Happy Birthday – Journal 9/14/18

There are quite a lot of ways to go about this, but I figured this would be a good way to go.

This journal is dedicated to the love of my life, as she ages another year, and this time on the other side of the world. I figured it would be the best time to kind of describe this side of my life in a journal, and give a certain someone something to wake up to on their feed.

passengers

We met in a poetry class, and then again in international relations. It was almost serendipitous as to how I appeared, and she at the same time. A little over two years ago, now. Kinda crazy to think. Never speaking, really, until we did.

And after we really connected, much followed. In a lot of ways, she rescued me, and she’s constantly here to drive me to be the best that I can be, and achieve all that I can. Through creative passions, professional inclinations, hell, high water, calm, and all the chaos you can taste, we’ve been here for each other for what feels like a decade.

A very happy, very satisfying decade. Coffee dates, hiking, concerts, road trips, camping, movies, all kinds of stuff, and I can’t imagine even being alone while doing any of it. So much left on the docket, and it excites me to know that life is in the palm of my hand when it comes to making time.

I get someone to talk to pointless stuff about that still makes sense. Someone I get to hold hands with. Someone I find more enjoyment in being near than anything else. Being a poet only helps so far as I can describe how much she means to me. Which is further and further every day.

Nadine is the strongest thing I have ever encountered, and I am lucky to call myself hers with a tungsten ring on my right hand, and a copper one on hers.

Life isn’t always easy, however, and there’s much left of it to experience. Much more brooding, uncertain, and to be perfectly honest; utterly chaotic stuff is on the horizon, but the horizon is gentle and allows us to grow stronger before it arrives.

With this passing birthday, she’s across the world and I’m at home trying to make myself better every day so that when she comes back all the more experienced, we’ve grown together apart.

And you know, there’s so much left to the story. A lot untold already, and a lot yet to be seen, but that’s the gist of it: she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

I’m thankful to belong to such a cool person.

She’s also started up her own website, and I dare say she’s more verbose and better at this whole thing than I am. So give her journals overseas a look here: https://sonadinewrites.com.

first kiss.jpg

So happy birthday, Nadine Nabass. You’re my favorite thing.

While it turns to autumn here, I’ll be thinking of you. And staring at my ring.

For those of you who are tuned in to Radio Reality City, I appreciate your looking at this journal! Not exactly regularly scheduled programming, I know, but when was the last time we had any of that? Quite a lot going on behind the scenes! I’ve said a lot here that I normally don’t verbalize on these journals.

Woven Spirit

Your spirit has
Clung to me after
This morning
Like it never
Wants to leave

Your scent
Of sweet sweat and
Nitroglycerin trapped
Under straps
Of tank tops

Spirit still clings
To me
Threaded down to the
Skin beneath
Clothing

A heart of woe stayed
With the heat
Of punishment sustained
Cooling as it’s constantly
Exhumed

Mayrigold

Mayrigold waves
At the beach
Break as evening
Waxes and
Sunlight waves

Remember remember
That evening in May

When the mayrigold waves
Crashed into the bay

Sun hanging low
Red sky above

Remember, my love?

Remember that sun
We’ll see it again
In yellow, in orange
In pale-set gemstones

If not today
Then next May

We will, when the
Waves break again

Bubble Bomber

Nothing quite like
Bathing with you
In the crumbling bubbles
Of a bomb dissolving

In between what can’t
Literarily be described
As making love
On a bed we didn’t own

Then we got Wendy’s
And you got
A chicken sandwich
And I got it spicy

Whereupon we had
Brunch in that bed,
Clean and carefree
Seemingly and

Watched a show
On netflix
You were the one
That turned me on to

And kissing you
Every moment of the day
Is above and beyond
Something I will cherish

Bog Witch Brew

Before there was meaning
To any good celebrating
We shared sips of coffee
Grounds wet with rose water

Tamped, strained, and shot
Us into a daze of days
That lasted a whole week
Even though we weren’t weak

It was the brew that was
What weeks were made of
What kicked off the morning
And shut down the nights

Like a baton to the shin
It stopped us from flight
And subdued us from fighting
That day’s altering state

Then day was no longer
And it was tomorrow
As the week went on
Like it was so strong

When we bought those potions
Some spillage in the street
Made travelling by hills
Weary at even the notion

How atrocious the skull was
In foam that appeared
At the surface of liquid
Before we drank its veneer

Consuming a concoction
Of bog witch inception
Now we have
The breath of November

Within us

The red rose water
Bitter black coffee
And fragile skulls
Mixed and consumed

Took us in tune
Two months to the future
And moths disturbed
Fluttered with the lights

Of our arrival

Potion’s aftertaste so
Sweet, so savory,
Sanguine if sanguine
Had a taste perceived

Crow’s blood and dark souls
Culled to the mixture
Drank by the cup full
Of kaymak and skulls

Bones break and sinews snap
To the force of futures
As the potion works its
Magic on us consumers

Weeks become weak
Time moves swift
And amber lakes leak
Into rivers

Those rivers unto rivers
That flow into our veins
To make us strong
And to have time detained

Wicked

Burial grounds unearth the ring
On your finger:
A coffin set in red
Crystal rock

As rich in color as
Your bloody knuckles
Before they scarred over.
Walls hurt.

Vibrant as the faux
Eyeliner you’ve painted
On, designed like
Ozymandias still stood tall.

Fastiduous and full of ardor
Like a bog witch
Performing a ritual
Deep in the forest.

Be a shaman to me, resurrect
Whatever it may be
That plagues your mind
And let me see.

I want to be a part of
Your world. Whatever swamps
I must wade through,
I’d love to.

For I can imagine the things
You’ve seen in those soulful
Eyes. What war paint you wear
To make art of a guise.

You’re beautifully wicked,
Hooded like an exile
On the run, casting
All kinds of spirit magic.

Wicked with the crops
You strain through water
And drink to have energy
And commune with the dead,

Wicked with the best
You bring out of me,
Weaving illusions where
Reality alters itself.

So much so I wish I had
Been drinking roses
With you much earlier
Than I ever could.