by Al Cole author of Romance for Women
It’s never very easy for two people to share Love —
All of a sudden one partner ‘s share is a bit too great ,
A little too small ;
One Lover ‘s needs and desires suddenly a bit out of sorts with the other ‘s
They go ‘ round in circles —
Day in , day out —
If not at the beginning , then surely at the end .
The thrill of the love of Love —
A knife before the eyes of true Love ,
The thing that makes lonesome , Love-sick puppies of us all —
Love-things chasing their own tails ,
A whirlwind of barks worth more than their bite —
A deep-down despair , call it ;
More and more the frightened little child ,
A child learning to deal with the fact of its own sweet emptiness ,
With the possibility of never ever making it at Love —
Kisses on cold lips , touches with the chill of ice ;
Another quick peek at the shadow of ourselves in the mirror of our frozen reality …
Until loneliness seems second nature ,
Until lovelessness looks out longingly , cherishingly ,
desperately to the dangling real thing before it —
The treasure of its own battered affections ,
The sting of first happiness through the bittersweet truth of its own unhappy void .
We are all of us angels …
Angels in the appearances of men ,
Angels in the form of the bodies of women …
And the men and women of our aspect —
They are the ones that really count :
Their passions , seductions ,
their kisses —
Stepping stones lining the path
to our Virginity ;
Their petting , stroking ,
their lovemaking —
Talents blessed by the nature of gods ,
Footsteps back to the soul of an angel !
A kid in heat —
In over his head for the girl in the front row !
Carrying the torch that could light up the world ,
And with it the deep , dark morsels of the soul itself !
Call this the essence of true romance,
And call it truly the Lover here
because already he would be willing to play her Fool ,
To carry her books home ,
To bear her insults ,
Be willing to hold the same feelings for her even if he found out
that she really liked the other kid in the other row —
All this and more because he has already come to her body
a thousand times in the depths of his own soul —
The heat radiating from his body to hers ,
from her body to his own from ten feet away
or from the dizzying and delirious distance of inches !
Because he has already felt the softness of her trembling hand
ravished in his own sweaty palm ,
And has realized the dream of his lips tenderly at home with hers
in the sweltering , swelling moment of an illusion !
The Soul doesn’t look for goodness
. . . that’s the heart’s luxury . . .
It takes what it needs for better or worse ,
Makes it a monument ,
And transforms it to the bold exultation of everything human !
The heart worships the heavens ,
the earth ,
The soul gets up their guts !
It craves only the warm – blooded aroma of a smile it can’t do without ,
Or a body so close that it’s like shaking hands with its own dear conscience !
I woke up this morning
to the other part of my soul . . .
To the feminine side of my Lion
coming out to me ;
It was there at first as a face alone ,
And as I drew nearer to it
I caught hold of the eyes
and wondered what it might mean ;
Speak on that little girl , honey ,
and the woman she holds so near ,
Tell me the energy it might take to bear her
through my own dear heart
. . . Or if I was just dreaming . . .
Tell me this ,
And tell me …
What would it take to break the dream
and capture all of its elements
babes in arms ?
Yes , this tortured , frightened child
bearing in his will the blood of an angel !
Her right to be welling up
from the heart and soul of Magic ,
And pouring out like Wonderment
across the smoke – filled,
fiery heavens —
Farther now than the eye can see !
Oh tell me …
What Magic , what special Magic
might it again take , dearest ,
To fix one more golden gift outside of myself ?
Yes , one more – more and more clearly fixed …
One more – more and more clearly fixed …
More and more clearly … oh ever so clearly …
More and more clearly
. . . Oh , my love !
This Womb !
The power of Tragedy to conceive !
The Impossibility for which sorrow and joy have Survived !
This chill and Magic ,
a product of my own forsaken Will —
This Miracle !
. . . I now see before me my own sweet Lioness …
Looking back on me with those Eyes , baby …
Oo , those Eyes !