Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

I've bid my treasure of thoughts away on memories, stored in quiet corners of my mind that no one bothers to explore anymore. And for good reason, I suppose. Come winter season, we open the stores of memory as though reviewing them, caressing the faded edges, will remind us that today - the only time we really have - isn't so bad. And we succeed. We smile, glad that the same old fears - and the joys that come with it - haven't changed. We  haven't changed, not really. There is some form of us that flows with time, bending to the rhyme and reason of at-times pleasing, more often unpleasing, occurrences in our lives somewhat seeming so short. But in our core, we know for sure that we haven't changed. And I suppose that is the hope we cling to, reinforced  by the memories we've stored in each of our little corners of mind. So I don't mind if anyone hasn't bothered to explore my treasures of thought - and now, at once, memor...

It's clear to me how much your affections are worth. Every smile is a gem I am fortunate to steal a glance of. Yes, you've heard correctly: I say steal, for I am a thief. Yet I'm far too selective to make a living. Even worse, cultivation of true love and affection requires resources and skills that make the occupation of thievery highly irrelevant! So I suppose I am a one-time thief. I steal glances you notice, writing poetry like currency relevant only to us. I do my research, learning about your life, your quirks and unsure thoughts - and soon, I can't help but wonder if I won't somehow fall prey to your subtle theft. It's only until there's nothing left of my heart, that I realize I've let it happen. And I'll let it happen again, for all you are worth, all your worth in the end. ~~~~~~~~~ Originally written 7/10/2014. Made some proper changes to fit my current taste in poetic writing. Cheers!

I'm drenched to the bone by my cloud of thoughts, raining down on me. Remember when I used to say you were the only cloud in the sky that makes me smile? Feels like I won't find              that for awhile, with someone else. Looks like I'm back on my own again. Why am I retracing old                 steps again? I'm sacrificing happiness for a few shades of pale, grey, unsettled nights.           I'm cold as ice - I can't shake off the shivers                                 this time. I'm still standing in the rain, wondering why I'm so unkind         to you and me. I don't have any easy answers        to give. I suppose I'll still stand here            'til I give up, give out, and watch the only cloud left ...

I'll settle with the silence, while I wonder if things've changed. I presume to think love comes and goes, but love just stays the same. When I've let it grow so quietly, in the shelter of my heart, this love I know has come to speak of the truths that are a part of our lives, while standing side by side like we always do. This love is old and new all at the same time. You know it's worth the wait, this idea of soulmates and lovers that find each other, all in God's own time. Let's simply shake the solace off the corners of this house. The sky turns a slight shade blue as the snow falls from the clouds. And yet my love warms quietly, with every action and each thought. I cannot help but stand and speak of this love that I've sought for in our lives, while standing side by side like we always do. This love is old and new all at the same time. You know it's worth the wait, this idea of soulmates and lovers that find each o...

A woman in song  is the only time she  ever truly speaks  from the heart, rather than  with the appearance - and  it is the only time men  ever truly listen,  rather than see. The question then  must be: does the man  understand what he hears -  does the woman  understand what she speaks? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Surprise poem for you! Cheers!

Loneliness is a catheter siphoning the blood, draining the life as though doing so will somehow make room for better things to fill my veins. But all I feel is a steady fade to grey, a numb dull pain that resists any other desire than to assuage the despairing thought that one is alone. And so I let fill the thoughts on other things, distracting scenes keeping me busy enough to ignore the ravaging thirst for company. Simply put, I seem abandoned, left in a still, stale forest and equally lost. I keep thinking I hear voices when I know beyond a doubt that the voices aren’t voices at all, just my desire for company making its regular unanswered calls. I stare into the white space between my words and wonder if I can fill them with what loneliness has siphoned out of me. I stand stark still. I’m here, I’m alive – my thoughts, my wants, my will. I aim to kill what little left of feeling resides in my head. It’s the only way fo...

Before you were Beauty, you were silence swelling                      to Symphony; long, lingering notes floating in the once still air, slowly filling it with the effervescence of                     beauteous harmony. We calmly recall pleasant memories as your melodious voice speaks seeming sweet nothings to maintain meaningful                     conversation. But the words are not mere nothings, neither are they saccharine phrases left out to captivate and irrigate shallow thoughts. No, your words are well placed shades of color to our conversational canvas. And this arduous oil painting of frequent correspondence leads us, naturally,          if not with hesitation, to the overtones of romance. In an instance of somber song, we find the shards of our more-than-      ...

Your kiss is cream, moist and cool to the touch - leftovers licked on lips. Our fingertips meet, hands as anchors, steady, assuring, soft in the intertwining of our fingers. Your unassuming, modest scent lingers, filling the room, coalescing to daydreams and afterthoughts of home. You comb through your pillowish hair, elegant in its unabashed simplicity, settling on your light shoulders. Your fair figure smolders and I struggle to catch my breath. I try to catch in photographs the memory of you, as you idly rest on the edge of the mattress. I caress careful, crafted imagery in hopes you'll see what I see when I look at you. Ink spills over in pages, testament of ageless, singular, passionate romance. We spare a glance out the window, a peek of sun in the milky dawn greets our eyes. We sigh as we lie here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There are very few times I write poetry that is as blatantly sensual as what I just wrote. Forgive me for bashing you...