Love is thinner than a piece of cheesecloth,
transparent yet confusing to navigate.
More conservative than a political debate
More hearts are broken than mended
.
I am determined to search globally for an end to this love.
We desire it fiercely and embrace our fate to heal humanity.
Love may be a fleeting remedy,
Yet we pursue it with fervent desire,
Yearning to feel complete.
How many times must love deceive us
How many times must we yearn to feel complete?
How many times will we be let down by this thing called love?
He loves me, or he doesn’t.
I love him, but he chooses to reject my advances.
His heart clearly desires someone else.
Love is a cross that many of us must bear.
It can be a profound and challenging burden to carry.
However, I feel empathy for its victims in relation to what we call love.
Love cannot be controlled or confined
This is How the Dream Goes
David J Walker
This is how the dream goes when I awaken to
A cheesecloth cover/filter of borrowed light
Colors melding into a blur of fading memory
A second sight permissioned well into the night only
To be blown out like a lone candle growing shorter
Before the dawn
This is how the dream seems if a scene returns
During unavoidable daydreams in
a split-seconds faint memory
Your eyes are translucent and your hair is brushed
With fiery flames with no last names with which
To be identified
This is how the dream retains its citizenship
Voting to be remembered on special occasions
For which you must appropriately dress and
Properly speak but only when spoken to
And must accept a seat at the children’s table
Listening to adults laughing in another room
Reserved for the dead
This is how a dream yearns for
Your sympathy and understanding before
The dawn returns sadly awaiting
Another night
I cannot find my cheesecloth; where did my cheesecloth go?
Where is it at this moment? I would dearly like to know.
It isn't in the shoe shine kit where oft times I would tuck it,
Nor in the corner by the stove where casually I'd chuck it.
It isn't in the dresser drawer curled up amongst the socks,
My cheesecloth never goes outside, t'is not amidst the phlox!
It isn't over yonder, It can't be over there!
I stare in slack jawed wonder, it isn't anywhere!
How tragically I mourn this cloth, I'll not recover easily.
Where will I find another that comports itself so cheesily?
Oh I'll make do with linen, or wool perhaps or cotton,
But this dear cheesecloth staunch and true can never be forgotten.
So if you have a cheesecloth so soft and strong and sprightly,
You must guard it through the days long hours and keep it by you nightly.
Hold it safe from wolverine, and goat and cloth molester,
For once your cheesecloth's gone for good, you're stuck with polyester!
My eyes scan over the table.
My taste buds begin to perspire.
There’s so much food here on offer,
so I wonder what I’ll desire.
There are some beautiful salads.
There’s carrot, corn and green peas,
bar-be-cue meat to perfection,
and a platter of selected cheese.
There are prawns cooked in their shell,
paté, salami, olives and chips.
There’s my favourite dried tomatoes;
dry biscuits and all kinds of dips.
I’m ready to make a selection.
My craving helps me with ease.
I bi-pass the foods of sensation,
for an entrée of Vintage Cheese.
I could have tried Camembert first,
but its flavour just never agrees,
and why would I ever want Blue Vein,
when the platter holds Vintage Cheese.
Swiss has a nice nutty flavor;
cheddar’s soft with flavour so light.
Pecorino, Romano, are for cooking,
but Vintage is cheese with a bite.
It must be made out of whole milk,
and it has to be seven years old.
There must be mould on the cheesecloth,
and it must be the colour of gold.
One chop; two prawns and tomato,
lettuce, onion, beetroot will create,
a very bland meal, at a bar-be-cue,
without Vintage Cheese on my plate.
Crack In The Stove
Listen to the pine splits
crack in the stove
clouds down our roof like
burnt pine, milk
The smell of come in the shack
A breeze on the wall
from boiling tomatoes
A baby snorts air
while it sucks a tender breast
it was time to put apricots
out in the sun,
cover them with cheesecloth
Nothing but the whine of bad mud
between the cabin logs
I hum Cold Blew The Bliss
to the cild, touch fattened dough
I wait for the sound of his truck
hoeing a splutter of thawed ditch
And when he comes he points his rifle
at the floor, lets the dog
smell his pants
Soup's about done
1968
Beaten on the school yard
Cursed on the bus
Not all the kids hated whites,
The few left in the hood.
Haters sat at dinner tables
Hearing the call to “justice.”
Just like us.
Nine – not near ready
To understand the chemistry of
Hate.
Fear haunted me,
Dark sickening fear,
A sticky gray fog covered
My days and my nights.
Afraid for all of us, and those
Eager to do harm.
Naïve, ignorant, only knowing
Fists and slurs.
April fourth, June fifth, 1968
All the world raged, rioted,
Hated against hate.
The only voices that pierced the fog came from
The men with the power to wage peace.
Inspired by the truth trickling through
Muddy cheesecloth filters covering our minds.
Dr. King was only a man, but of God.
His devotion to the Power of Love
Drilled into my heart
Injected me with guilt and
Passion.
Bobby Kennedy was only a man,
But a visionary.
The truth, seemingly invisible to us,
So painfully twisted his face.
Both men dreamed, and now…
So do I.
The light in the night falls slowly upon weathered decks
We have placed the dead man on a plank and wrapped him in cheesecloth
The rain stops and starts
It doesn’t seem to care that he is dead
Captain Powder is the priest as the other died two years ago
He’s no priest but at sea he’ll have to do
We gather ‘round a scurvy crew and do our best to remember our prayers
Old One Eye Joe was not a favorite around here.
His one eye made it hard to work the ropes with him as he had no perception.
T’was always a bloody hard days to think about going up there with him
And of course time took it course and he missed roped.
To the deck he fell
A good 40 feet…not much to look at after that, but then again he never was.
So why do I tell you tale.
Well if your goings to do work then takes heed of your mates.
Because Mother Nature don’t always deal straight from the deck.
sitting
in the corner
of a pub
I write vows
and eulogies
I speak
of the dead
visiting
the departed
speaking of love
waxing of life
on the breath
of a baby
I take minutes
of hours
I wrap my hands
in cheesecloth
stained with black
my fingernails
have loosened
from their beds
life passes through
my pen, surging
and ebbing
with each tragedy
or celebration
I read lips
hear tones
watching from afar
the faces
but unable
to touch
the life in them
(this brownarmed girl will sleep
with goodman)
testing the white waters at lunch
she in a blushless
cheesecloth frock
chaperoned by one vased fuchsia forget
me not
coyly sipping cantharis tea
verbalizing
circling a triangle
words slipping from breath moistened lips
like fire thirsty moths quenched by flame
washing their hands
clean of angelcake memories
she keeps a picture by his bed
a stranger and the children
in sun day best
& each night is the longest month of the year
The breeze caresses
Through the light cheesecloth attire
Her curvature purrs
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-10.php
Earthenware,
Gently coated with 24 karats,
Lungs, innards, entrails, liver,
The heart left untouched,
Untainted,
Egyptian burials,
Wrapped in cheesecloth.
drowsy cricket songs
call orange-black wings to rest
on yellow ragweed
hunting with broomsticks
bent coat hangers and cheesecloth
we chase summer dreams
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