ONE’S ODYSSEY OF LOVE



As Infant
IT was simple
Touch
Smell
Taste
See and hear
Soft was soft
Smiles were smiles
Kisses were kisses

As Child
IT was…different
Am I cared for?
Am I really liked?
Am I loved…really?

As Adolescent
IT was…Hell
If I do this well, will I be--?
Why did they invent mirrors, anyway?
Why don’t I love even myself?
Will I ever find IT?

As adult
IT was…a disaster
I knew what IT was
Why didn’t they?
I knew what IT needed
Why couldn’t I find more?
I learned IT was all misread
Why didn’t others?

As a Being
I’m listening to petals open
I’m seeing noise made quiet
I’m smelling transcendent breezes
I’m tasting fragrances awakened
I’m touching the infant within

What if IT just is
Sans definition
For it own sake?

Consider the…

Who and what of love
In a world where marriage convention
affords little emotional purchase
and commitment outside the institution weighs heavy
on the traditional

Panicked love brokers of halo driven missteps
mount their marbled pedestals of self-deceit
and preach their continuum for tried and proven failure
to those of vacuous preference

Who might they be
these carnivorous angels of imagination
these habitual sleight-of-hand love merchants
in three-piece suits
and vestments of supernatural protection
whose power of persuasion beckons you buy
into the promised sacred memories of tomorrow?

What mutation of species thrives on the suffocation of will
who bless the innocent to sacred prisons of the flesh
where long-term pain of born-again ignorance
is sanctified in the form of perpetual lineage?

And who are those who reject such iconoclastic relics of yesterday
and seek rather the oft-missed nature of love
that which proffers life’s partners as born of fragrances
from bouquets of unpollinated flowers
visions of untrammeled dreams
and the concertos of atonal memory
tethered to a cloudless ether of joy and innocence?

We ponder and ask…
Is there a romance of life
a ripple of peace and rest
as storms fade behind us
and nature's wash cleanses the residual wounds of the past?

Does the blue of calm meet the red of passion with cautious beckoning?
Are we but delusional in our praise of the heart's ceaseless trumpeting of yesterday's echoes?

And what of this creature comfort that oft times is mistaken for love
can it be that mind over matter is reality's checkmate for careless games of infatuation
where the romance of love proves to be only dreams mistaken for consciousness
bringing aloneness begging of forgiveness?

For truth be told
romance is life
a lyrical perspective
allowing the music of winged intonations and soulful protocols
to harmonize with the fragrance of smiles that permeates the symphony of living
where the clouds release sunlight
storms arrest our complacency
and cascades of past emotions take their rightful place
in the now of yesterday
the present of today
and the magic of tomorrow

What is romance
if not all of nature
all of the imagination
and forever the rapture of love
in all its wanting
in all its impatience
in all its unknowns
and forever in all its undiscovered self-perpetuating enigma
but oh how sweet its reality

For the tenacious few
There is…

The Dissonant Romantic
Who knows of imagination without reference
Of flow without reason
Of instinct beyond logic

She if the Dissonant Romantic
Whose vision is colored by the reflection of white light from time remembered time
Who remains invisible to those who fail to see
The valued juxtaposition of rose petals atop the compost
Feel the caress of a Chinchilla’s curiosity
Hear the high C of a Bay-Breasted Warbler
Amidst the thunderous cloud of disappointment
Even as searing emotion tries to bury her
Vibrations somehow reach the inner ear
And coalesce with memories untouched

She is the Dissonant Romantic
Who awakened in others the blossom of a seed unknown
A consciousness that transcends all doubt
A personal truth that shocks then cradles the weary
She is the Dissonant Romantic
The ageless sage we hunger for
The one committed to creativity without
Judgment
Compromise
Or Price

She is the Dissonant Romantic
Forever available to some
Known to few
Envied by many

…

Love...Each Day
To gather love's petals of laughter
its dewdrops of sadness
its rays of being is to be
somewhere love needs to be...Each Day

But for love to turn the corner of life
without looking both ways
is to leave behind the wisdom of flowers in bloom
about to become the re-cycling of life
the clouds of insecurity
not yet aware of their purpose
that awaken your every morning
and your learned caution that guides love to
be where it needs to be...Each Day

Oh to be that cycle
the cycle that mystery sometimes shrouds with mist
to give drink to the rose beneath the cover

to know, to feel, the sound and sight of discovery
to be aware each time it affords the chance
to approach the unknown valleys beyond the corner
for that somewhere love needs to be... Each Day

Love remains poised for the beginning of light's assent
that will become days
becoming life's time capsule of patience
awaiting where it must avail itself

So while serving the winds of time
let not our sometimes ill choices
go without your water and soil
to prepare the inevitable thorns
that will guide us to full potential

For although blooming comes often
one's petals unfold only until such weight makes weary
the moment's sustainment of joy
the moment's perpetual rapture
the tenuous moment of love awaiting
the next somewhere it needs to be...Each Day