Header artwork by David Thomas

Welcome to a selection of truthtable's lovepoems.

The Skin of Women
Copyright @ 2003, truthtable@aol.com

There is much to be said
For the binkini-line tan,
Though of the “all over bronzed”
I likewise stand fanatical fan.

I love the skin of women fair,
Blond and blue-eyed; green-eyed, brown.
Into every jewel, I love to stare.
Bronze skin, or brown or black.

I love the skin of women on their fingers,
And all around their hands and wrists.
I love the smell of sweet sweat lingers.
I love the skin of forearms, feet, and thighs.
I love the skin of women in their lows and highs.

My cats are fun to pet; fur is warm and nice.
But rejoice that somewhere after the Great Ice,
We became the Naked Apes.
The skin of some reminds me of grapes;
Others seem more apple, orange, peach.
I like them all and like to reach,
Everyplace of each
With slow delicious tracing
That sends our hearts a-racing.

The skin of women stands a very special thing.
Yet, it is their very soul I really want to swing;
To touch the toucher and the touched inside.
To share this crazy life, this roller-ride.
And though a part of me would have them all,
It’s re-exploring One, One, that lifts beyond the wall.

Sunless Sunday of Faith

Sunless, damp, and drizzly day --
Grimy slush pockets in a lifeless woods;
Yesterday’s clear path
Overgrown with treacherous bramble bushes.

Where is my faith? Where is my faith?
A whistling wraith. Where can I find my faith,
Today, on this sunless Sunday?

The Supremes are singing novel tunes today;
A completely different style with a sanctimonious smile.
Today’s Chevy at the levy is a thousand pounds too heavy,
Dripping blood and oil from the bubbling boil of its cranky crankcase.

A hole in the ground, today: A Holy hole;
And, all around I hear the desperate screams;
See the people scrambling; feel the flames;
Taste the broken dreams awash in a salty sea.

And, so off we go again, half-cocked
On yet another Crusade and once again
The children bear the brunt;
The children feel the flame;
The leaders claim the fame.

“The shot heard ‘round the world” has transmogrified:
“The shots heard all around the world.”
The New Centourians run roughshod
All around the world just because we can.

All my eggs were not in one basket.
But, today, even the baskets are unravelled --
Shredded reeds scattered all about the floor
Eggs splattered against the open door.
Where is my faith? Where is my faith?
A whistling wraith. Where can I find my faith
On a sunless Sunday, a damp, and drizzly winter day --

Cardinals, singing, robins, crows;
Scampering squirrels.
Onion grass, the red florets on maple twigs ---
These are my counselors; these are my coaches –
Ministers to my soul, healers of my heart.
Not the media stars, complicit in the illicit;
Distracting the base and baseless base
That has become our sad and hollow home.

Life grows; life knows.
Summers always melt the snows.
And endless greed is yet a sterile seed
That sows its own demise,
While wisdom, ah, sweet wisdom
Will find and mind the wise.

I imagine, John. I imagine still.
I imagine, John. And I always will.

Happy Forty-Niner!
Copyright truthtable@aol.com

There were maps I could not read.
There were locks without their keys.
There were roads without a roamer.
There were songs without a sound.

You knocked me to my knees,
When we each other found.
A mate for soul, indeed,
As square became so round.

I delight in all our days.
I delight in all your ways.
This is the very time of our life.
Stop, take heed; take heed.

Take note in this busy-ness
Of stressful hours and weeks,
Take care to dare to be:
Your loved and loving self --- with me.

The astounding miracle of flight 004

I hear:
Music from Russian compusers and performers:
Glinka, Heifitz, Tschaikovsky.

I taste:

I do:
A crossword from a kindred soul and
One entry in particular interests me:
--- Friendly.
My God.
Much of my adult life, I’ve worked to
Get people to get it.
And “user-friendly” finally is enough of
Our culture that it becomes a cross word entry.

I admire:
American Airlines staff who:
Every day must:
In the hidden recess of the mind must wonder:
“Will this be the one?”

I write:
With pen designed by some student,
No doubt from Ivria, Milan, London or LA.
A thousand thousand years of:
We benefit.
Do we give back, enough?

I fly now,
Every chance I get
I make.

Hey. You know what?
I’m going to die anyway.
My flying more, not less, is a message:
You missed the boat.
By a long amount.
You are not in the fairway;
You are not in the rough;
You are not on the course.
You mistook the ball for a pumpkin;

Tried to carve a halloween mask and ended up with a Few shreds of plastic and rubber bands,
While the rest of us
Work, play, worship, love:

Memory Trace

It’s that Ricky Lee Jones album that returns me.

Oh, God.
The truth is:
I don’t recall her name
Though I loved her,
Truly loved her, for a time.
A time.
A time, short by some measures;
Immortal, by others.
And after ---
After, she sent me
(Such a sweet gesture)
A Ricky Lee Jones album and a note.
And sure, I loved her,
Though I can’t recall her name.
We seduced each other on the balcony of a tram
Headed for Baltimore’s train museum
At a Human Factor’s meeting.
And, I would have done anything, anything.

When we arrived at the famous seafood restaurant that next night,
(Famous, though I’ve forgotten the name)
We stood in line together several hours for Maryland crabcakes.
Starved, we were finally seated.
There were no crabcakes left; indeed, no seafood left;
Nothing of what we came for remained.
Only burgers and fries, better done
No doubt, at Burger King or McDonald’s.
Of course, no-one forgets those names.
Billion dollar advertising budgets insure that.
I seem to recall that we played darts a bit,
Waiting in line.
You aim; you throw.
Sometimes, you hit the bull’s eye.
Sometimes, at the last second, the dart dives
Just below the bull’s eye into the 3.
Sometimes, you even hit the little metal divider between sections.
Even a good throw…
Can sometimes go astray.
But that’s no reason,
Not to play.

The Kiss

Lids glide closed:
Like leaves of autumn fall.
Lips so shyly part --
Proprietry deposed.
Cracked, then crumbled wall.
Never ending, without a start.

So slowly touch --
It seems they must.
Each of knew we knew
Saw it secret of a such
Daring little but to trust
Invisibly, our fingers drew

The outline of the other's trace
Breathed the breath of love at last
Tumbled to the ground -- but when
Had I ever fallen with such grace?
When had slow become so fast?
When had not become so then?

And after on the forest floor,
With shreds of leaves in golden hair,
And thrashers sang our songs of glee,
How I reached and drank your core,
Ran falling up your spiral stair,
Closed my eyes to truly see:

The we of us in you and me
The game I lost and truly won
And round and round
The singing sound
As two became so one
And one became so three.

Race, Place, Space, Face...Etc.


Allowed the growth of Race.

Race is all about crossing Space
In the shortest Time.

To save Face,
Many of one Race
Insist they own Space
Want their own Place.

To win Face,
Someone might fake the Time
It took to cross a Space
And claim a Place
On the winner's stand and Time,
Their grand Smile
For awhile, so in Style.

Style is a sign of Race,
Of Place,
What kind of Face
Do you want to Grace
What comes into and on your Place
Your Face?
Your Grace?

Is there any kind of reason or Rhyme
To the Time
That we spend trying to Smile
Trying to use Style
To win Face over Face,
If it means that Life
Is Rife with Strife?

If there were more Time
And we listened for the Rhyme
Would we finally See
The ultimate futility
Of Racing Race over Race,
Face over Face?

How Odd of God
To give us Life
And then program us to a Life of Strife.
Perhaps the Wife
Was right all Along --
The Strong
And stupid "Might Makes Right"
Is just another way of saying: "Fight Fakes Sight"
For if we could truly See
The Space
The Time
That separates you and Me

Is nothing but illusion and a sick Joke
Not worth the Choke
Of atomic Fire
Ruining Desire
Forever and forevermore
(It isn't worth the bleeding sore)...

We could reach our hands Out
Across the Space
And Shout
Has gone, we've won, we all shall Live!
Place --
We do not care, we all shall Give
Love to our common planet, our Space
Love to our common people, our Race.
Love each moment of our common Time,
Echo echo each to each our common rhyme.
Our common rhyme."

I think, it's about Time.
Let's save this Place.
Let's forget Race,
Face it, Face
Is a Race that can't be won
We're already one.
We are already One.

We can pull and we can Push
We can blow ourselves to Mush
But the fact remains that we are One
So whoever wins hasn't Won.
They are only has-been nth Place
We are all the Human Race
And we all share this little Space.

Listen to the echo of our common Rhyme
Let's use Love Love to fill our common Time.

Rain Play



Dripple, dripple, drop, drop.


Sputter, drip,
Splish, splash
On the lash.
Pitter, pat, pat, pat.
This and that,
Roar, whoosh
Roar, whoosh
Crackle stack
Fire Crack,
Bobby boom!
Dripple whoosh,
Gurgle gush
Gutter rush.
Thunder struck
Blasted luck
Cancelled game
Chanceless fame.

Soaked shirt
Splattered dirt
Roiling muddy
Fuddy duddy.
We don't care;
We'll just dare.
Lying field
Laying field
Playing field
Loving wet,
Better yet.
In all the roar whoosh
Mud our cushy cush
Fire crack
Splicky splack
Wicker whack
We don't care
Kissing there
In all the rushing
Pelt of gushing
In all the crackling
Crackle stack,
Where it's at.
That's that.


(Appeared in Issue 5 of the e-zine Pauper.com)

When I see your huge blue eyes
Or your muscled white thighs,
I want to trip you
Strip you
Take you down
Make you drown
Raise you
Praise you --

Be the very river through your earth
The golden sun that feeds your blooming trees
The wind that blows your planetary breeze
Your winter silence and your summer mirth.

I want to be the grinding glacial ice
And gouge the very valleys of your soul
The chance behind the wheel behind the dice
The law that binds your every part to whole;

The space between your atoms and your know
The force that spins you through eternity
The ancient chant beneath maternity
The spark that fires the wild child grow.

And I must do it through and through
And thoroughly and thrice
With the only willful wanton way I know
To kiss and hold and take you
Make you glow and flow
Through blood and time and trouble
Hot flashing hands become brands
Caressing, undressing
Unraveling every weave
Till all of both of us believe
And tell.
Till the double us of us is intertwined
Creating our own gravity,
Earth and sky and blue above.
And the sweet and sweaty smell
Of each of us
Is both
Lingering, lingering in the afterglow
Of me
And you
And we
And love.

Fourth of July: Fireworks

To true blue flashes of lightning
Take a message of sashes untightening.
Bolts, threads, cloth of rainbow colors
Fireworks exploding through tonights.

When will pale faded shades pall
In shop windows in Burlington Mall?
Hear no vendors in strident cry
Wolf and shy with strictly structured sights...

What? And off forth together weaving
A fine-patterned needlework of believing,
In formal systems rising and falling song
Cannot contest our destination for a sign.

Sand paintings, landscapes, seascapes and such
Know no such delicacy of texture and of touch
And pain of too much tenderness and feel
The glowing redness of a long-awaited wine.

See the hands tracing our lives in rhythmic rhyme,
Altogether unassuming syntax of a blessed time.
Lying close and seeing fine-lined desires
Feed flickering flames and tongues of passion.

Counterpointed melodies that rise and fall,
And themes of fingers moving at your beck and call.
Let me come and lay you back in a dream and a vision
Where the wheel of fortune spins in a most dramatic fashion.

The chords of color breaking, making
Making and remaking all our symphony and waking
In the shattered light of morning making once again
Music patterned light shows in a fireword of mind.

Roving bands and finding in the coming and the after-smile,
Playing all the tunes and feeling all the while,
Listening to the aching of the colors
And watching the sound of a soft touch and kind.

Let us go then!

Let us go then you and I
To where the rainbow meets the sky
Wish a while or three
Beneath infinity.
Off on the froth of fortunes never told
Of heroes and heroines too bold
To bother with bought and sold.

Let us sew then, you and I
Fabulous futures with seeds of why.
Far beyond between mere bounds,
Movement without motion, and song without sounds,
We will travel noiselessly to and through everywhere,
Where merely mortal gods don't dare
And those concerned with syntax couldn't care.

Let us love then, you and I
In the square root of e to the pi, eye.
Yes! We, but little while are guests so blessed,
With flower, sun, moon, and wine caressed.
To live algorithmically, precisely,
Will not do, we don't live twicely.
Come with me! Not concisely, nicely,
But enigmatically, incisely.


Established ways of speaking
Just do not suffice
For those transitions
Of the soul
That so well of mine you read
And fill
The need
To feed
With all deliberate speed
No bones about it and about
For where would some far star
A rend
In space
A face
To haunt
A melody
To play
Sweet caress
Upon the fabric of the self.

Poems of Despair
Back to Poetry Index

To contact the author: truthtable@aol.com

Last modified: Dec 12, 2002