Today, early on a
Saturday morning, I'm
trying a little trick I
learned from Bukowski.
I put on some classical
music and I am trying
to write.
Beethoven's 5th in C minor.

I sit in my favorite chair and
watch my black cat lie on the
back of the loveseat and
watch the snowfall.
She looks triumphant,
but it could just be the music.
The philodendrons that hang
around the house and the
bamboo plants seem happier, too.
There's no hope for the palm tree.

Well, the main thing is that I put the
pen to paper, and Beethoven,
my cat and you came along for the
ride.

Maybe the cellos, violins, and
trombones will fertilize my
creativity.
Now, my other two cats have joined
the fun.
They wrestle by the heater and laugh at
all the fat, rich *******.

Press play.

Essence fills the cold, biting air.
Thoughts drift back to the day we met.
Her words soothed my splintered heart, her presence made me feel safe.

The first time we spoke, nerves filled my soul.
This was not just a woman—this was a new feeling,
a blessing,
a gentle kiss laced with understanding.

And then, oh, goodness—and then—she took us high.
Flying past clouds to the golden place,
our bodies became one. I was mesmerized.

All at once, a deeper meaning to everything
was revealed.
This love was a love I had never known.

Looking at her face, I melted—
beautiful chestnut hair, perfect lips,
breathtaking eyes, a smile from the heavens.

Love discovered me.

I lie still as Essence continues to play.
I swear undying, loyal love
to this incredible woman—
my Goddess.

Forever.
Eternally.

If I were not old
I would paint the house
and shore up the insulation.
I would go out and **** the garden
and cut down brush and vines
that have taken over the yard
and suffocated my flowers.
I would put in a metal fence
and plant roses around it.
But I am too old for that
and I may die here one day,
in a darkened room, caught
inside the crumbling plaster,
whose windows are covered by ivy,
which reaches its fingers across the walls.
It is almost as if the errant plants
strive to imitate the flowers
I used to bring inside and
place in bouquets to brighten
my world, no matter how small.
I shudder to think what will be,
now that the flowers are gone.

Is it a person or a place,
A thing whose soul I can never know?
A warrior howls with the wind
in the trackless wild.
Or a peerie lad running through sand
on St. Ninian's ayre?
A maid swimming
in an unreachable isle
or the luffing of sails
in the harbour at night.
An expanse of heath
with a bird above.
A person or place
That I'll always love