Beginnings

It was eight years ago you kissed me for the first time...

Out back behind your friend's townhouse,
on a patch of grass in the desert
we talked about life in small talk-- strip malls
and the never-ending tract housing
swallowing up Arizona's wide land.

A full white moon shined down
on our young faces.
Your hands were in your jeans pockets
as we stared up into the basin of light.

You stood close to me...
and then lowered your head
became silent.

You looked straight at me
the wind tossed about the curls of your brown hair,
you waited for my eyes to meet yours

And then you kissed me.

It was not a kiss of passion,
nor sexuality. It was delicate, like you...
You did not move your hands on my body,
you restrained.

A humble, gentle man before me...
fumbling to figure out what to do

Such sweetness in your confusion.

Years later we have met and wandered into each other's bodies.
But your kisses now are hungry,
and you gesture with wild hands,

I must share my gift with the world-- my music
This is why I am here. 

Where is your soft voice, my old friend--
the uncertainty in your fingers?

Where are those confused hands--
as I once taught you how to please me?

The Heart Leads

The Heart leads and responds before the brain responds... this is scientifically proven, but do we really need science to prove this? We have always known it, but lately it confuses me and causes me pain. It's ALIVE, this heart of mine.

It is awake and making me question everything I am (who I thought I was), who I love, what I'm here for? How come I love someone and reject him all at the same time?

My heart beats frenetically these days, because I am lonely, and miss my lover. I'm haunted by him, and his calm way of saying, this distance is ok.

Here I tell you, you are inside of me. Inside my heart, beating hard and fast.

I miss you my darling. My magical music man.

Images found on visualizeus.com, no artists mentioned

This Vision

It could be an memory
or an image in my head

of you bending underneath the olive tree
wearing a tea length green dress
your hair pinned up in curls...

You are stunning,
as you pick up the half eaten fruit
tossing their pits into a metal bin beside you.

Here you are the mother I adore
you tend to your garden, clean our rooms with your strong bare hands
You keep a rag nearby, and wipe the sweat from your face.

After this you cook us dinner,
serve your husband with the grace only a woman can serve
--as he steps out on you in the evenings
To meet some blonde who laughs at his dirty jokes,
and tugs on his shirts in cheap bars.

He cannot shake you.
You are impervious as the desert to the rain.
You wake in the mornings and put on your fine wool
and earrings.
You step into your heels, that is all.

But what of this?
Years later
after a divorce and a new home in the suburbs--
No garden,
no more dresses or home cooked meals.

Put on your lipstick again, pin up your hair...
My mother of confidence,
my mother of superb strength.

Not for show,
but because you believe he didn't break you.

Because he didn't.

Orchids

Here you are
you sit and enjoy your third cup of coffee
I on my second...

We fight our tired bodies--
the mere five hours of sleep.

Because we only have five days
and you tell me you must take me to La Fournil
so we can have French coffee and fig pastries...

and we must walk Seattle while it is warm and the sun is out
over the water.

It has been 7 years since we have done this;
looked into each other's eyes over coffee
talked after a night of lovemaking.

Your body is so new to me... thin
yet strong.

In bed, you pushed into me with the force of an animal
You were starved
You took no pity.

We had each become, man and woman
and our manic need for sex and intimacy
flashed in neon.

You are still tender, now
as you discuss your love of orchids
They hang by clothespins on strings from your ceiling...

They rarely bloom,
you tell me,  that is why I love them.

You have to wait for that moment,
after months of watering and waiting,
and then they blossom...

Their flowers detailed as origami
delicate as love resurrected.

And here I am,
in your city
for an unexpected visit.

I take my time to talk to you
my heartbeat is rapid,
my body electric.

I feel this new pull to you
for your body, for you inside me with intensity...

But I am not ready.
And what does all of this mean?

You continue to tend to the orchids,
place each one between your precise fingers.

I want this kind of love--
patient and unassuming.

Can we do that? Can we slow it down?
Can I bloom for you another day?

The Painting

Today there are waves of you
in and out, like love
our friendship in the shape of a rose.

I am unsure of how to keep you close--
how to love you, not in black and white
but in pastels...

A watercolor that is of a still pond,
an impressionistic painting--
waterlilies perhaps

or flowers that have no names.

No matter the image, there is surely light...
white and penetrating;
your love for me,

delicate and hopeful.

For now not even a whisper...

Just a friendship fragile as silk.

And there is beauty in that, my dear friend.
There is beauty in not knowing what the painting says.

Outside the Lines

This month has been a wreck- my anxiety attacks have taken over, and a dear lover from my past has come back into my life. At first I was excited to visit him in Seattle, and was overwhelmed by his new, more manly appearance (it had been 6 years!) He had gained a confidence he didn't have before, which was totally sexy as well. But as our time time went on in Seattle, I started to have doubts and get scared... what did all of this mean? And could we work again...?  I broke it off the first time for a lack of sexual connection and his obsession with making it in the music world. The sexual chemistry was there this time, no doubt, but the music thing haunted me. I've been tortured since I came back home, asking myself how can I make this work? Is it possible...? Can I deal with dating a musician? And I think- sadly- my answer is no. So I am bracing myself for the fall, and I fear where it will take me. Can I seriously work with someone? Anyone? I am waiting for the heartbreak to set in... and the doubt that plagues me... Why do I fall so fast and so hard?

Places

I want to hold you in my arms, and yet

you are in Seattle

Playing your guitar late

into the night

gesturing with wide hands

and big teeth,

“It’s time to make it big!”

How I loathe your music.

When we ran around the golf course

Years ago

high on coffee and marijuana

We would laugh about our newfound music,

You on the guitar,

Me the lyricist and singer- 

a “Frenchie” vibrato.

It didn’t matter then,

That music was your sky,

It was your painted mountain in the distant,

Something to climb

and to conquer.

You’d tell me,

“We have big skies Lara,

We are meant for greatness”

And I agreed, without hesitation.

And now,

On my porch alone,

I crave a simpler life.

To love you inside my sheets,

 and over a cup of coffee in the morning.

To talk about art, and food,

and who is making it big now…

 Is it talent

Or the machine of man, pumping out

“The new voice," or the

“incredible actor?"

Instead you reach for your guitar

Move your hands up

and down the fret board,

That long, thin neck...