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Real

It was only the end of May …

So what more has there been … in that little time … from those days before … just he and I in our strange embrace … such far flung friends … lovers so long lost to the in between …

Still I am his … and he is mine … we share our secrets …

September I saw him … bright eyes and that ready smile … just out of surgery … the best trip of all in some ways …

A chance to care … for the one who cared … a chance to speak of love and know its reasons …

But also there has been summer … the revelation he sent me to … my world of discovery … his vicarious place in the back of my mind … the ever present guide …

Community … friends … belonging … adventure … life …

All that life I never lived …

The Dom who vetted me … a new strike of lightening … as though recognition was always as easy as that … he teaches me now too … bit by bit … drawing me into the place of the real … as my One watches over … and smiles …

That’s my bitch …

Permission asked … permission granted … and so I live and learn …

There are munches … and parties … and dungeons in basements … beach trips … and laughter … and dancing …

There is time to explore …

Straight … gay … bi … cross dressing … transgender … leather … queer …

Poly amorous … monogamous … and figuring it out …

Jeans and a t-shirt … the boy next door … Daddy’s sweet princess … and the slut who just simply loves pain ….

The adorable puppy who wags her tail … the one in top hat with years of wisdom … and the young one who plays with knives …

Doms and Dommes both … subs of all sorts … switches … and plain kinky too …

We’ve got them all … that all is we …

Floggers and whips … wax and rope … soft as a feather … or meant to sting …

And respect …

No one touches without permission … no one presumes … all bets are off … but you choose your own poison … you define its limits … you set your own stage …

Of course every room must have its pretenders … the one off his rocker … and the newbie still trying to learn …

But just open your mind … let your heart feel the rhythm … and know the home you searched for …

I will always tell stories … it’s what I do … these stories that spring from the things I see and feel …

But now that real is even more real … in the touch of hands … and the dreams we chase … in all we become together …

So follow me Master … there’s so much to know … and I hate to travel alone …

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The Cross

To begin was the working of a well worn path. The cross of many uses; so often used.

There is no thought in the moment of surrender. Only an intent to be.

Watch that deceptively agile strip of leather fly through sky. It dances in the hand of a Master. It lands with purpose.

Watch the weight of his spoken unspoken land just so: wordlessly. More communication in each of those final vicious blows than a million conversations.

Then watch her fly.

Watch her fall at the end. Exhausted from their journey; driven somewhere far by the hand that cared.

Knowing only one place. Here is the one who drives me so, and brings me home. This is my rest.

Watch them there together. Beauty can find no grace without its testing.

And yet I’ve seen it.

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Imagine With Me

It’s been suggested to me that I create my own scenarios … as though my life is the story … a thing to be imagined and created like anything else …

That’s very much so … but with a caveat …

He has been like inspiration and editor both … there is no subject without an object … all of it refined by an interaction of fact with fiction … truth with embellishment …

I don’t create alone … he stays for the ride … always … never disabusing me of all my “silly notions” …

I write the play … but he directs it … with each in our roles … at home in a dangerous land …

So that every idea that went uncorrected … built on the last … until my scenarios became his as well … by default or design … we imagined as one …

What’s mine given over … to set the stage … where in truth we could walk together …

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Too Gentle

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant’s profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant’s world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.

James Kavanaugh

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Tales to Tell

The old willow in the back yard was telling tales to the wind. Each gathering of tiny leaves like so many whispering wives at Saturday brunch.

So many stories to tell. Penknife scratches on withered bark; a most fitting testament. All those lives so very lived. The old tree knew a thousand thousand secrets.

The leaves brushed Cherry’s cheek. She found it safe here. Even though the branches muttered and moaned. “Run along little one”, the tree seemed to say, “there’s weather coming”.

Her eyes were still wet. Just as he’d left her. He was always leaving as it happened. Happy go lucky wanderers aren’t meant for keeping. But he always came back with such an angelic smile. It was easy to forget.

Or impossible to forget. It had been just over the ridge in that beat up car of his that he’d had her first. Sweaty Sunday night after some long lost picnic. The confident come hither smile and devious mind. She never could resist such brave ideas.

He was forever seeming to ask too much; and also too little. The more he had asked the more she had wanted to give. Only to be left standing with hands open in the rain.

What was this wet in her eyes anyway? Just the rain perhaps. Tears never served much purpose.

And yet this time was different. He hadn’t left as such, not this time. Been driven off by that same wind that was now being such a bother to this tree. Helpless tool in the hands of fate. To be remarkable is not to be invincible.

The sun had set a while back and it had gotten chilly, but rather than retreat she merely pulled her jacket a little tighter. Hugged the tree a little closer. It seemed to sigh for her in the rising moonlight.

In a most unexpected change of habit he had asked her to wait this time. No quick disappearing act to leave her as speechless as he. Rather than that just a simple request, albeit still delivered in careless offhanded prose.

“Wait here, I’ll be back”.

Yet she knew, and he knew she knew, that he really couldn’t say for sure.

So here she sat. Just her and the jaded old tree, weeping its endless sympathies. The bright moon creeping into every crevice of the surrounding terrain. Leaving nowhere to hide.

Was it hours. Was it days. She felt she had dozed but wasn’t sure. The darkness was everywhere except for that moon, and it seemed that day might never come again.

“Wait here, I’ll be back”.

The wind still whispered what his voice had spoken. As though to command her.

So she stretched. And she shivered. And she closed her eyes tight to the brightness she could no longer bear. But she did not flinch.

Happy go lucky wanderers are sometimes worth waiting for. And sometimes the only course you know is the one you’re given.

It could have been forever, or it could have been an instant. Thinking back on it she really couldn’t tell. All she would remember after was the sun creeping up in the sky.

And his smile.

“You waited”, he laughed. But then of course he would laugh. He was laughter and love brought to life. And here he’d come back. Just as he said.

For long seconds it was as if she’d grown roots with the tree, bonded to it for all eternity. But the willow was having none of that. Branches brushing her cheek with more urgent insistence.

“Off you go”.

Still whispering. Still telling tales. Still saving secrets.

And here then was one more for its trove of treasure. Eyes wet from a different kind of rain. The kind that heals.

Arms and legs winding like branches entwining. Wordless questions that need no more answers. Sighs and sounds and breathlessness.

A withered old tree still thinking its own twisted thoughts. That waiting is naught but a silly fool’s crusade. As its tales could endlessly tell.

But on this day, at least on this day, fate was kind.

Copyright @ 2014 Borntodance

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See What I See

What do you see …
When you close your eyes …

Is it this same universe …
Endless eternities …
Stars that burn a hole in the heart …
From the heat of a cool night sky …

What does lie beyond …
Behind each well of light …
Each tiny beacon …
So much larger in its reality …
Than in its seeming substance …

See what I see …
See clear …

See fire …
See flames …
See conscience consumed …

Let reluctance retreat …
And restraint be restrained …

See my one and true obsession …

Look on this endless sky …
We all have shared …

And in that eternal emptiness …
Find forever …
With me …