Love’s IT Each Day
 
 
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 slight-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 un-pollinated 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,
Flow without reason,
Instinct beyond logic.
 
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 clouds of disappointment.

Even as searing emotion tries to bury her,
Vibrations somehow reach the inner ear
And coalesce with memories untouched.
 
This Dissonant Romantic
Who awakens in others the blossom of a seed unknown,
A consciousness that transcends all doubt,
A personal truth that shocks then cradles the weary.

Might the Dissonant Romantic.
Be the ageless sage we all hunger for.
The one committed to creativity without judgment,
Compromise,
Or price.
 
The Dissonant Romantic…
 
Forever available to some,
Known to few,
Envied by many.
 
Perhaps the universal answer is to love each day,
To gather love's petals of laughter,
Its dewdrops of sadness,
Its rays of being wanting only to be
that 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
To 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,
Giving 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 ascent
that which will become days
realizing life's time capsule of patience,
awaiting where it must avail itself.
 
So while serving the winds of time,
Let not our sometime 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.

Love’s IT Each Day.