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shippedtosea.livejournal.com

It’s nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you’re still alive.

If nothing else
it says to you–
clear as a high hill air,
uncomfortable
as diving through cold water–

I’m here.
However wretchedly I feel,
I feel.

I’m not sure
why we cannot shake
the old loves
from our minds.
It must be that
we build on memory
and make them more
than what they were.
And is the manufacture
just a safe device
for closing up the wall?

I do remember.
the only fuzzy circumstance
is sometimes where and how.
Why, I know.

It happens
just because we need
to want and to be
wanted, too,
when love is here or gone
to lie down in the darkness
and listen to the warm.

skylinewars.livejournal.com

Part Two: No Whiskey Bars
by Rod McKuen

May 5

The sky
is the forehead of the morning
passing the sun along the day,
distributing the clouds
that move above us
and ride with us till nightfall.

And your eyes
are the bottom of the day
set on fire by words,
made to move by sighs
and the rustling of the trees.

We'll go to the hills then,
take our time.
Climb until we find one
closest to the sky.

I'll spread a blanket on the ground
and make a picnic of your body.
You'll face the sky and count the clouds
and when the counting stops
I'll take you home again,
down a dozen hills under a hundred skies.

I know the ground is not yet green all over
but trust me.
I'll find the greenest hill of all
and your red dress will be the single flower
that grows against the grass.

Me and the day
we care for you
without the rivalry of common lovers
and we'll be careful as the rain,
gentle as the clouds.