Passion

The morning alarm rings so soon to wake me to the still dark day. It seems that I drifted off to sleep only moments ago with my ankle pressed against hers. It’s a constant contact that still allows freedom of movement but relays an enduring and comforting sense of presence and intimacy. She moans and roles over, checks the alarm to see if there is some silly mistake or, if she truly does need to ready herself for the coming day. It's true and to soon, far to soon. I see her silhouette in the dim light as she lowers her head again into the pillows and I hear her breath as she collects her thoughts. I love her. We lay there gently flirting with sleep and wakefulness as the morning sounds begin to encroach on our small private paradise. As she settles, I feel her searching under the cover with her leg to touch me and I move closer to her. Just a simple touch of skin. There are only a few moments left before "the others" require our time and attention and I bask in the feeling of warmth and stillness with my love by my side feeling the same.

With a sigh she rises, slowly, cautiously, gently brushing aside the warm covers and feeling her way on the creaky old wooden floor with her toes. The clothes dropped in haste last night are an obstacle to the shower that will push her into full consciousness this morning. I hear the warm water begin to flow and then the vibration of the 80 year old pipes tell me that she has turned on the cold water as well, the next sound will be the shower curtain being pulled closed. Now it's time for me to rise as well, though no work calls me today I still have responsibility.

I stumble into the small kitchen and realize that I left our dirty dishes in the sink last night but, no matter, there is time to do them today while she's gone. I fill the stainless kettle with water and turn on the old gas oven. She likes her coffee a certain way so I do my best to remember the exact sequence that brought a smile to her face last time. The milk should be poured into the porcelain mug which should then be place close enough to the burner to warm it, but not close enough to burn her when she closes her delicate hands around it a few minutes from now. 1 tablespoon of sugar and 1 tablespoon of coffee are added. I adjust the amount of coffee knowing that she fell asleep a little early last night and she'll be fine without this being full strength.

I have a few minutes before the kettle begins it's insistent whistle and she turns off the shower so I turn on the computer and make our bed, all the while listening to her progress in the other room. Should I make her an omelet or a bowl of freshly cut fruit? I settle on the fruit since she has a limited amount of time before she leaves. Organic apples, bananas and grapes for this morning I decide though I hope they're sweet enough to compete with the sugar in her coffee... Maybe some honey and yogurt?

Oh, I can hear the shower curtain and she'll be drying off now. I stand watching the water and wishing it would boil quickly. I want the coffee to be waiting for her on the desk. As I hear her brushing her teeth the kettle begins to whistle I smile because I win again and she'll come out wrapped in her fluffy baby blue robe and I'll have the steaming cup of coffee ready for her as sure as clockwork. I pour the steaming water into the mug, stir it quickly then rush to get it onto the desk in time, and then rush back into the kitchen so she doesn't see how much I'm trying to be quick for her... The old floor creaks again as she walks to the computer and sits down to check her email. She lifts the cup to her lips and, from the kitchen I hear her quiet "Hmmmm" and I smile....

So many people lose their loved ones tragically every day. I at least know that I cared about every spoonful of sugar and every smile that it brought and, that she was loved by a man, with all his heart, mind and soul.... She would never ask me to care about a cup of her coffee as much as I do.... But I can't not care..... She is all I ever wanted and she makes me a better man every day I'm with her...

Wonder

Such large soft snowflakes I've not seen in years are falling gently, covering the trees, the paths. Through a wonderland... If I come back inside, brought wood to the fire and filled the room with glow and warmth.. Would you, curled up and sleepy under the covers, smile? If I offered my cold hand would you hold it? There is a majesty in the sights, the sounds, the smell of the morning. The mountains outside our window lie white against the dark sky behind and the rains will come soon enough.
If I kiss you gently and whisper in your ear... "My love, come walk with me."

Would you rise to live this moment with me? To watch our breaths mingle, dissipating in the air and hear the sounds of each others footsteps on the icy ground? Would it seem romantic to make the sacrifice and bear the cold for a fleeting moment that would be lost eventually to time?

Cold

Narrowed eyes against a slight misty breeze, the rain has stopped for a few grateful hours. The stalls are flooded and the horses stand shivering... I am.. Only passing through and this is a hard truth to bear. Looking out onto the valley there are a million lights gleaming in the distance like a moonlit ocean before me as my breath crystallizes in the cold mountain air. The dimly lit mast is empty.. Our tattered flag has been taken down now, due it's respect. The winds of the fall were as expected and too much for it.

This is a harder place.

Sand and rocks shift beneath me and the mountain water still drains as I stand in the cold night wondering... Soaking wet feet, mist on my face and neck and I watch my puppy play with an errant pine cone. He's followed me outside as I feed and tend tonight, just like the last night.. and the nights before.

I've been told that I'm wrong in thinking I'm in heaven. The smell of manure and the soft knicker of General.. He's not content tonight. I understand. The months and years ahead will bring better times but, for now.. We have this.

My Lover I desire..

To wake you in the morning darkness with the aroma of coffee

To caress you until you rise sleepy from the bed

To enjoy every sunrise together we can

To form words that inspire you with hope for the coming day

To kiss you goodbye

To text you jokes to cheer you

To always be there to listen when you need me

To have the candles lit and door open for your arrival home

To ask about your day

To hold you when you cry

To kiss you where it hurts

To burn with passion for you

To make love to you as if it were the first time, the last time, everytime

To never be too tired to get up and make your tea

To put you before everything and everyone else

My Desire has always been thus,

And always will be.

The Dance

Deep tone wind chimes sing with the slight breeze outside and an easy rain settles on my shelter. Not my home but, a roof, a sink and a dog bowl for my best friend who lies beside me under the warm gray cover sleeping and dreaming. It's been a long lovely day. The all too brief visit with an old friend was refreshing, and moving. He is a fine man and it's been a privilege to have known him.Then, a soft tender touch and warm gaze from someone so very special, so innocent will carry me for some time. At work the rains began and soaked everything but, we continued with passion and eagerness. After all, I love what I do, what I've become. Matching panting partners we move in this dance. Hair sticking heavily to my cheeks and brow and water dripping from my beard.. Riding the temperamental Andalusian 'Flamenco' and we move. Quickly with his discontent and nervous energy he bucks under me. "Paso" I whisper to him. "Paso, my friend." He won't. Too much energy and excitement and away we run again. The fence rushes at us but, I can feel his muscles under my left thigh tense and see just the slightest turn of ear. No fear, no worry. "No matter what you do, I will be right here Flamenco." I whisper as he turns to stop and my boot gently brushes the railing as he hesitates. "For now, you are my horse and I am your rider, this is our life.. Together." And so we danced in the rain and wind. In the sand of the arena we both learned patience. And this is the road less traveled...

Journal Entry for Sep 05, 2007

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Pavarotti I waited but, it is true... He is dead... Pavarotti, I can't speak Italian but I can sing it because of him. Your voice called to me for so many years. And now my candle burns into this night. I remember... When I buried my hero, I sang your words. When in my darkest nights on the beach alone, you were with me, in my heart and on my lips. One of my life's goals was to sing your song, 'Nessun Dorma. But... It sounds a small and frail piece of itself with my breath and voice. My guess is that Bocelli will pay tribute to you with renditions... Or will he leave well enough alone? For though his voice is fresh with youth, and his sound is so very clear... It can never be yours... Yours that called so sweet. I will tell my children when they are born "Aaahhh, but if you had been privileged, you would have seen Him... Pavarotti, standing like a ship before the dawn." Those that slumber now, they will not know. But we knew... We around the globe. We who felt the vastness of our world, sigh.... In your passing. On to your next journey my friend. God Speed and, all my good will...

My Father's Passing

Journal entry for April 2, 2005
"I sit alone at an airport watching through the thick glass, the sky and the horizon as the sun begins to make it’s presence known. I watch a flat landscape turning slowly from black ink to purple and now, a most lovely peach. The far distance is is squared with the tiny shadowed outlines of humanity’s encumberences and occupations. Pinpoints of light glitter and wink in the growing dawn. Peach turning to orange and magenta cascades off the edges of clouds though they are few and resting low in the sky. I feel the pull as an America West flight takes wing and disappears into the distance.
The sun blazes into sight and though I’m waiting for it, it’s power is difficult to fathom. So far away from us but still the reason that our life takes place this way. The sides of buildings and unidentified objects far away reflect the light, reminding me strongly of Monet’s painting of "The Cliffs". I’m swept away into the image and can almost see the brush strokes in my minds eye, the wind and the smell of the sea spray.
The speed of the sun is usually measured in hours but it’s birth and death can be measured in mere seconds. How familiar that seems. I watched my father lowered into the ground on Tuesday March 29, 2005. The pages of this small compilation of my thoughts do not reflect his importance in my life. Idon’t know how to express the lessons I learned from the past. The years of stone silence caused by a wall of pridefulness, the steel of his hand, the wetness of his tears on my small shoulder, the joy in his voice when we finally found the relationship that had elluded us for what seems a lifetime. The past and, unfortunately the last year of his life was filled with phone calls and talks of karaoke and cookies. Deep fried delicacies and dreams of the future.
I was told by others that he was proud of me.
Perhaps for now, we should leave off at that statement.