The Woman I Love: Through My Eyes

May 18, 2010 at 11:54 pm (Through My Eyes) (, , )

She is my baby girl:
She delights in small, simple things. Cuttings of blue hydrangeas centered on the table. The playful antics and loving cuddles of her cat, Simon. Any opportunity to freely, and with girlish joy, become lost in spontaneous dance in the kitchen, the hallway, wherever the music moves her.

There is a child-like excitement to her laughter; it is sincere, uninhibited, and fills the air around her like sunshine in the park. She is ticklish in certain places and giggles shyly when I find them. She falls asleep with the ease of a newborn. She breathes deeply the peaceful sleep of a child. Watching her sleep is one of the most tender things I know and is the best remedy for my own sleeplessness. Her skin is as smooth as the day she was born, like soft satin flesh everywhere I touch her. There is a wonderfully wicked smile that crosses her full lips when she is up to something and the game is afoot; that smile makes me weak in the knees. And the pout she flashes me when she doesn’t get her way—or thinks she won’t—runs through me like liquid fire. She is my baby girl. And, when Daddy is home, she is denied nothing. 

She is my best friend:
From the day we met, almost 27 years ago, there was a bond between us that seemed to have always been there, like the favorite place you sneaked off to as a kid and only half remembered until you stumbled on it years later. I have always been able to tell her anything. Throughout my life, there have been few people I have trusted, but I have trusted her with things I have told no other—she remembers even the old things and they are still between us. She was, for years, the only person I felt safe enough with to fall asleep first, to cry if I needed to, or to laugh and play in silly, child-like ways. I hold nothing back from her and never have. She was the only person I would watch The Wizard of Oz with; otherwise, I watched it alone—this is because she is the only person I would allow to see me cry when Judy Garland sings Over the Rainbow.

I can laugh with her about anything—even things that hurt. Even when I feel broken by some thrashing from the world, we find a way to laugh. And, I am healed. When I chased her around the house like a teenager in heat and caused her to break her toe, she never once blamed me. She even laughed and tried not to cry. She plays in the snow or throws ball with me and her son. She indulges our boyish games and giggles like the good sport she is.

Through her deep brown eyes, she sees me. And, always has. Her understanding of me is quiet, unintrusive and gentle, like my reflection in the mirror of a softly lighted room. She accepts me as if she is receiving something both commonplace and unexpectedly given just to her, like moon light falling through the bedroom window. She shows herself to me and knows I will keep her close and watch over her. She holds my secrets and my dreams like keepsakes hidden in a wooden box. And even though she knows how well I can handle myself, how strong I really am, she protects me as if I were a baby cub. She is my oldest and dearest friend. I am her sweet baby boi and woe to anyone who tries to hurt me. 

She is my lover:
She walks with the slightest sway in her hips—it is subtle, like the grown up remnants of a cheerleader’s trained and youthful strut. I purposefully walk just behind her so I can watch her and admire the strength of her legs, her ass. She pretends not to notice so that I can feel as if I am stealing glances, but I know she knows.  She has the breasts of a teenager; her nipples rise firmly at the touch of my tongue. I find myself thinking of this when she is talking and become aware I am staring. She feigns annoyance, points to her face and reminds me, “I’m talking up here, honey.” She smiles to herself when she thinks I am not looking. She bares herself to me completely and I am made one with her through her giving and my receiving. She touches me with an honesty I have never known with anyone but her—her touch gently breaks me open to her like Spring breaks the earth and brings forth bright blooming things.

Her lips are like strawberries, full and firm and sweetly soft. Kissing her is such an expression of intimacy and affection that it takes my breath and returns it to me kindly. I know and attend to every sound of her arousal, every change in her breathing. We breathe each other. The connection between us is a live wire crackling on the ground around us. Her mouth parts and I am joined with her. Her legs open and the depth of her is revealed to me. She wraps her legs around me hard and tight and I am made whole. Her hands reach for me, grasp at me; her nails pierce my skin and I am brought forth into her. She comes in waves like an ocean of ecstatic love and I am cleansed. She takes me into her mouth as if I am a gift—her head moves up and down on my boi-clit and I am made large and strong and complete. I am at her mercy. And merciful she is. She is relentless in her giving. She moans and gasps at my arousal, at my hand pressing the back of her head, my fingers pulling at her hair. Strings of near obscenities and romantic ramblings fall from my mouth like a storm. I come into her and she absorbs me gladly. In all we do, there is a joining of more than bodies. This is not simply loving recreation; it is re-creation. We are raised up, burned to ashes, and born again. 

She is my baby girl. I am her butch daddy. And, I deny her nothing. She is my best friend and, as such, she shows myself to me. She reveals herself to me. She is my lover. I am her baby boi. And, she denies me nothing. She is the woman I love.    

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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The Mind of a Poet

February 26, 2010 at 5:27 pm (The Mind of a Poet) (, , )

In much of his work, the poet Wallace Stevens discusses the process of finding what will suffice.  While, in general, he is discussing the poetic process–the process of signification and making meaning–he is also referring to life as a process of making meaning.  He, and most poets worth reading, speak of writing as seeking the word, image, metaphor and/or other signifier that will suffice.  From Yeats or Blake, to Rich or Lorde, all poets discuss this process in a way that is a type of objective correlative for our daily lives.  As we make meaning in and of our lives, are we not seeking what will suffice?  This is a universal thing for poets and other humans.  [Other humans being those of us not driven to poetry which Robert Frost described as a “condition” rather than a profession. *smile*] Good, effective poetry achieves not only what will suffice, but does so in a way that is accessible:  a way that takes what is universal and makes it available for us to process, reaches across our differences and unites us and lifts us up.  In poetry, and in life, if we are attentive in our seeking–and if we are lucky–we find not only what will suffice, but what is more than sufficient.  The making of meaning, I believe, is particularly essential for those of us whose lives have been difficult in regard to feeling part of the commonality of human experience.  Perhaps, this is why I love poetry–the hope of making the common and the uncommon universally accessible.  These are the kinds of thoughts you will find in this category.  As well as a poem or two…or more.  This week’s offering:

I must say that, in my life [at least], I have been blessed to find, now and then, what is sufficient.  The reunion with Scintillectual, however, is one of those rare offerings from the benevolent universe–and ourselves [we could have rejected it]–that is so much more than sufficient.  This is one of my recent poems to her.

Raise Up Your Face

Raise up your face to me

that I may trace your cheek

with mine, brush my lips to yours.

Lift your eyes to mine that you

may feel my longing like dry

leaves, like hungry roots in need

of rain.

Raise up your neck to me

that I may kiss, there, the place

that makes you tremble in my arms.

Wrap your arms around my

shoulders that I may lower you

down, hold you close to my

body entire.

Raise up your breasts to me,

your mouth, your belly; open

yourself to me that I may taste

the sweet warmth of our reunion

and linger—a road weary traveler

gone too long, but now is home

at last.

Raise up your hips to me

that I may touch you, enter

that dark vestibule where all is

light, where the profane becomes

sacred—that place where all you

offer glistens clear, nurturing all

our wanting.

Raise up your face to me

that I may look at you and you

may see me, that we may move

together in the quiet where only we

exist.  Raise up to me your fears, your

doubts, that I may take them with care

and lift you up.  

Lift up your eyes to mine

that we may look into the night

where the we becomes one shining

light. Raise up your self to me

that we may rise and fall like rain

pouring down at last on dry,

hungry leaves.

NOTE:  This work is published here as proprietary and may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or otherwise utilized outside the posting on this site without the express permission of the author; these works are the sole property of the author writing as Androgynonamous or DreadPirateRobert.

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