together we will feel, in the way that open hearts will feel. There is nothing else we ever need do.