F.E. Feeley Jr.'s Blog, page 6

If only I…(National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoDemetrius Washington

 

If only I had leaned into that touch

that September morning before you left

the sheets pooling at your hips

my body sore from the night prior

I had lain awake all night

your head on my chest wishing

for the morning to refuse to break across the sky

leaving us naked and bathed in darkness

I saw the hurt in your eyes

at the sudden sullenness in my gaze

as I bit down on a thousand words

of panic at the back of my throat

I loved you

with your careless hair and your soft grey eyes

and your warm body and your powerful back

the shape of your lips that kissed me

and the submissiveness

If only I’d taken care

to dress with you and walk you down

the flight of stairs to my door

and kissed you once more before sending you away

into the morning sun

You had another life

was it a job? A home? A wife?

you wouldn’t say and I didn’t ask

when we met at the airport bar

I didn’t care then

but I do care now

if only I’d listened to the voice that warned me

somewhere underneath my second

bourbon and seven

when I saw the tie you were wearing and smiled

You were here on business for a month

and you were my lover as well

and we worked til daybreak often

laughing and drinking and lovemaking

Do you want me to come back?

No, I didn’t want you to leave

If only I’d said that

I wouldn’t be left here with only the smell

of your body on my bedclothes

Til the end of my days (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJames Bold

 

IT was more than just where I lay

staring up at the ceiling of stars above my head

In your love, I had found a rose garden

white blooms as far as I could see

and there I thought I had come to the river

to drink and dance and sing

but the more I loved you

the less steady I was on my feet

until the citrus scent threw me over

and I fell backward into the briars of emersion

In exquisite pain, I lay here

my clothes were torn and my hands wounded

tangled in a miserable mess

as the vines wrapped right around me

It was then I realized the danger I was in

and it was then I realized water didn’t feed them

and to my horror, I didn’t care

as I watch a crimson drop of my own blood

fall to the ground and disappear

It was then I realized how much Pain I was in

and it was then I realized how little I cared

for I would lay here dying til the end of my days

in your garden under the stars above

Til the end of my days

Beaten Track Radio Author Chat (Jamie Fessenden)

Hi there!

This past Saturday Jamie Fessenden Co-hosted with me on Author Chat Live on http://www.beatentrackradio.com

If you missed the show – where we discussed the difference between M/M Romance and Gay Fiction as well as Jamie’s books – click the link below and you can listen in.

Also, if you’re an author that would like to co-host with me live on the radio, send me a message via email or through here and let’s get you scheduled.

https://soulfultroubadourdotcom.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/2018-04-14-funk-with-freddie.mp3

 

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I Don’t Wish to be Friends with the Past (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoJonathan Bowers

I don’t wish to be friends with the past

Tis like tiptoeing through a graveyard of broken headstones

crumbling

Where sculpted angels with folded wings weep

And forgotten crypts lay dark

I’ve grown, and changed, and got older

While yet the lay still where I left them

In the same spot, the same plots and stories to tell

I visit from time to time, in my thoughts and in my mind

But I try not to linger, though fondness begs me to stay

To touch the faces of my beloveds like I used to

In the past where they lay

But all my fingers do as I brush their hair back

Is pass through without moving a single strand

For one cannot touch what used to be

The way it used to be

And here, I am the ghost wandering

I’ve known lovers, and I can still in mind trace the peculiarity of their bodies with my lips

But there is no memory in the way they feel any more

Not their hands

Not their hips

No, I don’t wish to be friends with the past

Though occasionally I return

To walk amongst what might have beens

Before my soul remembers what is touchable here and now

 

Because I fell in love with you again (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoLubov’ Birina

 

Because you came to me

in the night

knocking on my door

gentle raps, barely taps

but enough to send me to the door,

wrapping myself in a robe as I went

There you stood

windswept hair, leather jacket, and doe eyes

smelling of Burberry cologne and nervousness

while the thunder rolled in the pitch dark

and lightning flashed

because the mother nature was conspiring

I’d missed you for weeks, it seemed

Maybe it was a lifetime or two

the warmth of your voice

the way my name tumbled from your lips

I thought you’d never come back

and because of the wind I shivered

and retreated back through my doorway

before you stepped inside

before I could speak

you wrapped your arms around me

I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh

because I missed you – I wanted to freeze time

My hands reached up the million miles

to your sweet face and held it

and felt you tremble under my touch

because of your bashfulness I kissed your temples

I could smell the sweetness of your sweat

the hunger in your touch

and when our mouths collided for the first time

I tasted the whisky you’d drank embolden you

It was two a.m but I didn’t care

I took you by the hand and led you upstairs

our hearts pounding away with each step

because of anticipation, I shivered again

But this time you covered me

somewhere in the middle of the night

you made me call out your name

and I did so, willingly

because somewhere in the middle of the night

I fell in love with you, again

Healing Childhood Hurt (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoKat J

Childhood hurts

How does one get over a childhood hurt

that is the poem that you gave to me

and I would love to tell you it’s in prayers, in psalms

in the melody of your favorite song,

I would like to say it’s in the whisper of your lover

in the softness of his touch,

in the morning walks with your thoughts

or on your ride to work

I would like to say you can find it in creativeness

wrap it up in art and sell it to the highest bidder

or write it down in words to be sold

on Amazon- well, before it’s pirated, anyway

I would like to say it’s in therapy

‘over it’ comes in a drug called Fukitol

take two (with food)

and call me in the morning

Yet here’s the thing

I’ve learned in 37 years

of asking myself the same thing

that you asked me

How do you get over a childhood hurt?

The answer is simple

You don’t.

That hurt you will take to your grave

Now, before we get despondent

before we throw in the towel

and cry ourselves to sleep

let me offer you some solace

I’ve traced my pen

across my scars and bled out on the page

I’ve wept, and winced

and cried and lamented over how bad it still hurt

I’ve purged the infection, over and over in my art

and while the scar remains

I lift it up for the world to see

and find that others have wounds like mine

We connect.

And it’s there in that moment

this bizarre realization

that the thing I once despised

I am grateful for

You never get over it, no

but you can get through it

and you can use it

instead of letting it use you

 

Sounds of Spring (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoStudio Dekorasyon

 

I wake up in the morning

drifting sunlight through my window

grackles chatting up the neighbors

somewhere on another lawn

Fan above me whirling

nestled deep in cover warmly

lawnmowers buzzing pleasantly,

underneath the morning sun

I sit up, bones a’crackin’

reach for the ceiling I feel my back poppin’

I toss the covers aside and stand

and slip on the clothes from the night before

Dog leash in one hand,

sneaker-clad feet slap the pavement

puppy dog rushes to do his business

pulling his sleep addled master along

Noseeums float lazy

in the shadows where sunlight isn’t reaching

neighbors walk to their cars quickly

coffee cups and car keys clenched in their hands

The smells of the dewdrops rise

along with Star of Jasmine on the air

I put earbuds in my ears

and stretch my legs for a good long walk

Journey in my ears blaring

Steve Perry singing clearly

about the wheel in the sky always turning

that’s the sound of my springtime morning

 

 

When she broke free from the clouds (National Poetry Month)

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unsplash-logoA. L.

 

I can see it so clearly, now

in the silver current of the river

I remember a woman so vibrant

a living prism

that shattered light into a multitude of colors

when the sun broke free of the clouds

She was an artist, you see

her world was of red, and blue, and sea foam green

and bring them together in harmony

like Monet, Michelangelo, Divinci

when she could break free of the clouds

She understood the collective unconscious

it spoke to her, as it speaks to all

who sing the words, write the script, dance the dance

with the flick of her wrist should conjure images

when her mind was free of the clouds

Yet, the sky was often overcast

a mesocyclone dulled her afternoon

and faded the pallet so richly hers

and brought storms with wind, and rain, and hail

the clouds cast shadows she could not break away from

There is a certain weakness artists share

a flaw of sorts in our matrix

an unquenchable desire to connect

and the ability to hear all of humanity

so when a strong guiding light shines it can distract us

but all that glitters is not gold

and though the clouds may gather, it does not mean rain

We are artists because God is an artist

no longer do you fragment the light

that comes from the firmament

and though your brushes may lay still

you are the light that burns forever

they day you broke free of the clouds

Silence and the rest of you life (Poem)

I took yesterday (4/4) off from National Poetry month to observe the anniversary of the passing of Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. as well as the birthday of the late, great, Doctor Maya Angelou who would have been 90 years old.

So, I would like to continue today with a poem request from a friend of mine about the end of a relationship. I hope you like it. And if there has been anyone out there who’s been a fool for love, trust me, I feel your pain.

 

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unsplash-logoKinga Cichewicz

I have scraped myself off the floor

of reality so brutally honest

I have doused myself with holy water

to wash away the tears I’ve shed

I’ve born the weight of this family

the results are a little bottle of pills

I take daily

I’ve changed my name

my jeans size

my hair color

I’ve changed my habits

and my country

I’ve held your fevered head in my lap

I’ve held your sex

your tear stained cheeks

I’ve rocked and cradled and cooed and died

But out of all of this passion

I have born one single truth

I did these things

yes

I did these things

for you

with you

to you

and I can undo them just the same

My name is Gloriana

I am a queen in my own right

I am tempest waters raging

I am daytime and I am the night

so if this love is over

let it be over and let it be done

let me return to my country of origin

of my native people

my native tongue

For I am the ground you tread upon

I am the rocking chair where you sit

I am the memories you’ll carry with you

I am the rock, the awning, your bed

So when I go, I go swiftly

soft as the sighing of the trees

and all the pleasures I have given you

I will pack up and take with me

there will be no more tumble

no more fire in your hearth

All that will remain will be silence

and the rest of your life to live

 

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr (Precious Lord)

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(In Memoriam)

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on to the light

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

When my way grows drear, precious Lord linger near

When my light is almost gone

Hear my cry, hear my call

Hold my hand lest I fall

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home



When the darkness appears and the night draws near

And the day is past and gone

At the river I stand

Guide my feet, hold my hand

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on to the light

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home (lead me home)



Songwriters: Thomas A. Dorsey