Always is a long time

Hot days of August with hints in the air of September,

We stood near the waters edge arm in arm watching

The sun, glistening, pale red, falling behind tall

Forests of pine trees circling the lake banks, silence closed

Around us like a veil pulled loosely over a

Bride’s face, you whispered that you would love me always.

Always is a long time.

Strangers walked past us in the field. Over by the house sounds

Of laughter filled the space between the music like

Waves crashing on a beach. Feeling the sounds, we walked

Through an open door, searching the faces for your brother.

The smell of alcohol, sweat, and barbecue. We

Taste moonshine from a mason jar. My lust became

Intense emotion. You

Danced. Others in the room became bewitched. Your sensual

Display unleashed wanton jealousy. Wanting you

More than ever. The heat, the alcohol drove me

Mad. I turned outside the door. You called my name, begging please

Stop. We kissed, forever together, lost in time,

Thoughts of love always, memories, a younger time

Always is a long time.

My first reading of Bukowksi’s poems,
Stumbled on them accidently, looking somewhere else
For answers I think.
How moving the language of his eye
Real as if standing with him,
Looking for ways to write, to become a writer
I stare at his page and think
Poems are what I really want to write
but I so seldom do these days
looking for other ways
to say, I’m a writer. Something commercial
To claim that success has found my pen
Is where my mind has been. I’m a poet
A writer sells words by the page
The poet gives away his heart
Or causes you to feel his twisted rage
What does the poet know
Of how to make a dollar
Bukowski knew it didn’t matter, the money
It’s nice to have. Writers are easily found
Poets on the other hand
Are few

(inspired by “to the whore who stole my poems” Charles Bukowski)

August in Western
North Carolina
The summer skies burn.
A cavatina,
Of Thunder playing

Rain falls violently
Cool wind circles ‘round
Momentarily.
Water on the ground
Like rushing rivers

Thunders’ chorus ends
Steam rising to meet
The bluing sky, sends
Waves of moist heated
Air so thick the lungs

Complain. Western North
Carolina in

August