Journey to the shore

When a girl's a girl no more,
and childish things she puts away,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Of course, we'll beg her to delay,
but find our words have little sway
when a girl's a girl no more.

Though she'll giggle, dance, and play,
and blush at times, and sometimes pray,
she'll make the journey to the shore

and find that barefoot at the bay
the sand's more fitting than the clay
when a girl's a girl no more.

Rushing through the ocean's spray,
the rolling waves, the water's fray,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

In spite of all that we might say,
and though we'll plead for her to stay,
when a girl's a girl no more
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Maritiming

I always find my way back here,
where slender barefoot curves impress the sand,
and virgin waves lift foam-white skirts
to sacrifice their softness on the strand.

Here where we met,
youths indoctrinated in the seaside rites,
searching seething shores to find ourselves amid
bikini days and margarita nights.

Where the water meets the wash,
swishing in the surf to stir a rhyme,
you found my sun soaked self amid the shells
and sat with me a while to maritime.

I was stricken with your carefree laugh,
despite your golden skin, and form so slim,
and sun bleached hair pulled back a tortuous tight,
and eyes so blue they made the sea seem dim.

And laughing still, you stayed,
as hand in hand we walked the water's trace,
and arm in arm we slipped down with sun,
and lips to skin we followed the embrace.

We discovered rhythms.
In a boldly swelling, rising, rolling, rush,
we lost ourselves in churning turbulence
before softly sliding back into a hush.

I found you then,
like the rowdy gull finds grace in flight.
Those moments that I hovered over you
are the only moments everything was right.

I often find my way back here,
as age engulfs me in a creeping pain:
an evening at a far off summer shore,
and a girl that I would never see again.

Oh Rose

Oh Rose, the time has come.
Your pedal's droop with rumpled luster,
your scent has faded to familiar,
and your water has grown tepid
and murky like the morning after.

It is time,
time for a bright Begonia,
or a long, thin Tiger Lilly.
A time for chasing cravings
for new scents, and curves and colors.

Can't you see?
Can't you see the beauty in this world?
Fields of flowers, rolling by in seasons
and I'm compelled to tumble after
drawn by flower faces flitting by.

So Rose, the time has come.
Know that I picked you with a purpose
and for a sweet summer's day
you were all the beauty I could hold.
There is so much beauty in this world.

Scraping

Hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory,
The stagnant pace
of rigid distant space
and numbing, monotonic time.
These flawed laws of here and now
and the fickle fall of irremediable
touch.

I have touched her...

I have traced your naked lines
followed soft light into softer shadows
breathed you fully flower in
and kissed across your freckled fields
quivering between breath and touch.
I've tickle tongue tip teased you
moving, humming, pausing to hover
until the honey whispered echo
comes calling me, drawing me
home.

I've heard her calling...

I've tried to hold the moment still,
tried to be not here, not now,
not see you flush, or feel the hush
of holding back, and tremble hanging,
before heaving in a rhythmic rabid rush
that sets the bed board clanging.
This is the moment that we share:
that instant when we're naked and shaking
aware.

I have held her...

I've held my finger to your lips
to hold the moment hushed,
and quiet chests still heaving,
to hope we settle softly into evening.
My hell is in the scraping of this
moment against memory.
The moment where you whisper
that all is as it should be,
and I recall that I am only ever me,
and except for now, you never will be
her.