my working parts
fingering is just the start
on the march
knees and legs take part
head and heart, with soul
I am my own invention
I have few moving parts
in the physical sense
I can play love’s shallow, skipping jester
and caper as whimsically as the cuckoo bird’s call
or I can be as impulsive as Jouliet
He wears his charm well
after thin dusk
as the moon is cued
and longing gently serenades
like the touch of night air
our touches are not soft
but strong and pure
how summate is our commitment
to a miraculous physicalness
as we solve love’s perfect equations
something erotic, physical or spiritual
seems to be accomplished
as lust’s spotlight fades
and moonlights exchanged
for something blue
we lay half asleep
as the dawn wins its queue
and I am only me again.
.
.
A song for this:
Femininomenon by Chappell Roan ??
Reminder: it's coming up on Valentine's Day..
Have you ever noticed, how things come in parts,
distribution, to the lonely hearts.
Our lives, lived by the pieces we contain,
as thoughts pour in faster, than our bleeding brains.
Here’s a part, there’s a part, gather them up you see,
trying to fit them together, to make you and me.
Parts and pieces, scattered like the sands,
we gather what will fit in our hands.
We hope we have what it takes, to make it through our day,
and yet we lose pieces of us along our very way.
Who could know, who can tell, just what parts are you,
is it not written, in those thing’s we do.
what’s your part, what’s my part, aren’t they all the same,
the only part of difference we have, is written in our name.
If we put our parts together, what you suppose we would make,
would we have all the parts that it would take.
No things only come in parts, for us to sort out,
in these words, I leave no room for doubt.
As we build each day, with the parts we have, you see,
waiting for the next parts to finish you and me.
When our part is over, we become complete,
no more in this life, do we have to compete.
They threw paint on the old guitar,
calling someone to pick her strings.
Sitting bleak where new talents are
in hopes of that smile a pluck brings.
One touch gives the lyrics their wings
adding the music that melts hearts.
Those tears and a rhythm that stings
through all of the most potent parts.
There's a station dark and cold.
It is a place to go, I'm told,
for those not quite alive nor dead,
with a withered body and a head.
Passengers arrive and wait,
for a helpful hand to guide their fate,
as kindly they will then be shown,
to soul's destination, parts unknown.
Vaporized bodies
knowledge of knowing whose parts
daylight genocide
Part One: I Love
The eagle as it flies far above restless
fields of golden wheat and stagnant marsh bottoms
where mice and rabbits inhabit ancient cress,
living small and unaware now in autumn's
warning chill of season's soon coming winter~
but the eagle knows coming snow will splinter
nature into those who have and who have not,
and only wisdom will see what spring has wrought.
Part Two: I Hate
The cold wind as it winnows its spiteful way
across tall mountain peaks into the valley
where colorful summer flowers once did play,
enticing bees to a pollen-filled galley ~
now flowers are dead and the bees have withdrawn
to hide from the cold in their houses of brawn
while beautiful flakes become old snow piled deep,
and nature has burrowed for long winter's sleep.
heart's places
blessing and cursing
heart's nature
They left Southampton with a coal fire down below,
Olympic class of the White Star Line, little did they know.
Irish-built in Belfast, one iceberg was all it took as,
with insufficient lifeboats, the whole wide world it shook.
Departing Queenstown, compartments not all watertight,
unsinkable or so they said, until that tragic night...
(almost a six-day cruise).
She was poorly equipped and, as all good Captains do
(tho' that is not his due), Edward Smith
(and fifteen hundred souls or more)
went down with the ship.
And the band played on as the ship was going down,
were they blind (drunk?), out of their minds,
they were all about to drown.
Some thought 'Bravery,' others, 'Stupidity,'
(altho' cold as ice), I can say, quite categorically,
I would have jumped ship if it were me.
Tho' it's a deep subject, rock-bottom at very best,
the play on Broadway (take a bow) you won't see,
of lost lives and broken hearts
is... 'The Titanic, In Two Parts'.
In these parts,
Heavy dews cover fields and lawns;
It's very hot and humid in summer;
There are no breathtaking views,
No snow-covered mountains, no waterfalls;
And the weather changes rather rapidly.
In these parts,
Surrounded by trees, corn, and beans,
The canopy covers me from above.
A paved road separates me from the beans,
And sometimes I'm being held captive, it seems.
In these parts,
Black birds, dears, occasional sightings of doves;
Heavy commerce fuels the passage of trains.
And dark clouds provide plenty of rain.
In these parts,
Silence and bird songs are tonics to keep us sane.
Touches of God help control heartaches and pain,
And alertness is demanded by highways with 2 lanes.
In these parts,
Rural nights of captivating darkness,
Sirens, horns, and roaring traffic
have been arrested by the quietness.
Perhaps it's different where you reside,
And perhaps you like it best where you live.
But that's the way it is in these parts.
'Once you have tasted flight,
you will forever walk the earth
with your eyes turned skyward,
for there you have been
and there you will always long to return,'
wrote Mr. da Vinci (1452 – 1519).
In school I did learn
the plane truth,
and for your information,
it's a collection of spare parts
flying in close formation.
And was it not Icarus in his day
who, in so many words,
was first heard to say,
"Flying is for the birds!"
I'm not sure when you left,
but my guess is, it's been a process
from the beginning.
Maybe the moment you left heaven's presence
you longed for its essence,
and left unnoticed?
Or was it when your freedom fell,
taken from the grips of hell,
and all it taught you to believe about yourself,
and life?
Or maybe when the one you
felt could change all that,
did change all that,
and left himself?
So, so did you?
Or, was it when your dad left?
Or maybe when the very definition of God
was crushed under betrayal's menacing vengeance?
Your dependence on yourself was your downfall,
you know.
And now, there's no feeling left at all.
The more you left,
the more I was left wandering,
left wondering,
how to find someone who desires to remain in the shadows
Overnight, they could read each other's minds.
They were embarrassed and retreated.
Almost immediately, the streets were nearly empty.
Inside their homes. The people hid, stowing away in bedrooms.
The homeless, perverts, and streetwalkers were the only ones that went public.
Their intentions were always straightforward and obvious
For a long time, they knew themselves and what everyone was thinking.
Over time, some got closer to God.
Others drifted even further into the scrub of life.
Some went mad.
Hanging themselves on the most private parts of their minds.
Though you can't see
Your ears will do
As seeing eyes.
Though you can't hear
Your eyes will do
Hand sign for you.
Though have no hands
Your feet will do
All the handy.
Though all have these
Still you heard
Life more complaint.
every detail about you I know. Every high, and your every low.
I know which parts you've kept hidden and buried below, when you are happy
and what makes you glow.
unspoken thoughts I will already know.
I see every emotion you believe does not show.
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