Tag: Love (Page 1 of 14)

He Called Them Duraznos

August 17, 2022 / Tom

He wasn’t born there, but there he was. He sat anonymously among the trees and plants and people who spoke some other language, wondering what the fuck had happened to bring him to this place. We was raised poor but surrounded by a wealth of friendship. One day, out of nowhere it seemed, he had been forced to leave all he knew to exist in a place with nothing but trees and plants and people he could not understand.

No one asked him his opinion about moving from his urban-ish freedom to the confines of a farm. He felt alive riding his bike with his friends, free to roam the streets of his small neighborhood, playing games and plotting pranks. His mother would give him money to ride his bike to the local deli to get small groceries. At times he would be allowed a small treat for his effort. The only instructions were, “Bring me the change!”

Then his mother remarried, and everything for him had changed. Now we was confined to the vastness of this new place, with nothing to plot and noone to plot it with. He just sat there, contemplating each of the 8 years of his life, wondering what he had done to deserve this purgatory. It wasn’t bad, mind you, but it was different and as he was to discover later in life, change was hard for him.

Later he found he hadn’t moved a great distance, but through 8 year old eyes it seemed as if he had moved a galaxy away. When he’d ask to go see his friends, he was told that it was too far and to forget them as though they had never existed. The phone would not be able to call those left behind. The mail would not deliver his letters. Nothing, it seemed existed before this new place where nothing but trees and plants and people who spoke a different language could be found.

The Peach Tree

In his loneliness he wandered about, trying to figure out what all of this new shit was. What became his new “family” didn’t seem to want to know him. He felt an outsider, and they didn’t seem to care. Everywhere he went he felt alone and misunderstood, like a foreigner in his own skin, alive in a place minus all he had ever known.

“This sucks,” he said as he kicked the trunk of a peach tree. He sat under it’s shade, playing with the hard and rotting fruit that had been stripped to the ground below.

A man, darker and larger than most the boy had seen, walked up and smiled. The boy sat, staring at the man, unsure of what to do or how to do it.

“Duraznos,” the man said, his smile beaming with excitement.

“Huh?” the boy replied.

The man reached up and pulled a peach from the tree, and sat beside the boy.

“Duraznos”

“Dur-azz-nose,” the boy repeated, the best he could.

The man laughed. “Si! Yes! Muy bien!”

The boy just shrugged his shoulders with a look that said “I have no idea what you are saying.” The man understood and repeated, “duraznos.”

The boy understood that. “A peach,” he said. The man laughed and said, “Si, a peeeech.”

The boy and the man laughed. It was the first time the boy had laughed in days.

The man pointed at the peach and then at the boy’s mouth. He handed the peach to the boy, and the boy took a bite. The peach was delicious, and the boy took another bite. He then handed the peach back to the man, who also took a bite.

“Mmmmmmm,” the man said. Now that the boy understood.

Someone yelled for the man in that language the boy did not understand. The man got up, swatted the grass from his pants, and smiled.

“Duraznos,” the boy said.

The man smiled, and replied, “peeeech”. He then gave the boy two thumbs up and went back to work.

A Lesson

The boy walked home, not feeling as sad as he had. Later, as a man, he never forgot the soul who spoke a different language nor the kindness he had offered. The man didn’t care that the boy didn’t look like him or speak his language. He just saw a boy who looked sad and decided to brighten his day. The boy decided to return the favor the best he could. The man shared a durazno, and the boy shared a peach.

The remarkable thing is that kindness, no matter what it is called, means the same thing to everyone. It also tastes sweet, and gives those who need it most just a little taste of something wonderful. And that was the lesson. The boy didn’t need to understand someone to know kindness, and the man didn’t seek anything but some kindness in return. They both just needed to show up, and change the world.

““Your acts of kindness are iridescent wings of divine love, which linger and continue to uplift others long after your sharing.” ~Rumi.

A Summer’s Dream

July 8, 2022 / Tom

I’ve found you.

I’ve found you in the sounds of rushing water returning to the sea. Ages spent playing on her banks, feet frozen in the current, now have me longing to bathe in her rapids. Come, hold me there and wash me pure, touch me and I will die hearing the power of our truth set free in Spring’s release.

I have found you, and you shall know me as no other.

I’ve seen you.

Up on the summit, looking out beyond trees, my soul has seen you. Hiding among the flowers you are, dancing when no one is looking as carefree as one could be. I’ve seen you, though, and you have not known it. I’ve loved your dance and found my rhythm in your steps. There are no dreams but this dream, and there are no answers but you.

“They thought her insane, those who watched her dance yet could not hear her music.” I can hear it, and I am dancing with you.

Despite the moments where no answers came to the questions I have asked, I now sit and gaze at this vast horizon. Somewhere, out there, you are dancing and singing and wondering and doubting while I sit here, longing for the moment when I can touch the horizon and feel it touch me in return. I wonder if in the breeze that now dries my skin there is your whisper, reminding me that this road still has some miles and you are waiting upon a shore somewhere. I cannot help but to whisper back, hoping you can hear my prayer.

When we kiss will you feel that wave of truth wash over you as that river in which I’ve bathed? When we search for each other in the night, will our hands find flesh where a dream once slept? I do so wish for those things but only if your lips are the “amen” at the end of the prayer and the note that starts each day’s song.

I shall see you there, one day, of that I am sure.

A Lifetime Ago

April 19, 2022 / Tom

Lost in the fray of my own frazzled mind, I bow.

I was not good enough, or I was too good. There was no hope in you for me even as you hoped for all you never had. You walked and I watched, you ran and I agreed. You forgot and I let you remember.

I scared you, or so you said. I was a force, or so you suggested. There you were, set free upon the altar of great love, blaming the very key that unlocked your chains and left them piled on the floor. You blamed them for your fear, for your consequence, and then you hid behind the creature you feared the most.

Time. We just need time. Time to remember the moments of quivering ecstasy as we laid gasping for air, our sweat mixing into pools upon the ground.

More. We want more. I want more of your body taking mine into agreement. You want more of me owning all that you wish to give. Yet here we are. Me being too good or not good enough, hopeful in this hopelessness, a spectator in a sport that sees you run in some other direction. There is no sense to this senselessness. We will just have to walk our paths alone.

Memories. They curse at me as they bring me to my fullest arousal. I will move on. I always have, but I shall not forget. Memories that both tease me and lift me to the sky will ensure I remember. The pulsing throb in my manhood matching time with the echo in my chest will drive me toward dreams long since left behind. I shall let go as I hold on, my prayer being shouted the same as always as the eruptions remind me of what has been gained, then lost, then gained again.

You will whisper my name again someday. Perhaps such music will be played in your aloneness as your mind and your fingers wander to those hidden places. Maybe the song will be shouted as your hips buck and your flesh shakes. Certainly there will be a moment when your heart beats and your mind hears my name. You will then reach for me, find nothing but the space you asked to be created, and wish I was there to remind you of the kingdom we could have created.

I wrote this a lifetime ago.

Yet it could have been written at any time. Fuck those who take their concept of time so literal as to make it part of my existence. To hell with those who seek to make me old, or young, or tired, or plagued by their insanity. They cannot hear their roar for the sounds of the chattering in their heads, and they cannot see their promise as the fog of fear gathers before their eyes. Who am I to tell them any different? Who I am to stifle my own howl because they cannot stand the sound of their own warrior voice?

Talk all you’d like. Walk all you can stand. You will still be a puppy unable to see the moonlight. You are blinded by your mother’s tit, eyes closed as you take the nipple, being fed all that you can stand of all that she can offer.

Yet I will still love you as I have a lifetime ago. I feel no bitterness toward either of our limitations. I have forgiven you much in the way I have forgiven myself.

Time will always try to get the better of me. I may die never again hearing your voice, but I will have heard it once. Your music may be silent in my ears, but I have known its rhythm. Perhaps even the moments of great losses I have found great wins, even if in my final moments I exist in an empty space with only the memories to hold my hand.

Rise! Dear Heart…

March 30, 2022 / Tom

The floodgates have opened. The writer is back, his heart in tune, his soul awakened, and his growl nestled firmly against her breast. He has survived for this moment, and in honor of his survival a prose is born for those who are fighting for their own. He is in this spot because he willed himself to live, and he will never let those he loves shrink from the battles they have at hand.

For those who are struggling, who are facing battles unparalleled in their existence, he hears their growls as well. Even if they can’t yet hear that sweet sound, he hears it echoing in his own past. He knows and he hears, and soon his heart beckons them onward.

“Rise, dear heart, for you are loved and you are needed.”

The rains pour on the battlefields of our existence, making slick, muddy work for warriors climbing to the summits of their lives. Yet they must climb. They can never quit. They may rest and they may crumble, but they will rise to meet the challenge.

We must be vigilant, for each other, and not fail to reach our destination for a lack of effort. We must find our tribe, those pure hearts in tune with our own, who will push us forward. Those beautiful souls who sing our song and give us shelter when we need to rest. Such love is not romance, it is human and such power is not fickle, it is divine.

“Rise, dear heart, for though I cannot walk this path for you, I can walk it with you.”

Push, and walk hard, but know that if you call I will come. If you ask, you will find my hand reaching through the smoke and it will not let you go. I dare not pretend you cannot do this on your own, but know that you need not be alone as you face the storm. No matter the distance, I am here. No matter the reason, I am beside you.

I am no stronger than you. I have no superpower. You are everything I am, maybe even more. Yet in the ebbs and flows of this life I will carry you when I am strong and your are not. As I am able, I will lay with you in your despair and hold your broken pieces until you are able to mend them. Perhaps each act of such love will be returned, and perhaps not. The gift is in the giving, and the gift and the giver are one. Life itself demands nothing less of warriors.

For now know that you are cherished, you are needed, and you are not alone. You will have us at your back and you will not face the demons alone. We are so blessed to watch you rise, dear heart…

The Frightening Beginning

March 29, 2022 / Tom

Often the hardest part of a story is the beginning. There is an awkwardness in the uncertainty that makes the first words hard to come by. The writer sits and stares at the page, the pen quivering in his hand, hoping for something miraculous to be born. A breath, a pause, and then a sudden dive into an unknown sometimes more frightening than anything he has ever experienced. He leaps into the realm of his soul. It is there he must come to terms with who he is.

He must jump, however. Sometimes the ledge, though appearing secure, is a much more frightening place to be. That very thing that inspires him scares him, yet it is the very thing that gives him life. That inspiration is the air he breathes and the fire that gives him warmth. It can also strangle his faith and turn all he longs for to ash.

In that uncertainty lays a truth, a truth much stronger than the reality found in the security of the ledge. Through weathered skin he feels the tingles of warmth that bely his deepest desires. In eyes made both clear and blind by time rests a cynic and a poet, and though the words ring true in the sight of her beauty the quakes shake him to his core. It is time.

The Poet

What is a poet without his pain? What is wisdom without the cynicism that flows between each lesson shelved within his heart? It is in all that he is that he gives all that he has. It is the inspiration that drives him onward and the sight of her that awakens the truth within him, and the touch of her hand that causes an oath to be reborn within his heart. He has no choice save to recoil or to jump. He trusts his instincts as he takes the leap forward this time.

It is the poetry that gives him wings and carries him as he plummets toward whatever is his fate. He could have stayed safely perched “up there” but something demanded he just…fall. She smiles and the words come to him. She speaks and the letters all make sense. Perhaps this is the moment where it all rhymes and suddenly he will find her in the clouds, his prose never more beautiful and his soul never more rewarded. Time will tell if those words read like Rumi or like Poe, as all inspiration shows us the truth eventually.

He is just the poet but she is the word, the ink, and the spirit that guides his hand.

The Intention

In the flesh, he is but a man and she but a woman. Yet in the essence of all things that mean nothing, they are so much more. Universes are born on their aspirations, worlds are built on their dreams and wonders are created in their desires. It is here he holds back his words, and she her heart, until something finally sets them free.

That is the frightening beginning. It is a space birthed in the hope that something that has been never been can somehow exist this time. Time, the enemy of all mortals and things made to die, is given relevance only through the fear that perhaps this time will be no different than the others. The intention of he that is but man and she that is but woman is that this time all that is hoped for, dreamt about and wanted will exist for both. When just a man and just a woman meet in the dark, it is the darkness itself that becomes a mortal memory.

When both the poet and the soul behind his work jump into the abyss together, time transforms from a fruit they feared to pick into one whose sweet nectar cannot be wasted. It is in the trust that they find their harvest, and in the leap that they find their trust.

It is there I find myself, a poet seeking the right words, softly whispering to that sweet intention that she will know that truth through prose written in the clouds. While he is but one side of whatever will come, he is still one side of that promise. It is that side he gives his attention, walking slowly alone with his thoughts until that smile awakens him and that touch tells him all he needs to know. While there is uncertainty in that frightening beginning, there is also so much hope.

Moments Like This

January 10, 2022 / Tom

Just remember for a moment.

Remember the last time you were left holding onto a hope that had long since dimmed. Words shared of things to come, of dreams to be realized and of promises to be kept were tossed into the fires of Forever Lost. Just remember the silence and feel the dread of the space now left beside you. Pause with that memory for a while.

Remember the last time you felt safe in an embrace and certain that there’d be another. There was once a trust in such consistency, a trust now dashed in words both spoken and unspoken, in promises both made and left broken. Remember the minutes where the ether grew cold around you as the hurt burned deep within you. Relive the moments where nothing made sense.

Remember the last time you heard the truth. There were moments when you could trust both the word and deed of your heart, moments that have since faded into memory. Now, remember the moment when you lost all things that anchored you into the joy of your reality.

Yes, please, just remember for a moment. Remember, though, for a moment only.

It is true we have suffered, each of us. We have made mistakes and we’ve had mistakes made upon us. We’ve walked lonely roads and whispered the saddest songs. We have risen, roaring a fierce determination that “this too, shall pass.” We’ve been the wretch and we’ve been saved. We were once lost but now are found.

Now forget, dear soul, all of those memories. Forget all of the broken shit you’ve seen scattered about your fields. Focus on this moment. We were made for moments like this, and it deserves our full attention.

Stand With Me

Please stand with me, and enjoy this summit of understanding. See what is around us and in front of us. Possibility stretches beyond the horizon, past the blue sky, and well into the depths our understanding. While there is no guarantee we shall embrace all of it, we are sure to have this moment, found in this spot and felt in this this space. Once we know what we have now we can then seek what is possible.

Nothing behind us matters, and nothing in front of us has been decided. What we have is a moment between two dates, a speck of time between here and there, and the power to choose paths of destiny. We can pick which path we take and then can choose to enjoy the journey.

Now I lay under the stars and seek your voice among the embers of memory that dot my evening sky. The cold north wind caresses my skin and awakens the wolf within me. I’ve once sought my solitude and fought for its mercy. Now, I seek my pack and those who will stand beside me as the winter tickles at my soul. I pray such beings exist, and that there will be a warm fire to share when everything around us freezes over. While nothing in our midst is for the faint of heart, we are not such beings. We have lived. We have fought for our survival and we are here to tell the story.

It is in moments like this, when we can lay warm even in the harshest snows, that are born in the pains of hell. It is a hell we need not bring here, but it is a hell that should give us pause to honor where we are.

Something of a Dream

January 3, 2022 / Tom

She was there. She was right there, and I let her go.

She is something of a dream. Strong. Beautiful. Perfect for me in every way. Yet when it came time to let her in, I let her go. I shrank from all I knew of her into a cocoon of helpless thoughts, and I ran from an embrace that felt so much like home.

I’ve wondered why. In the time since then I’ve had ample opportunity to quell my thoughts and explore my apprehension. I’ve had time to wander around my stupidity and remove the dead parts that clogged my stream of truth. I look at myself from then and cannot believe what I had done.

What is left? An opportunity to learn. I can watch from a distance as others dine at our table. I can understand what quakes inside of me when I hope for just one more chance. Now, I know what I lost and know that I will not soon make that mistake again.

Dreams sometimes can turn into nightmares. My hope is that nightmares can also turn into dreams.

I won’t pressure her. I can’t. Instead I can hold her in my heart and hope for the best for her. Sometime in our moments I grew to love her and in that moment all I wanted was what made her smile.

My hope is that she finds love, ecstasy, and a companionship she deserves. If she doesn’t, I’ll be here understanding that while I am a fool, I’m not the type of fool who fucks up twice.

In that way, perhaps I can be something of a dream to her, too.

The Hand of Love

January 2, 2022 / Tom

I thought I heard her in my ear,
“My love, relax for I am here,”
But alas I woke and knew it wrong,
For there was nothing but the Siren’s song.

The minute my feet found the floor,
I turned to where she was before,
The devil laughed and then he spoke,
“She was gone before your heart awoke.”

Lost once where oceans know,
The mountains, that’s where I must go,
Her notes I find where Sirens dwell,
The valleys can bring pain as well.

Do not trust what Siren’s sing,
Or the feeling that their song shall bring,
Steer your ship away from shore,
Or find her death as those before.

Instead head up and touch the sky,
Watch the birds as they fly by,
Hold the one that wants you near,
Forget the rest who disappear.

Then when the final curtain’s drawn,
And your sands of time are nearly gone,
The hand you hold you’re worthy of,
The hand you hold is that of love.

Today, I admit I love you.

December 26, 2021 / Tom

Today, I admit I love you. In that love I feel sadness, and in that sadness I feel love.

No bullshit. I love you with all my heart and I always will.

I can feel it most in my aloneness, when there is nothing left to distract me. Perhaps that is why I seek out distractions. Distractions allow me an escape from the ache of missing you.

I’ve accepted my place in your life as I’ve accepted your place in mine. I will always strive to grow and become a better man in honor of the times I’ve failed you.

Now, I bend my knee in thanks that I will forever be a man better than I was but never as good as I will be. That’s what love does, and that is what Being in love can create.

Transformation.

I may never kiss your lips again. Your shoulder may never again find its way on my chest. Yet I will rise knowing I love you, and vow today to further rid myself of the demons that drove us apart. My body will get stronger and my mind more resolved to its mission as my heart opens further to accept the gifts that life has offered. If I seek to change I must do so in love even if the beast growls its song of survival.

You may not be beside me in my final moments but be sure of this. I will etch your name on that last heart beat, and your name will be echoing in my eternity.I admit I love you in every ray of love that shines from within me.

Today I wander in love not to be lost in the sadness of your absence, but to be found in the truth of what will always be.

The Sounds of Everything

October 4, 2021 / Tom

A sigh, a gasp, a rush of something wonderful. It could be all that we live for and all that we die for. Or it could be nothing at all. Only time will tell, so just sit with me a minute as I tell you this story.

In the modern age of love, we are all jaded and duped just as we are hopeful and persistent. A man seeking her is on a vision quest of sorts. It is a quest desiring a truth in a love so potent that he puts the neck of all he fears into the noose of total strangers. He risks all he desires on the whims of those who know so little of truth or love just to find the one who has mastered a bit of both. He is willing to cut his way through the high briers of discontent in order to find the sweet oasis he has only seen in his heart.

The grunts of his efforts are among the sounds of everything.

Amidst the toils of his labor he finds the scent of something wonderful. He cannot describe its sweetness nor can he attest to its reality. What he does is promise to follow it, to honor it, and kneel down to its source . Among the stench of refuse he sets his intention to bear. He is seeking that one sweet fragrance in the hopes that she, too, has been seeking him.

The flesh of his hands are torn away by his labor, and his feet are bloodied by the thorns he’s left discarded in his wake. Yet still he is undeterred, needing to prove to himself that the journey is worth the price. He sings a song of hope that radiates his truth throughout the field in which he labors. He dances to music only he can hear, and in the notes there resides a prayer that she may hear it to.

The song he sings is among his sounds of everything.

He nears the realization of his truth. Suddenly there is a clearing and the sigh escapes his chest. He sheaths his sword and walks toward a lone flower standing stoically along a river. He bows in reverence and kneels in her honor. She has touched him beyond his flesh and has reached into places few have ever seen.

His voice remains silent but in his heart a steadfast oath. He shall not pluck this flower from her roots. Instead, he will honor her and protect her, keeping her safe from storms and drought alike. He would suffer in her suffering, grow old as she aged, laugh in her laughter and find peace in her embrace. The scars on his hands and feet were just the price he paid to get to her, and he willingly paid the price to never leave.

His oath was among his sounds of everything.

The warrior who walks the path of truth to uncover the story of his heart bears the wounds and joys of a great journey. He stumbles and falls and drags himself through shit-filled mud just to lay with her on the banks of some great river. She may honor him in return or send him to the his field of labor, but either is a risk worth taking. Saddened though he may be, defeated though he may seem, quitting is a word left to weaker men. This man growls, curses and then sets himself to work.

His growl is among his sounds of everything. His everything is a flower remaining to be found.