Making Good Time


pinterest 17Loveblind is my time,

It does not see the face of the clock,

It does not beat to the rhythm of urgency that runs

the desk over my office chair.

It believes, for the tiniest of moments,

in fable and fairytales

where fate is vanquished and only good karma sweeps

over Ogres and incivility.


gated, barred, shut down

sheltered was my heart

by the precious seconds

of this fantasy.


It is good to believe. We made that happen. We did. We. Did. 

.for RetMP. Images courtesy of the web.



Double Duty

(seeking permission to insert KissesAndChaos image created by Photographer Jenny Terasaki- Japan)

I don’t think there are any more words

to tell you more clearly, my desires….


I usually surprise myself by finding ways to do amazing things.

Sending smooches, kisses, deep kisses, deep tongue kisses and those that kind of melt my head and heart into tomorrows that I want to arrive today so I can double up on my time with you and repeat each minute as it flies by.



Traditional timepieces cannot capture the slow savoring of a lover’s attentions. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web. ALso visit Jenny Terasaki Photography on line.

Time Travelers




Don’t get me wrong.

It’s not all me.

It’s not all you.

It’s called life.

We live at full throttle and want more.  More speed.  More track.  More curves sometimes.

I’ve dragged you through my year of hell.  I admit this.

Your schedule has priorities and deadlines,  you add.

How can I criticize?

You love hard;  easily.

I want hard; seems easier.

Patiently, you try to show me how to slow myself,  stroking me with your constant touch. When standing in line or waiting at the bar,  your longest finger is forever wandering to the lowest vertebrae in my back.  I do not forget the gentle tap tap tapping there telling me your desire  is everywhere, always there,  whether I stand beside you or not.

You whisper kisses and leave trails of lyrical, lingering longings in handwritten notes tucked away to be discovered in my handbag, sometimes found waiting in the wind under the arm of the wiper blade.

Your digital scrawls travel to intersect, to deliciously interrupt my meetings, my formal world.

In transit to the airport, sometimes just out of the last conference call,  you text expressions of aching need for far more than the physical which find me when I wake in this time zone, when I hastily check my messages for proof you exist.

With thumb-skilled accuracy we touch the tiny keyboards of our connection, posting written conversations as though we are engaged in debates staged in the parlors of forgotten times.

You write and speak with me like no other man has. Your vocabulary descriptive and poetic, laced with angst and anticipation.

M y head dizzies with the loops of  love talk weaving through your words. You provide such divine use of my mind with the deciphering of your  blatant and heated innuendo.

You have set a new standard.  One I do not wish to test living without.

You tell me you learned long ago, secrets about tender care,  about sharing what needs to be heard, about frequent connection in expressions which must reach far beyond the day’s ins and outs.

You know all too well. You once let tender attentions go missing,  and have surrendered more than once to the  slow withering of the spirit from years of neglected touch. You’ve felt the distance created when wife and lover hide behind her busy.  You nod in knowing she too had been left to steep in emptiness at the loss of lust-making when husband and lover blatantly rushed his privilege.

Getaways and rendezvous- we simply attend to the darkest recesses of fantasy, try to defy age and time through resistance to the mundane and are grateful we stumbled upon each other when we did.

Soul mates? Probably not. Time travelers? We wish.  Playful feasting. Yes, we make it what it is.


Today we offer reassurances of time, of trust and taking, all penciled in calendars that we’d rather booked hours of our lives rather than spanning the weeks and months we witness in the blink of the eye. 


 #for Reticent Mental Property. Image credit to the web.  Inspiration credit to men who read, who write, who possess the mouth and hands to turn clay to art, breathe life into letters and string sentences of sentiment in person as well as across the digital divide.





Wishing I had the time to sit, to compose, to draft and re-draft.

But today, all time is not mine. And this reminds me, it never is. And to use what I have been given

and what I give,


with care and a little crazy,  to those who appreciate me as I am, see me for who I am.

Do not wish me changed, but wish me inflated, and copied, and set in reserve,

so when I am not there,

I can be pulled off the shelf,

and a piece of me placed nearby,

until my presence effortlessly fills the room

and my laughter finds the ceiling.


Carry on, then.

#for Reticent Mental Property