Poet, Love
is a knife
held
to our throat … /
love
is a dog from hell … /
love
is one
single bullet
in the chamber
of a gun, and the other
chambers
filled with ice. /

(pause)

Autobiographical
The lover in these poems
is me;
Love.

He appears
as lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.

All this is true.

The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.

This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.

I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.

(pause)

When in doubt,
go deep inside of
yourself for the answer.

You might be able to
influence the outcome of
an uncertain situation by
entering it with joy in your heart.

And I'll try to wrap philosophy
and poetry around me
to stop the chill … and to bring back
the sweet, calm warmth
I so desire … and need

(One thing
existence
has taught me
is to truly
and honestly
believe
in patience … believe
in the passing of time, for the passing of time
cures
everything … ---yes; one way or another, the passing of time
will mend
any
situation.)

Be slow, sweet poet, in your day /
find the peace
that does exist
inside you / find
the tranquility /
find
what is calm … and what will calm you
inside /
If it helps, imagine my arms around you,
and my voice
whispering softly
into your ear … touching gently … beyond friends … beyond
even lovers … poets
holding each other
in the harsh, cold evening
of existence.

I must close,
SAS

Do write soon poet,
I hunger for your words.