Soul Sunday

Sundays are a virtual coffee house, poetry workshop here at Adulting – Second Half. So grab a cup of whatever moves you, and let it flow. Your feelings, your words, your inspirations, whatever comes . . . . please feel comfortable (and excited!) to share your poems in the Comments section. I’m new to poetry, too. This is a no judgment zone. Here’s mine today:

Our Burrow

When all else fails to soothe me,

In your arms, late in the evening or early in the morning,

is my comfort, my peace, my sanctuary.

I want you to feel the current of my love,

Pulsating from something very deep inside the well-spring of my vitality,

Surrounding the form that makes the two of us only One.

One with Oneness, though seemingly quiet and vulnerable,

the robes of our daily defenses completely let down and put aside,

and yet, at this unruffled, untroubled, tranquil time,

We are at our most impenetrable, solid strength.

Our energies merged, the same energies that made our Love and

our loves . . . . our shared creations, experiences, our shared Life.

During these wordless moments with you,

Is when I know Love the most.

(Ooops! I already almost forgot the daily fortune. Here it is:

If one would move the world, one must move oneself. – Socrates)

4 thoughts on “Soul Sunday”

  1. Love in the Age of Arthritis

    I see you through dimmed eyes.

    You hear me through deaf ears.

    And sometimes- you take photos
    to show me the world I would otherwise miss.

    And sometimes- I teach you the signs

    I love you

    For when the hour is late, and pillow talk is hard.

    Also

    Bullshit

    Asshole

    and

    Smart-Ass

    For instances that we might want to be more colorful.
    Or maybe just to give our waitress a laugh.

    (…and it seems to work…it is amazing what they will let you get away with when you’re old…)

    You knew me when I wore a size five, and could still walk.

    I knew you when your beard and hair were black.

    Now we have children-and grandchildren and great grands.

    Appointments, schedules and lives that make Our Time
    something we must steal.

    Carve out.

    Plan.

    And stealing the time
    makes it all the sweeter somehow.

    Like taking a break from Life
    and all that entails.

    Just Us.

    Besides
    We both have ghosts
    in our beds.
    And 4 is a crowd.

    You love me Muchly.
    And I love you so Bigly.

    We may have not been each other’s
    FIRST LOVE
    but we may well be
    THE LAST
    And that is somehow PERFECT.

    You touch me with gentle hands.
    I kiss you with tender lips.

    Everything slower now.
    More deliberate.
    More sensual.

    Sexy.

    Despite the Stiffening Joints
    Graying Hair
    or Leg Cramps.

    We’re as good ONCE
    (…as the country and western singer croons…)
    as we ever were.

    And sometimes even Twice.

    Seconds.

    Neither of us
    were looking.

    Neither of us
    ever expected.

    But here we are-
    just the same.

    Love in the Age of Arthritis.

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