The Golden Law

Up in Heaven God pressed a bit of invisible tissue between his finger and thumb and said, “Tiny soul, l am putting you inside this human cell, which is too small to be seen, where you will grow to almost an inch after a few years. But never forget that you are a bad, bad sinner, deserving of the worst punishment. As soon as you are born you must begin feeling guilt for your evil nature. Oh, what a terrible, horrible thing you are!

And the body you inhabit is even fouler than you!

Oh, who created such loathesome things!?

You begin dreaming and hoping, planning, then loving. Oh, such a plague of badness! But really no worse than you are right this minute! An ugly, contemptible, inexorably evil thing! Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!

I have said it, and therefore, it is so!

I could have said differently, but chose not too. My whim is the Golden Law.

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Hypatia (written for a painting of the great intellectual. She is depicted holding a scroll (of her own writings?) Scroll of the soul of the mind of me, Writ of my wit that was speaking free; Mine in possession, none take away. I am Hypatia, one with the day!

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You Said

You said l praised you—

Much too much, too much.

I cease—Ah, only

Touch and touch and touch.

Now you urge more—

More and more and more!

My fingers’ praises truly you adore

That are my thoughts run on before,

With never too much, too much, too much!

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The news is all Notre Dame, forsaken in flame. I love Notre Dame, but you, you are alive, moving alongside of me.

I worship you with lip and mouth and tongue, and half-closed eyes, with the intensity of my hands and arms and soul.

You are more than cathedral. You soar with your own thoughts and desires, filling my vision. We lean together, fall together, growing great. You fill my consciousness. Just you and you and you.

We will sleep all night together. In the morning we will wake happily and cleanly into each other’s easy breath and sparkly eyes.

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Lyre and Lyrist

I take off your clothes where the moonlight flows,

I undress you with hands full of fire.

Through my fingers l watch how your soft skin glows

As l fondle my moon-lit lyre.

“Ah” is the note of you; “Ah,” and then “Oh,”

Trembling—free sky-born wing.

Too, our mouths are made true of ourselves beautiful

As clean greed is the song we sing!

Then, my hands through your hair, and my body through yours,

As the moon is shut soft by a cloud,

And in darkness we move to the muse that endures,

While the waves crash about us so proud.

On this shore by the sea we are totally free,

As we lay in this love-going moon.

While the lyre and the lyrist—it is you, it is me—

Hum matchless one magical tune!

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Loving you is good.

I love to be very good.

You love loving ne.

You, me, are the very best

Past, present, future.

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Rest, My Dear

Rest, my dearest rest your tired limbs;

The birds will sing the sweetest of all their sweet’ning hymns.

And I, I’ll speak a line or two of loveydovey verse,

While you lay back and dream all day of showers un-reversed.

See! The mist comes lightly falling, falling through the air;

The mist comes lightly falling

To cover you with care.

So cool and so relaxed you feel,

So wonderfully at ease

You know you are in Paradise with every fresh’ning breeze.

So cool so cool, so very cool,

That you begin to laugh,

Then open eyes and look at me

Till I, you, laugh and laugh!

There’s no more strain, no duty left;

Traditions sink and die.

And we have our own spirits true

To lead us without lies.

The dead are dead, they cannot hear,

Nor can they see or know,

And if they could they’d only want

For us to grow and grow.

We’ll be ourselves, we’ll reach for joy,

Live life up to the brim,

And celebrate with songs of cheer,

And be in self a hymn.

A hymn to life, a hymn to light,

A hymn to spirit free,

That to itself is true as gold,

As you are true to me.

So rest, oh, rest, oh, rest, my dear;

So rest your tired limbs.

The birds will sing the sweetest of all their sweet’ning hymns.

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