SOFT THINGS

Soft

Is the breeze

Through the open sliding glass door

Of our hotel in Majorca.

Soft

Are my eyes

As they widen

And the sun shines upon them.

Soft

Is the volume

On the stereo

As Miles plays

“It Never Entered My Mind”.

Soft

Are your sweet,

Lambent lips,

Pressing gently and joyfully

Against mine.

Soft

Is your gentle voice

Purring sweetness

In my willing ears.

Soft

Is your belly

Against mine

As we make long, languid,

Magical love.

Soft

And loose

Is my blood,

I’m so relaxed here.

Soft

Is the water

And the waves

Lapping against our skins

As we go float in it.

the electricity I feel

coursing though me—

my legs, my arms,

places I dare not mention.

the desire to step

out of my skin,

free of my bones

and joints

and become pure,

undistilled,

wild

energy

the magnificence I feel

as I step down well-trod streets.

is this as close

to the divine

as I am likely to come?

am I nearer now

to nirvana?

am I beyond sex?

am I going

to the back of beyond?

how close am I to heaven?

am I already there?

Apollo Works his Magic

It is Easter Sunday.

Me and my dearest friend are

On a beach

Striding slowly towards the

setting Sunday sun.

The water is still too chilly

for our bare ankles.

So we walk where the tide

has tightened the sand.

Just before the sun touches

the horizon, we stop,

admiring the magical

glistening of the light

upon the Gulf of Mexico.

Apollo begins to work

His magic,

casting His orange light

as far as the eye can see.

We watch in outward awe

and inner contentment.

Just before the sun slips under

the water, A boat races past,

as though trying to beat the sun.

And finally, with a wink,

the sun dips below

the horizon,

and Apollo’s show is over

until tomorrow.

I turn to my friend,

someone who has loved me through

the darkest hours and the shiniest

moments in my life,

and we embrace.

I am as nourished and nurtured by her

as a leaf on a tree

is nourished and nurtured

by the now-sleeping orange ball.

And so we walk back,

into the uncertain dusk,

another possibility realized.

I wish for a lifetime

of perfect sunsets

shared with angels.

A perfect way

for a day to end;

hand in hand

with a beautiful friend.

The Water Tribe

For as long as human beings

Have had the means

To do so,

They have told stories.

The Aztecs.

The Bushmen.

The Comanches and the Sioux.

They all told

Their stories

Around a fire.

The rarest such tribes

Are the ones that congregate

Around and inside

Pools of warm water.

They have no formal names.

None are needed.

They come together only

On the nights of the Full Moon,

To soak in the warmth

And share in their glory.

Theirs are stories of similar

Bravery

And amazing achievements.

It’s not just the water

That binds them.

It’s the love of laughter

And the love of life.

Life flows a little better

In warm water.

The water tribes understand that.

They are the hidden population—

A nation of night and delight.