Heavy is a mind
That is chained to its past

Heavy is a soul
That knows no way forward

Heavy is a spirit
That keeps running around in circles

Heavy are the eyes
That never stopped shedding tears

Heavy are the ears
That remain slaves to your voice

Heavy are the hands
That knows no other feeling but you

Heavy is the heart
That is struggling to forget everything

Heavy is a person
That drags himself down
To memories that will never
Become a reality

Heavy are his dreams
If these dreams can never be
And will only be
The source of his nightmares

Heavy are the arms
That helplessly linger for yours
Constantly waiting for you
Though never to come back

No more
Please?

I've had enough

Her hands lay gently joined,
her breathing breaching the fortress of a bedroom’s silence

clasped as one, in the very early morn,
her fingers move in motion, wavering, *******
recalling a violin instrument, an unseen youthful memory,
her internality rumbles with a quiet litany,
an indecipherable host of jumbled mumbles,
a cacophony accompaniment to her quietude of steady breathing

I,
study her, as I have done so many mornings prior,
once more, capriciously slipping back inside/beside our bed,
to restart My Sunday morning quiet-like, for as is my wont,
have awoken with the morning dark, treading room to room,
filling my Winslow Homer’s Macintosh mug, with 19.7 fluid oz. of Jamaican beans freshly ground, an instigating odor, a fragrancy
most contradictory, soothing, nonetheless, a steadying, yet a
blaring wake-up call

She, clad my in-her new festive plaid pajama top,
a creamy fabric that begs for my I-dare-not stroke,
is easy prone and that,
pleases me, for I wish to bed beside her, letting her rest
till her mind texts her body, no more! or the mumbles grow
grow nagging onerous and stirring and when her disposition is
well-disposed,  she stirs too,
after her fashion

with a dancer’s grace, her arm slowly rises, resting airborne,
fingers arrayed, splayed and Balanchine arranged, (1)
pointing upwards,
lingering until
the arm falls impromptu, sudden,
as a crescendo striking an apex,
her risen hip-mound,
imitating a bell’s clapper woke reverb,
and she sleeps no more…

<>

Sun Jan 15 2022
in the wee daylight  hours

there was a man
who climbed a mountain
all the way into the clouds

and the Buddha walked beside him
silent
he said not one word

when he reached the top
the man saw
the mountain was made of skulls

not only human
but of every other kind of animal

the Buddha turned to him and said
"you will understand the Dharma

only when you understand
that these are all your skull."