Always saying too little


I have to go.

I’ve got a meeting in 30.

Next week I’ll be in San Fran and then out to India.

There’s going to be some down time and I’m traveling with Lee and some of the boys so we’ll take time in New Delhi to really explore.

Last year it was France, you remember the pictures?  I’m heading there again in the spring.

Yes, when we met I had just come home from Barcelona.  It’s beautiful there, the landscape’s serene.

Yes, there’s a few weeks of out of state travel. I’ve got a digital portfolio session in Chicago, training in Columbus and then out to the annual event held in Nola.

Packing?  Hardly takes any time at all,  I’m a pro.   Love to be busy, baby,  always on the go.

Oh,  have a big client in town, just customary catch-up,  typical schmoozing and drinks downtown at 4.


She watched him assemble his person, head to toe crisp and starched; his smile no accessory, all his.   He lit up the room like a gentleman does, sat down on the bed stopping her show.  He traced his fingers from her shoulder to wrist and leaned over to inhale his scent on her hair… she silently fingered the french cuffs and his father’s monogrammed links,  then reached up and smoothed back his hair.  His bearded jaw was set, held the hurry of leaving.  The hurt look on her face said a little too much. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Image at

Honest Rush


I love your hunger for the honest rush of possible connection and the blatant flirting and banter you employ to secure it.

I won’t deny you the dance.  I don’t need to.

We’re close.  We’re not friends.  We are far beyond lovers.

Your summer is spent on the lake where you claim you learn nothing from fish more adept at avoiding your lines and leads than a forest full of female friends.

Your body is tan where the sun rises and rolls over the dawn, where daylight finds you stalking your prey on the glass of the early morning water.  Your eyes tell tales laced with a hundred sunsets and bon fires-  simple stories of antics far older than time.

I swear the sun-filled days flavor the kisses you deliver, gentled ones exchanged in the darkness when you return to the city,  to me. The conversation doesn’t stop; I talk with you through them, your laughter on my lips, your hips sway with mine.  Hundreds of kisses, they are your ransom. Pay up.

Both hands are thrown in the air,  for a moment.   Your smile says you’re adrift.    Yes, clearly yes, you admit with a shrug.

You are not even sure why you went where you thought you wanted to go.   And sure,  when you arrived in the mountains your guide said they weren’t steep,  yet by nightfall you hurt more than you thought you could feel.

Your aches are deep and exhausting, like a necktie and collar forced out of retirement,  every close of each button says something is off.

I reach my hand to your face and with purposeful intent I lean into the mouth of my traveling man.  Exchanged in a stance of perfunctory yielding, I offer a harmony to sing with your soul. The generosity of my understanding is pure when I ask you to go.

Yes, examine the world, maybe make life with another but philosophy and lessons, are mine to be told.

I don’t want your ring or your villa overlooking the vines.  Your wine cellar might as well sit as empty as sin.

I’ll never ask for more than your truth,  will ask your body to know mine when I’m craving your touch and your bed to be empty when I claim it for lust.

I look into your eyes as you sell me your confusion,

All I see is a man free to follow his original intent.


We can tell ourselves whatever we wish but in the end it only matters what we let ourselves believe. 

#for Reticent Mental Property



The lake takes a breath of the old me and pulls her under,  silently nourishes the water with my shredded former self as it feeds my struggle to the fish.

The ripples of the mistakes made by this body are so tiny, so insignificant, they do not even reach the shore.

There is no frantic clawing at the side of the old boat as the old me is dragged down to the dank of the silt.

The chill of peaceful relief  reaches my skull.

And even as the water rushes over my remains, the mouths nibble away at my flesh, the weight of my bones lightens and sunlight finds its way through the shroud of yesterdays.

In the heat of the season, even the dragonflies subsist on the fragrance of  water lilies,  each blue-needled body stretches itself in the sun, the intricate weave of its wings revealing no pain from a summer of dancing trough moonbeams and storms.

The laughter of awareness is an anchor to the bittersweet trade of innocence. The day has gone by, the light is scattered, another prism of interpretation has been captured in the awakening.  The remains of the moment become fuel for the poets and dreamers; captured in the fingers of time, this introduction to limitation is easily grasped .

My mind does not seek to repeat others’ missteps but instead blatantly pushes aside wise admonition, fully fills these lungs with the truth of better tomorrows and keens for daylight and sin.

I tie regret to the dragonfly’s tail as it skips across the bow,  its wings gently hover,  for a moment,  before it departs.


I’ve traveled only a fraction of the miles mapped out for my making.  I am but an infant in the lap of learning.

#for Reticent Mental Property.

Still Honest



Good books tell the truth, even when they’re about things that never have been and never will be. They’re truthful in a different way

Stanisław Lem

Polish sci-fi writer Stanisław Lem (born September 12, 1921) was a fan of Philip K. Dick, but the American author thought that Lem was a composite character created by the Communists and reported him in a letter to the FBI (


Hmmm…And so it is with good blogs.  


#for Reticent Mental Property



His Story


Your intuition is no link to your lyrical side.

It is your fear.

It is not your soul traveling to the other side and hearing a cry of pain needing your ear, your rescue, your wisdom.

It is your fear.

Your intuition is not a finely tuned instrument of desire.  It is not a pull from the celestial heavens bringing music to your muses.

It is your fear.

It is not your mind grasping the delicate tendrils of her spirit and cradling it to your heart and hearing it plea for safety within the frame of your strong arms.

It is your fear.

Your intuition is not a gift from long dead lovers calling you to the bosom of kindness nor is it a song you should have to learn while sitting in the pew as the pipes of the organ make mockery of your aching heart.

It is your fear,  Sir.


And she released him from it for he had made his own worst fear his truth.  

#for Reticent Mental Property.


Wild and Precious


Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?– Mary Oliver.

The Pulitzer Prize-winning poet’s daily walks in the woods and wetlands of Provincetown are a central inspiration for her work.

We have a lot of story to live.

What’s the first line of your first chapter going to be? Eh?


She couldn’t remember the last time she closed the door of a final chapter so hard; the binding now broken, the cover practically torn away.  And as she threw it across the room,  one brittle page slipped from the center and fluttered in front of her for a moment before being swept through the arched window of the villa and carried softly to rest in the gardens below. 

# For Reticent Mental Property

She Travels- RETs on Tumblr


Take yourself to tumblr today for a little ride on the visual side.

Words suffice, sustain, yes.

But sometimes, getting out of your head and into someone else’s is where you might need to let yourself go.

Physical adventure is fleeting. Static on the line frustrates. All your lovers are out of town.

Don’t have the luxury of packing an overnight bag? Can’t just sling it over your shoulder and put some distance on the road today?

Find your way. Hell, pave the way.


Of course- as proven over and over- we see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear.

#for Reticent Mental Property.