Saturday, November 13, 2010

Pain

pain awakens meaning
rattling of old timbers
creaking of old chains
breaking loose
so it goes again
wanting and longing
waiting for the world
to spin once more on its axis
"maybe tomorrow will be better"
maybe
so we hold on to each other
like handles in the roofs of cars
to get in and out or to freak out
gripping each other in free fall
is that what the hurt is for?
driving us closer like nail heads
lined up on a common board
beatened and standing tall
smacked downed ever deeper
by chance and coincidence
for what?
to stop the creaking?

– Jason Kichline

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Rushed

gentle rushing as the wind
in ways to go or to rescind
shaping days again begin
shedding of a season

in verdant green he realized
a hint of life in dying eyes
feel the fall as nature cries
tranquil as a tree's whim

times have changed as time could tell
as redden skins now ripened fell
fresh as ashen autumn's quell
relinquishing all reason

so as the clock strikes anew
he hopes in heaven as angels do
for grounded earth out of the blue
peace and ease still please him

– Jason Kichline

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Grove

I want to go deep within, but I know it's wrong
like the succulent, fresh fruit I long to sample
sweet nectar, flowing freely over my cheeks
hot and sticky in the moist heat of night
as teeth thrust into light, supple flesh
finding your pulsing, hidden core
tongue dancing over tender fur
moistening out of an instinct
fingers grasping to hold tight
slipping further and pulling closer
hunger penetrating into stolen moments
taking more of you than I'm allowed
loosened and plucked
for you are unowned
but known, I taste you
now ripened and waiting
wandering twisted paths in
an orchard grove of pleasure

– Jason Kichline

Monday, October 25, 2010

Viola

cornered within a silent solitude
thin panels of the past reverberate
sending chills along spines and necks
her hair stands up on end
loose and frayed
tangled as waves

scuffed dusted leather on crooked hinges
popped open I see her curves on mauve felt
abused, woodgrain raw
rough, dry, cracked
sorrowful years

I touch her neck, slow and firm
tuning her tension, loosing hurts
fine oils penetrating hardened skin
soaking in love and warmth
a shining glow of light
melting away like time

I hold her close, heart and chin
fingers dancing over her length
the steadiness of a seasoned hand
her voice echoes in the chamber
a song unheard before
ringing clear again

the musician loses himself in her
she and him entwined like notes
splattered on a sheet of white
dark perfection
dashing crescendos
crashing they rest, holding

once tossed aside as worthless waste
his wise eyes behold value true
a finely crafted shell of souls
he keeps her close and tuned
a perfect viola recaptured
in a beautiful renown
souls united in sound

– Jason Kichline

Friday, October 22, 2010

Morning's Gone

lids shut from silent still
creak open, cracked undimming
freeing deep pools to see at will
morning dawns

awakened again the heartache kills
the memory of loss, unforgetting
pooling pangs, frozen chills
morning yawns

light rushes in to have it's fill
the truth of you, bare, undressing
rewinding blurs, replaying thrill
moanings drawn

scent ascends as senses spill
nude skin on skin in bed confessing
love unleashed on you until
morning's gone

– Jason Kichline

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Sighing

sing so sweet
as lilac on the wind
rise chills of refreshed
beginnings respired

turn to me
dashed fabric flutters
cool cotton interweaves
our forevers conspired

are we to be?
or two distant echoes
as song following song
and screams within fire

burning believes
hot kisses escaping
chests bursting, aching
hands reaching higher

to touch and not see
you gleamed in sunrise
your passion in eyes sighs
through silence inspired

– Jason Kichline

Sands

rough grit, smooth slides
toes that squeeze earth
hearing atop feeling the
crash and spray warm
salted of ancient stones
cool slap of heels, foam
stick to flesh as drops
of desire to be my own
to hold your hand, hop
joy of your touch and
cool of night, or day
dry heat of sun trapped
dust, skin in thin brushes
wince at sharp twinges
of jealous dreams lost
broken shells of hope

– Jason Kichline