Writing: Moment in Time - The Courtyard

What is the sound of fifty people talking at once? Why do the voices,independent of each other, seem to rise in a chorus that will never be heard again? Where the voices rise and fall for just a moment in perfect harmony. Where you almost hear the instruments playing their counterpart.

The voices of young women rise and fall like a series of flutes, blasting forth in perfect unison. The laughter of older men, with gruff and deep voices like a bass, play an accompaniment to the flutes, adding a subtle undertone to this symphony. Sitting a distance away, the sounds fill the courtyard enough to make you feel like you are in the middle of the conversations, assaulted from all directions by this single moment.

Sitting in wonder, I hear moments go by unnoticed. The voices carry on, oblivious to the passage of time. They continue to play their beautiful music even when the sun hangs low in the horizon. They continue to play as the comforting twilight slowly embraces them. They continue to play, keeping their audience caught in their unintended concert. They continue to play.

Poetry: I'm Yours

You give a feeling that burns the wrong way
burning in heart and mind
I was true with all I said
I'm yours
I'm yours
I'm yours tonight
and every night

Your body haunts my dreams
leaving imprints in my brain
I want to call you and whisper in your ear
I'm yours
I'm yours
I'm yours tonight
and whenever you want

Drive me crazy with a smile
drive me crazy with a smile
DRIVE me crazy with a smile
you drive me crazy
I'm yours

Let the moon swallow the sun
and the darkness blanket the earth
Don't let the sadness take you
I'm yours
I'm yours
I'm yours tonight
and all the tomorrows

Writing: Moment in Time - Author's Notes

9:04 A.M. His hand lightly caresses her back, feeling the material of her shirt and her flowing hair move like water around his hand. The feeling is a strange mixture of rough and smooth, bringing a smile to his face as he wonders what sensations are passing through her body. She doesn't move as to not alert anyone else to what she is enjoying, but he can see her coy smile every time she looks over her shoulder at him, her bangs falling shyly over one eye and her smile brightening the room more than the sun slanting through the shades.

9:57 A.M. He feels her warm body pressed against his, her arms softly sliding around him and his around her, pressing her close, with the scent of her hair filling his nostrils. She glances at him with a smile in each of her beautiful eyes, as she pulls away slightly. He says he will see her later at the cafe, but as he turns to walk away, his hand lingers on her arm, sliding down from shoulder to bicep, down her soft forearm and feels her soft fingers slide across his palm. His smile is the last thing she sees as she turns and walks down the hall, that soft smile still lighting up her face.

12:02 P.M. He sees her at a table in the cafe and smiles, knowing that his day wouldn't have been nearly as well if she wasn't there. He stands at the counter and orders his drink, double hazelnut eye-opener, and a tall hot chocolate for her. His bubbly attitude is infectious, as the barista smiles and makes small talk as she brews the drinks. He knows she does this with everyone, but usually not with a smile. He thanks the barista for the drinks and carefully carries them to her table. Charming enough to put a certain Prince to shame, he asks if anyone is sitting here, and by her smile he knows he chose the right thing to say. He gives her the steaming cup and talks with her. The conversation is lit with smiles and laughing, all the while her hands are clasped in his.

12:30 P.M. He walks hand in hand with her outside, the chill breeze running the narrow line that is between their bodies. Her hand warms his, and her smile warms everything else. He wonders what it would be like if he suddenly stopped, glanced in those eyes, and kissed her softly.

12:39 P.M. They sit on a bench outside the building, his arm around her, lightly caressing her side. Their conversation never stopped the entire time they walked. The only pause was moments of laughter. Her hand rests lightly on his leg as his hand slides across her back and through her long hair, the silk smooth feeling of it rushing through his fingers. The glances each one steals at the other hightens the thought he had earlier. He knows it would be a simple act, a quick turn of her head, with his hand lightly cupping her chin, and a soft pressure upon upturned lips.

2:56 P.M. His moment passed with no move made. He consoles himself with the fact that no move is the safe move, but a part of his mind slaps him, metaphorically, and yells that safe isn't fun. He is cognisant enough to realize that the voice is right. His arms slide around her waist, chin resting in her hair, as her hands glide around his with grace that cant be taught. She breaks away and heads through the door, her eyes glance back ever so briefly as he walks away.

3:10 P.M. He drives down the thruway, music and menthol filling every pour of his body. She is still in his mind, but the effects are beginning to dampen. He smiles a bit wryly knowing that that wont last and everything that she is will only come pouring back in, overflowing him with her smile. The thought of that is something he looks forward to as the road flows under his car on the way home.

Poetry: Chasing Stars (A Bedtime Story)

Chasing stars,
his arms were never long enough to catch her.
Impossible goals light his hearts path,
he never caught her.

Living a life of illusion,
the poet walked a life of delusion.
Given to romantic flights of fancy,
he soon realized that love is chancy.

He pined for her for many moons,
trying to win her fancy with numerous tunes.
Nary a day went by where he did not try,
never given a glance from the only star in his sky.

Sitting among lavish treasure,
the empress lived a life without pleasure.
Wishing for someone to sweep her off her feet,
dismayed it was a poet she did meet.

Bored of his words and promises she grew,
she only wished he would find someone else to pursue.
Told a poem that rang in her soul,
she knew she had finally found her goal.'

No one remembers the words of that fateful poem,
but they remember the love they shared.
Chasing impossible stars gave them all they wanted,
their very own happily ever after.

Commentary: Rules of Attraction

I think that the attraction is instant, but chemistry is an ever evolving entity. I have had many instant attractions and some of those instant attractions led into very fine friendships, though some rough patches did occur with certain few. It is difficult to say at first why you really are attracted to someone the instant you meet them, beyond superficial reasons. When you get to know them more, you find yourself drawn to them in more than one way; you find yourself stimulated by their intelligence, their humour, their focus and drive, etc, etc.

I have given many people second and third chances, it's hard not to, but when you have to make the choice to cut the head off the serpent before it steals your life away, it can be freeing. Now, I'm not calling the women I have dated serpents, by that I mean the chances are the serpent. Something is not right if you are giving chance after chance. Eventually you would need to look out for you.

I have fallen in love and out of love at the speed of light. It's easy both ways. I have even developed feelings for someone whom I didn't originally have those feelings for to begin with. That is where chemistry kicked in. I learned more and more about them, until the point was reached were I thought "wow.. this person is amazing.." and all their sterling qualities came bursting through and I finally viewed them as someone I would like to be with.

Love is hard. It's a minefield that everyone was thrown into. I have had instant attraction to friends, some that I consider my best friends nowadays. I have developed chemistry with people who I didn't know before. I have desired, lusted, and wanted. All those fun little sins that everyone does, but love is elusive, difficult, and hard. If love were as easy, everyone would be in happy, joyous relationships. Love is not that at all, it is dirty, hard, but entirely worth every drop of sweat, blood, or tear. Worth it all.

Writing: Moment in Time - Dayjob

The rush of water out of the faucet and the steady tick of the bold faced clock on the wall are the only sounds I hear as I fill the coffee pot to the twelve cup marker. Twisting the knob on the sink, I take the pot over to the machine and pour it in slowly, making sure none of it spills on the redwood table. The door opens with the slow creak of one who doesn't know if they should come in or not. Yes, Cynthia? I have your schedule for today, Sir. Very well, let's hear it. The rustle of papers follows as she searches for the right page. The sound of coffee brewing and the aroma of arabic beans fills the air, searching and finding my scent glands. You have a 9 A.M. appointment in Alden, happy couple, no kids. I see. After that you have a 11 A.M. appointment, elderly gentleman. Wait, Cynthia. Yes, Sir? ...Nevermind, go on. I can hear the coffee dripping unevenly in the slow filling pot, adding counter-harmony to the static sound of the tick-tock. Tick-drip-tock-drip-drip-tick-tock-drip-drip-drip. What was that last one, Cynthia? 4 P.M. another Alden appointment Sir, engaged kids. You know those young types. Yes, Sir. That will be all, Cynthia. The door closes, leaving the lingering scent of perfume and day old sex to blend in my nostrils with the charcoal black coffee. She is an able girl, though she was once a client. Back in those days, I never felt I did anything wrong. I just did my job.

The slosh of the coffee mixing with the creamer creates a tie-dyed mess in my Hello Kitty mug, a gift from Cynthia last Christmas. I sit at my redwood desk, bought in a matching set with the table, and look out the window. Cloudy out, least these people won't be in good moods due to the weather. What was that, Sir? Damn, I must have hit the intercom again. Nothing, Cynthia, go back to work. Yes, Sir. Good girl, that is. I look across the room at my work clothes hanging from a hook, covered in plastic, signaling that she took them to the dry cleaner. Damn fine girl. Polishing off my cup, I stand up and go with reluctance to those dreary garments. Sliding the plastic off with the hiss normally heard from cheap, thin plastics. Wrapping myself in the cloak of midnight, I look at the clock as I button up the front. 8:30 A.M. I might be able to pick up some Egg McMuffins before I have my appointment, Cynthia loves those, and it would be a nice gesture for the woman who keeps this office in tip-top shape. I open the door and walk over to a rack sitting near the door. Cynthia, have you had breakfast yet? No, Sir. Well, don't pick up anything while I'm out, I will bring something back for us. Thank you, Sir. Forward my calls to the Iphone. Of course, Sir. I slide my old scythe out from the rack and head out the door, jingling the little pumpkin bell I bought for Halloween, which we have yet to take down. I should really get Cynthia to get on that soon. With a sigh, I head out into the sunlight, waving to the shopkeeper next door just to keep up relations. I swear, I'm getting too old for this.

Poetry: Ghosts

Creaking doors echo in moonlit rooms,
dishes rattle like bones in sunken tombs,
the ghosts have come to claim me.

I sit in the dark praying for light,
cursing the moment I knew you were right,
your ghost has come to claim me.

Shattering porcelain shatters the silent house,
under the shadows of a spirit-like louse,
his ghost has come to claim me.

Sucking blood and life in equal measure from dry skin,
letting you enter and take me - my horrific twin,
my ghost has come to claim me.

I loved you in life and I do now in death,
lost in your shadow since you drew your last breath,
Our ghosts have come to claim our love.