What once was pure myst’ry
Might now be revealed
As we hear the soft knowing
And feel what we feel

Come into my garden
And smell the black rose
Dive into the passion
And find your repose

Then I wrote her a poem
One I could never reveal
Not an uplifting poem
But one that spoke of her miseries
Trapped for a time
In servitude to substances
Mind-altering and mind-numbing

But that was then
And a few months later
She’s a brand new person
At least to the casual observer
But in my observations
I’m not often casual
So I know better
But choose to set aside that knowledge
For the sake of the hope
Of another date

Our first date was a soup date
Split pea with ham
I ate most of it
Froze the remainder
She didn’t have time that day
To sample our soup
The anklet she wore
Summoned her home
Still in servitude
No longer to substances
For the time being
But still in servitude
To a past she’s still paying for

She brought her baby to the second date
A cute little guy
I spent more time with him than with her
As she baked cheesecake
That I didn’t get to sample
The clock again
Not on our side
The curfew intruded
On what might have been

Maybe we’ll have a little time
The third time around
But more likely
The past predicts the future
And I’ll not sample her dishes
And she’ll not sample mine
As I enter into her servitude
For the hope
Of one more date

From my book, Ecstatic Beat, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Sony, and Google Play.

Purified in gross inequities
Dancing a slow dance with terrors
unbidden, unforgotten
Fright, my closest friend

The replays tempt persuasion
On an off-white wall of gloom
Forbidden but unforsaken
Those fiends, my only friends

To the door I turn with caution
Hesitant, unsure
A tale of an unwed maiden
Tapping upon the door

And yes, the light still trickles
From the threshold to places unseen
And then I see the movement
First within, the crack softly builds

A long blink
A quickening of sorrow
A whispered dare
The door opens
And all at once
The light
Unsure
Fills, floods, brave and demure
And life
Begins
New

The nightly news
Three people shot
A new strain of a new virus
Contention, disarray, discomfort
A world overrun with thoughts
Begging to be heard

A lifetime of sensations
Images, memories, scents, judgments
Write with squeaky chalk on the blackboard
Speak out of turn and in

All these voices clamor
Join on the crowded platform
The trains arrive, depart, arrive

But behind the veil of chaos’s call
Whispers the quiet child of the heart
The truest truth, the real and flowing beauty
Words of peace, and love

In response to FSF

I pushed through the door, blocking his would be view of my guest, and closed the door. Aiden, unlike vampires had no universal law that necessitated him not coming in uninvited. Don’t get me wrong. Aiden’s a great guy, probably my closest friend, but he had a knack of injecting himself into situations. And this situation with my new vampire friend I want to myself.

“What’s up man?” I asked.

“It’s been a weird night, dude.”

“Yeah? How so?”

Before he responded he took a step back and looked down the stairs leading to my apartment. He’s always been a little paranoid in my opinion, but he seemed a little more paranoid than usual. He took his Android phone from his jacket pocket and keyed in his passcode to unlock it. “I got it recorded this time, man. Look what the bitch did.”

I watched the video on his phone. I saw what appeared to be his house, though I wouldn’t be able to swear in a court of law that’s what I was seeing. The picture was dark, and it jerked from side to side every few seconds. “What am I looking for?”

“Just wait man. You’ll see.”

I waited. I didn’t see.

“See that? That’s her!”

I still didn’t see.

“Wait, lemme rewind it,” he said. His phone chirped. I guess chirped is the right word. He changed his ringtone to a cricket sound. “Shit. That’s her.” He answered the call.

I was starting to feel more than a little impatient. Just twelve feet away, my guest with the sheer white top offering a view (and maybe soon a feel) of those pert breasts, size B, I estimated, not that I’m an expert on women’s breasts but I’ve seen hundreds, felt at least a dozen.

His side of the phone conversation: “Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. Really? Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He ended the call. “She denies it was her.”

“Did you confront her?” I hadn’t heard any accusations or questions.

“Well, no, not exactly, but she’s just all la-di-da, like everything’s normal. She’s playin’ me, dude. And it’s clear on the video. Here, lemme show you again.” He restarted the video on his phone.

Same dark, blurry house, same camera shake, same absence of incriminating evidence. But I had a dilemma. I could agree that I saw something or tell him the truth. I thought I could get rid of him quicker if I agreed. So I did. “Damn. What a bitch! And she denied it? Crazy!”

“Fuckin’ a, it’s crazy.”

I’d done my good deed, validated my friend. Now back to my vampire on the couch. “Listen man, I gotta get back in there. Got a lady friend waiting.”

Aiden craned his neck to see inside. I blocked.

“Where’d you meet her?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

I sighed. Aiden was relentless. I knew he wouldn’t leave peaceably until I’d satisfied his curiosity. And besides, I was hoping I could score a little weed. “I met her ten minutes ago when she knocked on my door. I’ve never seen her before tonight.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. But you know what they say about gift horses. And this girl’s no horse. She’s drop dead gorgeous.” I’d hoped my choice of metaphors wouldn’t come back to haunt me. “Hey, you got a little weed? I can pay you Monday after I get paid.”

“Sure man.” Aiden reached into his jacket pocket, the same one where his cellphone now rested, and pulled out a small ziplock bag. “I’ll split it with you.”

I’ve watched enough episodes of True Blood to know that was a bad idea. I knew she couldn’t come in and drain my blood and kill me if I didn’t invite her in. But what can I say? I’m a man. And she was like smokin’ hot. A redhead. Slim. Almost athletic. I wondered then if vampires worked out. I thought probably they didn’t have to. I thought probably they stayed in exactly the same physical shape through their new eternal lives as they were when they died. Then I wondered why so many vampires were pale. I mean, if they don’t age, and when they get injured, they heal, why would they grow pale? Maybe it’s because most of them have been vampires for a very long time, and in centuries past, weren’t most people pretty pale? I accepted this line of reasoning and dismissed the thought, focused again on her amazing body.

She was about my height, in heels, six inches, I’d estimate, which puts her real height at around 5’ 4”. Perfect. And like I said, she looked like she worked out. She had a body not unlike those women you see in the CrossFit competitions. She had perfect white teeth, but for the two protruding fangs. A smile to die for.

It was dark in the room but for the light over the stove. But even in that weak light, her emerald eyes shone. She had that light you sometimes see in movie stars and fashion models and witches. I’ve never dated a movie star or a fashion model but I did date a witch once. She wasn’t all that pretty but she had those shiny eyes. Like glittering from the inside. And she smelled nice.

I couldn’t discern a smell from my new vampire friend. I invited her to sit in the recliner facing the couch, motioning her with a vague movement of my arm. She sat instead next to me on my faux leather brown couch.

She moved closer to me, too close. But I didn’t mind. Like I said, she was hot. And I was lonely. I’m a pretty good looking guy, better than average, earn a good living, drive a sports car. And I’m a nice guy. A modern sensitive type. Not exactly a chick magnet, but I do alright. But I’d had a dry spell. I’m a little embarrassed to say it had been over ten months since my last sexual encounter that didn’t involve internet porn or hand lotion.

Even in the sparse light I could see through her sheer white top. I could just make out the outline of her left breast, her pert nipple. I reminded myself that either she was a vampire or this was some amazingly vivid dream. A little internal battle ensued. I chuckled to myself as a vision of Fred Flintstone came to mind, with a cro-magnon devil on one shoulder and a prehistoric angel on the other. I opted to believe that either this was a dream, in which case there was no risk to my blood and thus my health, or that it was real, that she was real, but that a vampire as smokin’ hot as she couldn’t possibly mean me any harm. Surely she’d leave me enough blood to allow me to live. Yeah, I know, typical man—we’ll believe any rationalization if there’s the possibility of sex with a smokin’ hot redhead with glowing green eyes and perfect teeth sitting next to us on the couch.

So, settled in, and fully committed to my rationalized line of thought, I tried a little light conversation.

“Should I turn on the light?” I motioned to the lamp on my left.

“The light hurts my eyes.”

“Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.” Yeah. It felt pretty lame as I said it, but I was hoping to make her comfortable. I mean, I couldn’t very well have asked her “want to have sex?”

“I’ll eat later.” she said.

“What’s your name?”

“I’ve been called many,” she said mysteriously.

The conversation went on like that inanely for a while. Then I asked “why are you here?”

“I vant to suck your bloood,” she said. Then she winked.

At that point I thought about my options. One. Rescind her invitation. (Yeah, I’ve watched too much True Blood, but at least in that show, when a vampire doesn’t have a standing and explicit invitation to be in a person’s home, the rules of the universe say they must leave immediately.) Two. Laugh. Three. Well, I couldn’t come up with a third option so I laughed. It probably sounded like a forced laugh because I was thinking at the time that I really liked the idea of keeping, if not all, at least most of my blood. Then again, the prospect of sex with a smokin’ hot redhead vampire in a sheer white shirt with nipples showing through was more than a little attractive to me. After all, as I’ve mentioned, it’s been over ten months. Ten long months. And a man’s got needs.

Just when I was convinced my ten-month sexless streak might come to an end, there was a knock at the door.

And then another.

This is the cure for writers’ block.

But it’s a cure only for the symptoms.

The real solution is deeper. Much deeper.

Good writing flows from the heart; only an open heart flows.

The solution then, the cure, is to open the heart, to free the heart, to create the connection from heart to mind, to free the muse, to invite her perfect song.

We’ve got to dig deep, to surrender, to seek and allow ourselves to heal and to grow. The difference between inspired writing and common drivel is an open heart.

The autumn leaves still change
And breezes still blow
As tuned into the vast blue portals
Short echoes are all we know

Instants of grandeur
Replaced by distractions we carry
Everywhere
We go

Connected to the great and winsome noise
Attracted to the ceaseless din
The world around us fades
As jaded hearts grow dim

But beneath the noise
Under the clamoring, the chaos, the constant distress
We each still breathe
Our hearts, still beat

So while glorious madness refuses defeat
Poetry, while rare, is not yet deceased

But, since we talked,
Here’s what I want to do:

Dance in the sunshine
As the clouds part, make way
Write you a fresh poem
Today and every day

Imagine two cups of coffee
Separating us
In a Starbucks in the northwest
While learning
Each color of your eyes

Traveling to the old country
Rome, Paris, Sicily
Tipping the gondolier
As we disembark
Holding hands
In Venice

My mind wanders
My heart flutters
And all that seemed to matter yesterday
Matters not today

Your brave finesse
Your perfect beauty
Your kind heart
Has changed me
Has moved me
To a new understanding
To a new path