Literature Lost

Sometimes I feel the beginnings of a poem forming,

its baby bird beak pecking at the shell of my skull and

I ignore it.

Sometimes I see the shape of an interesting concept or

a perfectly phrased metaphor forms suggestively –

a succulent slice of savory language, or

a clever narrative might orchestrate itself artfully or

an untried avant garde style of self-expression will

flirt effectively with my puzzle – loving mind and

I will delight in the idea but

allow it to evaporate from my consciousness.

Sometimes the person inspired

wants only to be rooted in the present,

to simply live and experience aliveness

solely through the immediate input

of every one of the fleshy senses.

Many poems and stories

have gone undocumented

in favor of me taking the time

to smell my husband’s skin.

H. Dare

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Ripe With Love

Brake lights filter through

a mist wet windshield

turning the world into

a pointillism painting.

Verbally abstinent, we ride

in the metal womb of my sedan.

His hand rests on my middle age thigh,

a gesture more tender than sexual.

We are growing older. And closer.

Our bodies tandem,

 our minds isolated,

the radio imports unfamiliar symphonies;

instruments choreographing a sound ballet.

I am content.

I could not fabricate

peace of this kind without him.

This extraordinary ordinary

we broke ourselves apart

to build our selves together.

What satisfaction I found

once finally willing

to work beyond passion

towards compassion.

This mental climax of comfort

is deeper, more redeeming

than any religion.

I am ripe with love.

South, then east,

now descending on 56,

homeward, spraying slick on sheer cliffs,

tagging roadside rocks

with our anonymous signature in tire water,

indecipherable from the others

but as holy to me

as the heat from his palm.

Let the whole world know it

or none but us.

We were here,

silent,

ripe with love.

H. Dare

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