Dreaming

Dreaming

Dark eyes, strong coffee, figuring out the mystery of love. What confounds it? Not knowing? Not growing? Not showing enough care?

Where does love's promise begin and end? What does it take to find that almost perfect other?

You can only open yourself to love, fling open every door to your heart, and disarm the doubters who will say you are holding back.

Know and reveal your imperfections, but never allow someone to carve them into your soul day after day.

Know the limits of your hurt.

Know the strength of your faith in yourself.

Know that you are worthy of love.

It's an uneven world. The balance of give and take, of push and pull, never seems quite right. You hope and dream, hope and dream, and still today never seems to meet expectation.

You must not stop hoping. You must not stop dreaming.

 

Stayin' Alive

Stayin' Alive

I may have been abducted by aliens during most of the 70's. I have long suspected that, for the first six or seven years of that decade, I was on some extraterrestrial spacecraft and that I only managed to get back during Spielberg's showing of Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, when I returned just in time to stumble into the world of disco, which reached its peak when Saturday Night Fever was released in 1977.

Now, I was never a disco dancer. I must have been too bewildered from my extraterrestrial adventures to figure out what all the commotion was about, although, I must tell you, the first time I saw a disco ball, well, something clicked, something connected in my mind. I can't say anything more about that, because I think part of my memory was excised somewhere southwest of Andromeda. I do suspect, however, that the spaceship, the one in which I was abducted, may have had the outer appearance of a disco ball.

Of course, all this is not to say that I couldn't have been a fabulous disco dancer. I could have, I'm sure. I have great hips that can swivel hither and yon. I have great dexterity. I have had great hair, and I could have easily had it coiffed into a mullet like John Travolta. I can point my fingers in two different directions at the same time, while cocking my knee and making a very, very sexy pout. I could and did wear classy, expensive suits, with a vest ... even had a white one. I too loved Olivia Newton John, with her pert little nose, not to mention all her dirty secrets of unbridled passion.

I had all the tools, but I missed all the hubbub of the disco cultural phenomenon. I just wasn't "there." I must have been "spaced out," a technical term describing people who return from outer space adventures. The truth is that I might as well have been holed up in a fall-out shelter or drifting miles above the Earth in a zeppelin, uh, make that a Led Zeppelin with possibly a side order of Pink Floyd.

Don't you wish we could have the disco days back? Just so I could shake my tush a bit, maybe make a video, and post it on YouTube?

Here, let me try ...


... oh crap, anyone got some Bengay?

 

the lovers ...

the lovers ...

two lovers
lie on the bed
her left hand
draped quietly
on his shoulder
each finger silent
except for the one
bearing a simple gold ring
their lips touch
and do not touch
in a suspended paradox
a kiss
frozen in time
never quite complete
and yet so much more
than complete

their bodies are hidden
concealed by
a soft white cover
seemingly placed
carefully over them
with a crease in the fabric
perfecting a line
across the slope
downwards from their hips
to their feet
and above them
cotton netting
hangs suspended
in folds
that have yellowed slightly
with age

and you are here
as a witness
to some defining moment
when this tableaux
comes to life
and the two lovers
move in the bed
turning and twisting
into one another
as they complete
the dance of love
and if your eyes
do not fail you
you will see
the bubs of foliage
spring from where
their bodies intersect
and the fragrance of flowers
will fill the room
do not be amazed
and do not be frightened
for it is you
who have made it so

© Copyright Kennedy James, 2015. All rights reserved.