Untitled & Unfinished

        She said she slept one night neath a dreaming tree
        And long neath its bowers dreamt solely of me
        The stars did wheel and turn and glisten she said
        On the leaves of her dreaming, the grass of her bed


One of many musings written for Mary Angel who, I must confess, was the love of my life, and to whom I still write letters... unsent

I thought, as you paused, sipping your tea
wet, red tongue, kissing the brim
of your porcelain cup. Your lips, how soft
~how we made our tongues to swim
I smiled at the mem'ry. You softly coughed
Last night! I in you, on the lip of your cup
Smiling, demure, lips a'touch your cup
making love to your honey and tea

Your cup and saucer chimed in duet. 'What?'
you asked, knowing yet wishing it said
How I loved our last loving; your soft warm skin
smouldering upon our mid-summers bed
and cursing the moment our day must begin
~How we relished the intimacy, and naked, lay
as first light touched the bed where we lay
And impatient with waiting, again you say, 'what?'

This is in progress, It is no where near complete. There is much much more to say about these two enjoying a cup outside a cafe in Paris. But the first two stanzas are finished. 

The rhyming scheme is as follows... A - b - c - b - c - D - D - A, wherein the first and last lines are repeated, as well as the last words of lines 6 & 7. These two stanzas took me about two and a half hours. As this springs from my unquestioning love of tea, the word 'tea' will find mention throughout. 

No title as of yet. That, I think, should wait. Often I'll name a poem before it's finished, only to discover the title no longer fits.

Here are links to other poems about tea and love...

The Zebra Tree
Un Peu Poésie Légère
Love in a Time For Tea


The Last Valkyrie

Eight Valkyries        Eight there were
One fell her promise free        And seven there were
One fell on the Bracken Lea        Six there were
One clove her sword        In lands afar
One faced the legate's cord        Now four there are
Two fought, and fighting fell        Two remain and live to tell
Another must fall        And bleed on the stone
So the Valkyrie last        Can stand alone


This is the jumping off point for the third book of my series "The Forge of Worlds". This book is titled, "The Last Valkyrie". No one reading this should infer that the characters and situations are even remotely 'Norse' in nature. The main character, Freya Grayl, is responsible for the Valkyries and their names, having chosen their Order and names simply because Freya's name is Scandinavian. Her motive was simply to create a personal body guard; to separate them from their people, by giving them names wholly alien from their culture and language set. The result of which was to doom each and every one. Including the last.

Carry Me (Carol)

Carol, it’s quiet, the fire burns low
I’d be asleep now but for something I’d know
If I weren’t a wanderer, been lost all these years
Would you be my lover for to ease all my tears
O, Carol, it’s me, I sing to the fire
Sing to the embers and humbly inquire
I’m coming home for to see if I may
Ask of your heart if in your arms I might lay
Carry me, Carol, Please carry me home
 I’m tired of running, of being alone
Carry me, Carol, I want to wake from this dream
(Wash me in crimson and I will be clean)
Carry me, Carol, Please carry me home

Carol I’m dreaming, and everything’s black
I’m afraid that I’ve gone where there’s no coming back
I’ve seen my reflection in the windows I pass
A vagabond stranger stares back from the glass
O, Carol, it’s me, I sing to the fire
I sing to the embers and humbly inquire
May I please come home, I’m so tired and worn
And cursing the day I ever was born
Carry me, Carol, please carry me home
I’m tired of running, of being alone
Kiss me now, Carol, and I’ll awake from this dream
Wash me in crimson, and I will be clean
Carry me, carol, please carry me home


We'll Take Our Crumpets Now

I’d like to visit Sicily
Italy, Eritrea and France
Drink tea with a Dane
On the Seine, dressed for the Opera, and dance
We’d kiss till our eyes close
And both propose, we kiss till we reach Lucerne
We’ll have chai in Bombay
Sing “Ciao” to Cathay, make love upon lilies and fern
Perhaps I’ll want sake
In Nagasaki, and she’ll ask for espresso
We might board a plane, I
& the Dane, Singing Beatles songs Because See Said (She Said) So…
Painting our portraits in nude
On the blue Danube, not dressing till they say we’re done
Then off to Seville - mores the pity
It’s not Mexico City, and perhaps get it all in by one
But we’ll take our crumpets now...
     ...and tea, please


Dear Mary Angel

Happy New Year,
      A lot has happened in the past year, most of them realizations I've made; not things you can hold in your hand, but nonetheless significant in terms of what I've managed to accomplish. For one, I've discovered who I am. This may sound crazy-- fifty-five years old and finally understanding this basic truism, but...

     Most everyone tends to identify themselves with their job-title, "I'm a doctor, I'm a janitor," and that's fine if that's all they aspire to be. If the purpose of their lives-- the great driving force and motivation, was to become a janitor? Okay. But I believe very few people, if they were honest with themselves, sees their occupation as the great driving force of their lives; their reason to be.

     Take me, for instance. I've been a cook, a dishwasher, an X-ray supply tech. I've worked on the crew boats off the Texas and Louisiana coasts, I've strung cable for a cable company in Arkansas, I've managed a restaurant, I've produced the five, six, and ten o'clock news at a local station, I've worked on the web, built advertising, edited and made commercials. I've managed to squeeze in a lot of  jobs in thirty-nine years, and yet, not a single one of them told the story of WHO I was at any given time. Who I am is a much larger story. It has taken the whole of my life tell. And it is not defined by any time-clock I've ever punched.

     I am an Artist, broadly speaking, but more specifically, a writer, and a poet. Whether or not I ever earn a living as a poet and writer is irrelevant, because these are the driving forces that propel me forward. They are my reasons to be. These are the gifts God has given me; my talents. And I dare not bury them in the sand.

     I believe that if everyone in the world were allowed and encouraged to nurture and grow that seed of "Being" within them, this would be a much calmer, more peaceful planet. Within everyone is a desire to create. We can't but help desire the art of creation; this desire was forged into every cell of our bodies from conception. This is the closest we get to being like Him, in this life.

     I wish you all the best in this coming year. I wish you peace, love, and a greater, deeper longing for the You God created you to be.

All my love



I wish for kinder words
Not swords, not knives
I wish for softer speech and tone
And peace for our lives
A better dream of the future
Where every word nurtures
A greater hope for our lives

For where is hope in cruelty?
Where is love in pain?
Where is kindness in beheadings
Religion of peace? Madness, I say
Beatings and immolations
A culture of predations
'This will be yours,' they say

Our dreams are inviolate
Our children treasured
The lives we lose to complacency
Cannot be measured
There's more to lose that freedom
And nothing gained by whoredom
The sins of which can't be measured

An ephemeral line, compromise
In giving up ground
Our God insists we stand in the gap
'gainst their heresies unsound
To live or die matters not
It matters if we stood and fought
     Their calls to prayer un-sounded

I wish, I hope for peace
I dream, I pray for love
I wish the world the peace of God
Every blessing in trove
No sure footing lies before us
But I've faith in Him who made us
Who holds the Light, and trove

Where this leads, I wish I knew
I wish this beast we'd already slew
But I hope this year we resolve anew
To bear His light on and through
Unafraid, unflinching



I've begun to work on an expansion of The Dance, I just never liked where it ended, nor how it ended-- quoting Kansas  --and the more I thought about it, there's so much more to the "dance" of life; there are deeper currents, depths of oceans, and relationships. The poem itself is a part of my novel, The Gardens of Loveplay; it's Etienne's gift to Angelina just before Valentines day. It will develop over time in 5 stages/parts, encompassing two styles: the free-form style of the original, and alliterative.

I look forward to seeing where it all goes.



My heart is a spark
On an ember softly dying
My love is a whim
A dream in the corner crying
    It's eyes filled with weeping
    Lines of kohl in sorrow streaming
My soul is bereft
That my sister lies here dreaming
Yet my hope is eternal
knowing she's in His presence singing
    O, God of my salvation
    For You, my heart's prostration
I will praise Thee
Praise Thee
And praise Thee ever more

121508.123809.1 - lines 1-7
030915.093816.6 - lines 8-15


What have you gained
With your bone strewn fields?
Yoricks upon Yoricks
Yet with none now to remember ~
Nameless reminders ~
They are gone
And more...
They are, quite simply


In the Gardens of Loveplay -- The Sword Parallel

But what next Etienne?

how do you mean?

what next for us, Etienne... in the poem, what next? Is this where it ends? Is there no fulfillment for either of us? You promise to dance me, to make the world envious. but envious of what? You have danced me to the center of love, given me ambrosia to drink, but what next, Etienne.

I must admit, I did not expect this reaction. And truthfully, I never thought beyond reaching the opposite shore... the center

Men rarely do, she sighed

I hope you are smiling as you say this


What then can I do to make you smile, fair Angelina.

You call me 'fair' any yet you've never seen me. I could be ugly.

You're not

How can you know

Pia told me

Have you returned to your old lover then?

You know better...

Do I? You dance me beautifully to the center of your fantasy, and leave me unfulfilled with a glass of the best wine in Venice. What does Pia know of my beauty? To her I am whore! And yet it is she who has had you to bed, not I. When did you speak with her?

A week ago

A week. And you didn't think to mention this sooner? What did she say?

Are you jealous, Angelina?

Of course I am

But why? You have my heart...

Do I? You've only danced me to the center, but how far have you taken Pia? Give me what Pia has had, and more. Give it all to me. Every last dram of your heart and soul. We've been sitting in here all summer, all of autumn and winter and you've not once asked to see me. You want to dance me with words, undress me with innuendo and promise, but never do you step beyond innuendo, or offer more than promise. What good is a promise if it never holds you in it's arms? kisses you-- makes love to you? Answer me that, Etienne. You despise Pia, and yet you trust her word enough to believe her when she calls me beautiful, but you don't trust me enough to look into your eyes. What are you afraid I'll see? that you're not beautiful? Do you think me so shallow? I'm tired of this game, Etienne. I realize I set the rules, but I want it to end.

You write for me something truly beautiful, but you only take me halfway. I'm tired of halfway, Etienne. Take me home, or leave me altogether.

And with that she stood and he listened to her as she walked away.


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

Three, he said to himself.

     Wide steps on three sides
     Marbled and balustrated upwards

No. Don't write simply because she wants you to.

Not Another Minute (Without You)

Dear God
Where are you in my life?
Where am I? In the light?
Or deep in shadow? tell me now, Oh Lord
My heart is near to breaking
In the pains of my own making
Touch me now, Oh Lord
I can't take another minute without you

Dear God
Do you love me even still?
As when I was in your will?
Or was I ever? tell me now, Oh Lord
The emptiness is killing me
Like harps hung in the willow tree
Touch me now, Oh Lord
I won't last another moment without you

Touch me Lord
Fill me with your Holy Spirit
By the blood of your son,
Oh sweet Jesus, please be mine
Touch me Lord and let me know that I'm still loved
Wash me clean from all the sins I bear
Let me feel your presence everywhere
But especially, Lord, heal my soul

Dear God
Must I spend my lifetime weeping?
Pray my soul that you'll be keeping?
When my last breath is spent? tell me now, Oh Lord
I want to spend my whole life loving you
Free of guilt and shame ~ just loving you
Touch me now, or when it pleases you
Restore my soul, I beg of you
Touch me now, Oh Lord
I can't take another minute...
No, not another minute without you


A song... in the vein of ...Roland Orzibal's Mad World ...dark and despairing. Or perhaps not so dark... something along the lines of Twila Paris or Michael W. Smith? I'm still working out the melody.


Originally posted at E is for Everything. The post's title mirrors my own present deep anguish...

If ever I needed a song to sing...