Pulse

The pulse of the Universe
has a louder beat than my heart.
The sound of believing is continuous,
I am the embodiment of hope, as always.
Continuous, perfect, precisely spaced amounts
of blood traveling through me and my systems.
Energy is a constant around me,
flexible, friendly, and lives forever.

When the energy between us is good,
(Oh, but I love you infinitely.)
When I am dancing with my eyes closed –
this is what I'm talking about.
That's the way things are with me.

I stand as close as possible to the sound
and let the pulse of the Universe
flow through me,
ocean current flow,
dancing with my eyes closed
in my perfect space.

When they energy is good between us,
you know I do, I love you infinitely.

The Saddest Room

The saddest room in the house is me.

The air is still, the light is fading,
the walls weigh down on me like night sweats,
my emotions are a crime,
my words are a prison.

I can type but I can’t eat.
I can answer the phone but I can’t move,
I can't dress myself.

The pillows are all soft,
I wish I were soft.
The colors are all vibrant,
I wish I were vibrant.
I know I’m not asleep
but I still wish I could wake up
and find everything back in place
right where I left off last.

The saddest room in the house is me.

I don’t have the edge of anger,
I don’t have the sleep of peace,
I don't have my lover’s faith in me.

The emptiest room in the house is me.

Some words make no sense once uttered.
They only sound right when unspoken.
They are hard to pronounce
and sound foreign or
like static noise or rush hour traffic.

I have spoken my heart but it is too late,
I seemed to have kept it a secret far too long.
I have spoken my heart but it is too soon,
I didn’t wait long enough.
I have spoken and my words played
a dirty trick on me.
They betrayed me,
they switched each other out
like a child's game or a puzzle to his ears.

I no longer have any words,
and words are like furniture for expression.
I will slowly become silent
until I have nothing left to say,
until we have completely decorated this house
with my silence, because right now
the emptiest room in the house is me.

Buster Napping, As Usual

A ball,
a large warm ball
vibrates into a purr,
a one-eyed, half-closed love pirate stare.

The ears move small movements,
very small movements,
big paws click on the hardwood floor
like a secretary's heels clicking down a hall.
Somebody very cute is rounding the corner.

This is one of my favorite sounds.
More favorite than the sound
of the forbidden pounce on the a.m. bed,
more favorite than the sound
of hunger for food
or love because
they typically sound the same.

A ball,
a large, warm, furry ball
at my feet or by my side
is love just the same
and never less.

On The Other Hand

The other hand itches.
My mother thinks it's money,
she is admittedly superstitious.
At least, I think it's the other hand
but I've never been very sure
which is which.

So, sure, I have convictions,
sure I have facts,
like my wedding ring is too tight
in the morning when I first wake,
but on the other hand,
I'm not so sure about this other hand.

My cats will love me until they die,
I will always love the smell of coffee,
I'm even a little bit vain at times,
but I'm not terribly certain about
this other hand.

I could die before my cats
and they could forget about me.
I could get pregnant and grow
to dislike coffee,
I could but I'd rather not.
The point is that I'm not so certain.
It seems like it ought be
of utmost importance to do so, but
is it really necessary to consider
what's on the other hand?

Because I'll tell you frankly,
there's nothing here. There's nothing
on the other hand.
There's no jewelry, there's no nail polish.
It may, in fact, be completely free
of scars and freckles and bumps
and no one is holding it tenderly anyway,
or leading the way.

The point is, the other hand is just
an excuse, or something that appeases
an awkward query in an uncomfortable
social situation.

So, maybe the other hand doesn't exist,
or maybe it does
and it's really shiny and smooth
and reflective just like a mirror.