Five Days Of Poetry — Shorter Poems

Five Days Of Poetry — Shorter Poems

i'm hanging in your closet
between your dainty black nightie
and your white wedding dress

 

Five Days Of Poetry — Shorter Poems

Five Days Of Poetry — Shorter Poems

you undress me slowly
unwrap the layers
of bandages
that cover the wounds of
my self-consciousness
until at last
i am naked
under your feathery fingertips
and the softness of your warm lips
that transform age
into youth
and the trembling
of my soul
into a summer flower
finding its way to bloom

 

What I Write

What I Write

I have always believed that the best writers tell less about themselves and more about everyone else.

When I first began to write a blog, however, I realised how personal and how subjective the blog format can be. In most blogs, people tell the story of their lives, and their readers seem to enjoy the ability to interact with that story by offering advice, kudos, empathy, and so on.

I must confess that I do not always write the story of my life per se. I do write about what I believe are universal emotions and common situations. These are also my emotions and situations to be sure, but they are not always how I am feeling that particular day, and the people to whom I may refer are not necessarily people I know. In fact, some of the pieces that I post are years old, and I am merely revisiting them.

Quite often, the idea for a blog will come when I least expect it, say, when I am sitting having coffee in the mall, and I watch a complete stranger celebrating a moment of happiness with friends or some distraught soul clearly suffering through one of life's recurring dilemmas. Something in me connects with those experiences, and my observations sometimes become the basis for a philosophical meandering, a story, or a poem. In such cases, no one that I "really" know and no one in my immediate experience is involved.

Lately, I have begun to worry that people worry about me because of what I write. So, to set the record straight, no, I am not unhappy with the events of my life, and no, I am not suffering some great loss. Most days, I am thrilled with the blessings of living life as best I know how. My preoccupations, as a writer, are simply directed towards how each of us finds a way through the daily ebb and flow of living — sometimes happy moments and sometimes sad moments as well.

I know there is a darkness in my soul that clearly bleeds into my writing. I would explain all that to you, but I have never been able to find the right words. The best I can ever seem to do is leap to metaphor, and for me, that is enough. I do realise that the ambiguous cloak of metaphor is not always sufficient for others, and they want to know more.

I would offer more if I could.

I can't.

 

"Do Your Best"

"Do Your Best"

When I was just a young man of nineteen years, my mother brushed her hand through my hair on a warm spring day. "Do your best," she said to me softly. That summer she was gone. Forever.

Over the years, I have thought back on that spot of time, and I have often wondered whether or not I have done what my mother asked. Have I done my best? Or have I just done what I could?

I never measure my life by the things that I have failed to accomplish. Looking back, I think that I have always stretched every experience to the breaking point, sometimes just to see whether, when faced by certain calamity, I would break down or break through.

To be honest, I failed once or twice, lost control, guessed at the wrong meaning of things and crumbled under the weight of so much otherness that it silenced my voice.

But I never broke my word, never took back a promise, and never broke a heart before my heart was broken first.

"Do your best," my mother said to me softly.

I did, I think, but sometimes, I wonder if even our best is enough.

 

Limitless Love

Limitless Love


And if you love with doubt or reservation, if you mistake hesitancy for patience or restraint for hope, then you do not love at all.

 

Limbo Be-Jimbo

Limbo Be-Jimbo

My life ... a series of contradictions, I swear.

Wherever I go, there are those who push, and there are those who pull.

There are those who love me for who they think I am, and there are those who love me for what they think they can turn me into.

Some want me here, and some want me there.

And most days, I simply end up being nowhere.

Some people believe I'm the next best thing to sliced bread, and some people believe I'd be better off dead.

Some want my money, and some want my funny.

Some think I might be worth a tumble in bed, and some think my thrust for lust has probably lost its head.

And I have no idea why I started rhyming end words, when I think that kind of Seuss-like writing is really for the birds.

Arrgh ... good grief, let's just get to the point ...

The people who want to know me will probably never really know me at all, and the people who really do know me never seem to want to call.

So if I seem a little private, if I seem a little shy, remember we can share the who, what, where, and when, without always figuring out the why.

Here's what I'm listening to this morning ...

Bryan Ferry ~ "Limbo"

 

Know Thyself

Know Thyself

If you think of all the people that you have met in your life, how many of those really know or knew who you are?

I guess if I were a statue, people could say, "Oh, yes, I know him well."

The thing is that I'm not a statue, not frozen in marble. I'm more fluid, changeable, more like a river, cutting my way through the landscape of my life on something less than a predictable course.

That old cliché, "Take me as I am," doesn't really apply to me, because the moment I think I know where I am, I'm already some place else.

 

If It's Love

If It's Love

And if it's love, how will you know for sure?

Will I be the first thing on your mind when you wake in the morning? Will I be the last thought you have as you tumble into sleep? In the in between, will you know what I'm thinking, know how I worry about this or that, feel that I am with you even when I'm not?

Will you find the child in you, the silly giggling girl you thought was gone forever? Will you make a space for me in your life, a place for me to stand or sit, a pillow for me on your bed, a special coffee cup for me to use, a dozen empty hangers in your closet for my clothes?

Will I drift into your hopes and dreams? Will I be the missing piece of a puzzle you gave up solving years ago? Will I be the rain that makes you grow? Will I be the sun that warms your heart even on the coldest day of your coldest thoughts?

Will you find me in a song? Will you watch the moon and wonder? Will you smile unexpectedly? Will you shiver for no reason?

Yes, if it's love, how will you know for sure?

 

Home

Home

Home ... it's where I am now, here where life has always been comfortable, without always being comforting.

Sure, my key fits the lock, turns the tumblers, and swings open the door. And, yes, the walls and the furniture are familiar in an instant, although I have to admit the Renoir print on the dining room wall looks much better than I ever expected.

Home ... it's where I am now, here where the soft silence quiets me and coaxes me to be comfortable with solitude.

There is always an ending, a place to land, a place to which I return, a place to find the tangible tokens and trinkets of a life — my life, my past, and soon, my end game — a place scattered with books, music, and movies, the comforts against loneliness, a place where I guess that I am expected to live, a place where I know that I am expected to die.

Home ... it's where I am now, but it's not where I belong, not my home in the truest sense of the word, because my true home is where solitude ends and a new life begins, a life in which I am more than one heart beating so courageously against the loneliness of this place where I live.

Holding On

Holding On

I am not so great at holding on to things. I tend to let experiences flow through my fingers, and maybe that is just as well.

I wonder if you can ever really hope to hold on to things that seem to have a life of their own. It's tough to control the events of your life when those events are like cars on a freeway that are driven by other people. You do your best to stay in your own lane and drive at the speed limit, but all around you, others are flying by and crashing into one another at a reckless pace. Before you know it, you are a part of an accident too. You didn't plan to be there, and you certainly didn't want to be there, but you are there regardless.

The truth is that some people are reckless. They come into your life, confuse everything you once knew was certain, and then leave you with the mess to clean up. It doesn't seem fair, and yet, while you are picking up the pieces after the disaster of such an experience, still, you wonder if it was something you did, if it was, in some strange way, your fault.

Why is it that we are so quick to blame ourselves when the truth is that the 20 car pile up was caused by someone or something over which we had absolutely no control?

Why do we make excuses for others?

Why do we want to hold on to a sort of undying hope or optimism even when the truth of the matter is that there is really no point in continuing the charade, no point in continuing to believe something will change to make what is wrong right again.

I suppose that sometimes it really is important to hold on, but sometimes it is even more important to let go.

 

Sometimes A Greater Notion

Sometimes A Greater Notion

Too often people confuse contentment with happiness.

The thing is that contentment seems to be more like a static form of satisfaction than anything else. "I'm happy with my life. I have everything I could ask for ... blah, blah, blah ..."

There's no edge to contentment, no sense of risk involved. Things are certain. People can be relied on. This happens this way, and that happens that way. World without end. Amen

Don't get me wrong. I am not down on contentment. It's a good gig for most people. In a world that is somewhat chaotic at best, finding contentment gives people a firm ground on which to stand. Expectations are met, and life proceeds in an orderly fashion.

It's just not happiness.

Contentment seems to be like a steady, reliable hum of experience, but happiness is hearing the music of life so totally unexpected that it catches you off-guard.

Happiness has a "wow" factor, sort of a "Wow, this is unbelievable."

That first kiss, the one that sets off the magic of wondering "What the heck is going on?" and spinning you out of control, that is a moment of happiness. Holding your newborn baby for the first time, while simultaneously grinning ear to ear and bawling your eyes out, that is a moment of happiness. Crossing the finish line of some incredible task that you have undertaken and pumping your fist in the air, that too is a moment of happiness.

For good or bad, however, happiness comes only in moments. It is there, and then it is not there. Yes, the memory remains, and you can hold on to that memory, but the experience has passed. The best one can do is wait for the next moment of that undefinable joy that only happiness can bring.

In the meantime, stay content, but never shut yourself off in that contentment by saying, "This is enough."

It's never enough.

 

Coming Through Fog

Coming Through Fog

Time is short.

There are people waiting. Some of them are from your past. They think about you every day, or maybe they think about you only every once in a while. It doesn’t matter. You have to know that they are there. They remember you fondly. They wait. They wait for your call or your letter, something that says you’re still around, anything that says you’re all right with the world. They wait and they wonder. You need to let them know.

There are people waiting. They live with you now. They look at you every day with expectation. They don’t want much, or maybe they want too much. It doesn’t matter. You have to know that they are there. They watch you with care in their eyes, love in their hearts. All that they need is a sign of recognition, some flicker of acceptance in your eyes. They wait and they wonder. You need to let them know.

There are people waiting. They will become a part of your future. Some you have met briefly, once or twice. Some you haven’t met at all. It doesn’t matter. You have to know they are there. Each one may become your closest friend, your lover, or your worst enemy. It’s impossible to predict. Just know that they are there, waiting to become a part of your life. They will want to give something to you, and they will want to take something from you. Only you can decide what you will take and what you will give. You will need to let them know.

Time is short. The life you share with others has an importance that knows no equal. There are people waiting … for you. It’s time that you stopped waiting too.

 

Rainy Day ... Dream Away

Rainy Day ... Dream Away

This morning, I woke to the sound of rain.

It wasn't the pitter-patter sound of a light summer's rain on a tin roof. It was more a swooshing sound as waves of rainwater splashed against the window.

For a moment, one of my deepest fears seemed to have come true. I was living underwater.

I believe that I must have drowned once, possibly in a previous life. I suspect that I was a pirate of ill-repute, a dastardly fellow with a yen for gold and aristocratic women wearing billowing crinolines. Not Jack Sparrow or even Jack Robin. More likely, Jack Turkey-Vulture — a scarlet patch over one eye, the left, I think, and a crimson turban on my head — forced, at the end of my reign of terror on the high seas, to walk the plank somewhere in the azure waters of the Caribbean.

Sounds incredible, I suppose. But who knows? Perhaps, you and I met in that former life. Perhaps, it was you who poked me in the back with your scimitar and forced me along that short wooden plank to perish in the deep.

Damn you ... I was having such an exciting life.

 

A Love Poem

A Love Poem

I'm writing a poem.

It's a love poem of sorts ... well, one can never be sure.

I mean if you really loved someone, wouldn't you just say to that person, "I love you."

Do we really need the fancy-schmancy stuff, the hearts and flowers, the gushing imagery, the language of Valentine's Day cards?

In fact, when someone writes a love poem, maybe the whole process involves a tablespoon of uncertainty. Maybe, that someone is actually writing the poem to make sure that he or she really, really does love the subject of his or her metaphoric orgasms.

That seems a bit harsh, I know. The thing is that I really liked the phrase, "metaphoric orgasms," so I didn't backspace it out. The same phrase will probably be in the poem. Maybe at the end. Not sure. Not at the beginning though. Definitely not at the beginning.

Want to see the beginning? Here:

i remember the beauty
of your body
behind the frosted glass
of the shower door
and i remember being there
with you
when you casually dropped the soap
and sank to your knees
pretending to retrieve it
when it wasn't the soap
you wanted at all

Did you notice the poem is a bit sexy? Maybe too sexy? Well, don't sex and love go together? I think they should.

Well, never mind that ... what's more important is that the poem is written in the past tense. It's something remembered. That's never a good sign. That always implies something has changed.

I wonder what?

Maybe the love affair is over. Maybe the whole shower thing is about how the soap and water is washing that love and sex away for good. Love down the drain, so to speak ...

Aww ... quelle triste ...

Oh, goodness, don't be upset.

It is, after all, just a poem. The people in the shower never existed, except in my imagination, and if I wanted them together forever, well, I could do that.

The problem is, however, that I sometimes confuse poetry and real life. I can control the way a poem turns out, but I obviously can't control how real life turns out. In real life, there's a whole other psyche at work. I never pretend to know what's going on in someone else's mind. People are simply far too complicated.

And so, you see, the outcome remains uncertain.

I haven't finished the poem, and to be perfectly honest, I may never finish it. Maybe I'm waiting for real life to show me the way.

So it goes ...

 

Building A Wall

Building A Wall

I'm building a wall.

I'm starting at the top.

See? It starts way, way, way up there.

No one will be able to climb over it.

And I'm making it wide. Really wide.

From way over there to way over there.

No one will ever live long enough to find a way around it.

And it's not some weak wall made of plaster. It will be all bricks and mortar. And week-old macaroni 'n' cheese.

Yeah, don't scrunch up your nose or roll your eyes, and wonder what the hell I'm talking about. You have your wall, too. I've seen it. I've run headfirst into it, and yes, it hurt like a bubble full of stars in a silly cartoon.

That's what we do in life.

We build walls ... walls of words, walls of actions, walls of silence.

We build walls to keep people out. We build walls to keep people in.

I just thought you should know that I may be late to the game, but I'm building my wall too.

Walls are what keep us apart ...

... Wait ...

OK, I'm building a wrecking ball.

 

just another love poem ...

just another love poem ...

it's the soft shadows
of your voice
that coax me
through the fluid cold
of the moonless night
into the warm pool
of your desire

it's the music
of your fingers
dancing across my body
like a child pianist searching for
middle c
that ignites the fire of
my unsteady passion

it's the brush
of your longing lips
that floods my paper life
with colours so bright with beauty
that i fear i'll go blind
until i am swallowed by love's climactic moment
and forget that i have eyes

 

Forgotten

Forgotten

So, as things falter and slip away to an end, I have come to realise that some people have stepped away from me forever.

In all my years of knowing the beautiful faces of young and old, I guess I should have expected that some would surface from the depths of the lake of our shared experiences and would no longer see me standing there on the dock with a helpful, outstretched hand.

And still I wonder, at what point, did I become invisible?

At what turn in the road, did some companion of so many sunny days and sudden storms forget my name?

At what second in the unending sweep of time's hands across the Roman numerals, did I slip from all the years when we called each other friends?

Friendships do fall apart. I have no illusions that every relationship will last forever, that "best friends" will remain close in perpetuity. Some attachments to another person crack in seemingly a split-second. Some are shattered by a misinterpreted word or action, while others are more callously torn asunder.

Friendships need tending, I suppose. They need nurturing and constant care.

Knowing that, I have to admit that I am partially, if not completely, to blame for some of the friendships that I have lost. Quite simply, I have not always been "there." I have not always been around when I should have been.

And, this morning, I realise that I am the lesser man for being the man who forgot and who is now forgotten.

 

Elementary, My Dear Watson ...

Elementary, My Dear Watson ...

I love a good mystery. I love to read mystery novels, I love to watch mysteries on television, and I love the overwhelming edginess of mystery films on the big screen in the cinema.

I love how the traditional mystery unfolds — the crime scene, the DB (dead body), the suspects, the clues, the suspenseful twists and turns of the investigation, the fatal flaw in the murderer's plan, and the climactic revelation that sends the killer to a lifetime of hard-time or worse.

The beauty of a good mystery is that the storyline transforms murder and mayhem into some meaningful world of order. Confusion and chaos have their moment but are eventually vanquished, and all our expectations that the world actually makes sense fall back into place. It's the perfect happy ending to a tale of death and disillusionment.

I must admit, however, that I was a bit shocked when. just the other day, it dawned on me that everything in life is a bit of a mystery.

I mean, it's not like we wake up to a crime scene, but every day of our lives can be pretty unpredictable. Sure you might have the best laid plans, but even our most concrete intentions to do this or that will often go south in a hurry. Sometimes, what you expect will happen, simply doesn't happen. You're left dangling like a participle, and you have to be quick-witted enough to think on your feet.

How many times have you found yourself saying, "What the heck just happened?" to which another voice in your head replies, "I haven't a clue."

You see ... mystery.

Just when you thought your life was about to turn right, it turns left. There is no DB splayed in some ridiculous position on the kitchen floor or slouched face-down in a silver bowl of mashed potatoes at the dining-room table, but there is definitely a puzzle to be solved. There is a discombobulation to unravel and set straight.

Now you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, 007, Austen Powers, or even Charlie Chan to solve these mysteries that pop up like weasels in our lives. Usually, all you need is a good dose of common sense, and you'll be able to solve any mystery. Just remember that you must never leave the unexpected neglected. If you do, you'll become more and more confused and end up floating on a sea of question marks.

No, your mysteries are meant to be solved by you, order restored by you, because in doing so, you are defining your reality by asserting what you believe is the answer to the problem. You are defining who you are.

If you don't solve life's mysteries for yourself, then someone else will surely come along and solve them for you, and in the process, that someone will define who you are, because you were unwilling or unable to do so.

I can't imagine an unhappier ending.

 

Recollections Of Florida

Recollections Of Florida

I am sipping a tall glass of sunny Florida orange juice. Nothing better in the dark of a March morning.

I spent the summer of '95 in Florida, just south of Sarasota. I remember how hot it was. So hot, in fact, that my daughter would literally run from air-conditioned car to air-conditioned building and spent little, if any time, outdoors unless we were at a beach.

Me? I loved the heat. I used to go for long walks in the dead of the day, and come back to our townhouse drenched in sweat.

What I remember most about Florida was this small truck stop café that was along my walking route. I used to spend an hour in it, sipping on an iced coffee and soaking in the out-of-the-way Florida culture. Many colourful locals found their way into my writing notebook that summer, and I think, to this day, they continue to show up as characters in my short stories. They were always so offbeat.

I like offbeat. I like weird.

What I don't like is repetition, the dull and mundane life of predictable people in predictable dilemmas.

I don't ever really miss stuff I've done in my life, but this morning, I'd sure love to be back in Florida on a hot summer's day, while listening to Old Pete and Mercy Mary complaining about the humidity and arguing with one another about whether or not Jesus had a son, whose descendants are now living on the Keys.

 

Upside Down

Upside Down

I'm considering going into a depression. I need some sleep, and apparently when you are depressed you sleep quite a bit. I'm thinking maybe I could just turn on the television, lie on my couch with an oh-so-cuddly comforter, and crash in front of the old-time movies channel. Why the old-times movie channel? Well, that way I wouldn't feel like I was missing something, because I've seen almost all the movies they run, except the Chuck Norris movies, which I refuse to watch, simply as a matter of good taste.

Do you eat more when you are depressed? You see, I don't eat much these days. I like little snacks, but I never eat the BIG meal, and I refuse to follow the brainwashing we had as kids to eat certain foods at breakfast, other foods at lunch, and some whopping big hunk of whatever at dinner. On any given day, I might eat a bit of steak or fish for "breakfast" and a bowl of cereal for "dinner."

I don't suppose you can be depressed without a good case of the blues and a tendency to roll around in the mud of self-pity. I have no blues these days. Life is good, but I suppose that I could certainly find something in my life to whip into some form of self-pity. I'm sure that I can find something to blame my parents for.

I wonder, though, if I get into this depression gig, whether I will end up watching The View and Oprah, like all the other depressed homebodies?

Will I end up looking for some kind of self-help on the Internet or start reading those ridiculous books that pretend to have the answer to all of life's little problems?

Will I only sing Leonard Cohen songs in the shower?

Will I even bother to shower?

Perhaps, I should give all this depression stuff more thought. I would hate the idea of my son or daughter coming by, shoving Prozac in my mouth, holding my lips closed, and rubbing my neck until I swallow. After all, once people think you're depressed, then apparently you're locked into that stereotype for the rest of your life. People don't seem to be able to think of depression as a disease that can be cured. It's sort of like the way we treat alcoholics. Once you are one, you will always be one.

What nonsense we live.

We need to turn our thinking upside down.

 

Digging In The Dirt

Digging In The Dirt

Yesterday, I was listening to a radio program as I drove around town doing those tedious little tasks that we all must do from time to time. On the program, Lori Lansens was discussing her book, The Wife's Tale, the story of an morbidly obese woman whose husband leaves her on the eve of their 25th wedding anniversary. This propels the woman into a journey of self-discovery, one which includes the loss of her weight.

The book sounds interesting, but what I found curious is how the husband just up and leaves on the eve of a 25th wedding anniversary. I can't imagine anything more callous and hurtful. Did he love her for those 24 years and 364 days, only to wake up that last morning and say "Time for a change," and decide to leave? Hardly.

Lansens suggests that her protagonist, Mary Gooch, is "content to be complacent, is comfortable in her stalled marriage with a silent, sensitive trucker, and is happy to trudge to and from her dull job in the local drugstore. Mary is also settled in her unconventional body — at 302 pounds, she's a woman whose size literally keeps her stuck in one place." And there's the problem.

I think complacency in any relationship is poison, but especially so in a love relationship. The moment one partner takes the other for granted, the relationship is headed for disaster.

I have often marvelled at how some people see love as a kind of preordained fact of life, as something with which everyone should be blessed. The truth is that some people are simply not able to be in a love relationship. Real love, not the purely romantic, pie-in-the-sky love, is not an easy gig, and you don't get it, or keep it, by just hanging around.

Love is like digging in the dirt of a garden. You never know what you're going to find once you put that spade into the soil — the perils are many — rocks, bugs, worms, snakes, dead bodies, who knows? It's no easy task slugging mud from mud, but you do it because you want your garden to flourish, not because you want your life to parallel some dying stretch of sod.

Love, like anything else worthwhile, is hard work and requires constant attention. You don't really get weekends off or vacation time during the warmer months. The pay is usually not so great, but the rewards are ....

... limitless.

 

Lost Love

Lost Love

We all have friends in life, and I guess we have enemies as well. I don't think that I have ever met anyone who has purposely meant to do me harm, but I know such people exist. I know that some of you have encountered people who, for whatever reason, decided they didn't like you and, worse, decided to make your life a living hell.

Now, I can remember feeling that an ex-girlfriend or two betrayed me, but maybe that's different. Breaking up a relationship, whether it be three months or years in duration, is like jambalaya — everything gets so mixed up in that stew that it's as impossible to sort out the shrimp from the chicken as it is to differentiate the sense of loss from the need to move on.

So, yes, I may have harboured some angst towards lost loves, but I was also part of that scene. I never blame the lady in question. It's always my fault. Even if she makes it abundantly clear that she no longer wants anything to do with me, well, isn't that my fault too? I mean I must have failed to satisfy her in some way. OK, I find it hard to imagine that, but I guess it could happen.

Lost loves should never be gruesome, never dressed in zombie clothes. In fact, rediscovering a lost love can be exhilarating, as long as one of you isn't carrying an axe to grind or a chainsaw in the trunk of the car.

Reigniting something that was once beautiful and fun is not impossible. It just requires a certain amount of trust. Otherwise, both of you will be sure to repeat the same disaster that knocked on the front door the first time around.

 

Ahhh-choooo

Ahhh-choooo

Some nights you sleep; some nights you don't.

Last night, I slept well, but only for a short time.

Apparently, I have some kind of weird chest cold. It's not so bad, but my voice is a bit croaky. I think I sound a bit like John Wayne or maybe Humphrey Bogart or maybe a combination of the two. By noon today, I will probably sound like Pee Wee Herman. I can't imagine.

Someone asked me to write a new poem for here. I wish that I could, but my imagination has gone on vacation, I think. To be honest, I do have a bunch of fragments done, but nothing completed. Most of those fragments are very dark, and I often wonder if people think of me as a dark personality.

So it goes ...

There will be a time for more poems, hopefully soon.

So today, I'm hiding from the world and slipping into the seams of a nice long nap ...

I'd have you join me, but I know you'd hog the covers.

Zzzzzzzzzz ...

 

Love

Love

"I love you ..."

Have you ever wondered how many times you have said those three magic words? More than once, surely. More than a hundred, probably. More than many thousands, possibly.

I must admit that I have difficulty with those three simple words.

The thing is that love is love. It's a single word. It should have a specific, single meaning, but like so many words in our language, it has all these variations. And what crazy variations.

Love your dog or cat? Of course. Love your children? Of course. Same feeling? Of course not.

"I love you ..." Simple words, and yet so imprecise because they have so many different meanings in so many different contexts. Saying "I love you" to your mother or father is different from saying "I love you" to your lover. In fact, sometimes saying "I love you" to your mother is completely different from saying "I love you" to your father. And on and on it goes.

So, when you say, "I love you" to your lover, what are you saying? When does that word, "love," suddenly become more than what it meant when you crooned, "I love you, Booboo," to your cocker spaniel or your calico pussy?

Yeah, I don't get it.