one autumn saturday

. . . . . six o’clock, in the a.m.  i wake from my deep relaxing slumber. the dawns light slowly meets the twilight sky of the  evening and grows brighter, i wipe my eyes. the rooms cool feel surrounds, as i unwrap myself from the comfort warmth of the flannel sheets. i rest my feet upon the carpet, still reluctant to remove myself  from the comfort of sleep.  the fibers of the carpet surround my toes. i give myself a long stretch, arms above my head, torso stretched. i walk myself on over to the kitchen, where the comfort of the carpet turns to a cooler touch of wooden floor. i turn to the coffee maker, and glance out the window. eyes adjusting, seeing the overcast sky through a light frosted window pane. and the longing for summer formed in my head, and i chuckled. outside the window, the maple tree leaves rustle, as the morning breeze quickly blows through. thankful that i am inside,  i grab a mug off of the hook, and set it in the holder, and the coffee starts brewing for my cup. saturday morning, seven a.m. starting the day. //  i let you sleep in for a while. i head for the shower.  pulling  back the brown and mint curtain and pulling  the knob out and over to the hottest position. as i wait for the hot water to commence, i brush my teeth, shave my face and count the grey hairs that snuck in the night prior. after i started to lose count, a heavy steam starts rolling through, covering the mirror, and  i head to the shower. after all is done, i dry myself off with the soft cotton, matching  mint,  towel and dress myself  for a cool autumn day. // i open the side door to the garage, and flip the switch. the fluorescent flickers, buzzes and turns on. tripping over all the left over summer garage sale junk, that is piled up in stalemate, i stumble over to my local hardware store’s , fall special rake. i grab it from off the wall’s hook,  and lift open the heavy garage door panel. i walk out on the driveway and look over the yard. i pick out my starting point which is  the lower left portion of the property. it’s where the mighty oak lives. fifty years, to be exact. and it’s where the most leaves had fallen. start with the hardest and end with the easiest. there are other trees in the yard, but none that added up to this elder of trees. the cool autumn breeze had turned cooler, and i pull the jacket together to zip it up. i continue. as i am half way through the front yard’s  project, i notice that you are  up and awake. standing there on the front porch, in your p.j.’s covered by a thick cotton robe,  waiting for me to notice you. i look up, and see you sip on your coffee. and behind your cup, you give me a distant good morning smile. motioning  me to come join you, you hand me a newly brewed cup of coffee. the cool air draws massive steam to the java.  kiss you good morning, hug me love. i take another sip and head back to the project at hand. you head back in quickly, because you hate the cold, but love it from the comfort of the warm window inside. i smirk, and rake till i’m done. leaves headed to their new home, in the compost pile, where they will contribute to the springs renewal. i look around and take note of all the other pre-winter chores i have to get done. i write them down, tuck the list in my back pocket and save them for another day.// lunchtime. i head in, and see that you are already ten steps ahead of me, and have it ready for me. i freshen up with some water to the face and up to the elbows, i clean up.  i look in the mirror, still bothered by the grey hair count. you laugh, and tell me that you like it, and that it makes me  look distinguished.  a quiet sigh and an unseen roll of the eye, we both laugh. we both eat and relax on the couch and make plans for the rest of the day, grocery store, movie madness afternoon. lazy saturday afternoon. never leaving the house, never leaving the comfort of each other’s arms, under the afghan blanket.  and within the first fifteen minutes of the first movie, one autumn saturday we shared, we fell asleep . . . . . .

you are: more than these words

. . . . sometimes curly, sometimes straight. light to dark and dark to light. her hair changes upon season and mood. eyes shine, glimmer like diamonds. she’s a springtime song, thawing out the winter’s chill.  her face, smooth and delicate. her silence says a thousand words, her tone soft and angelic. her presence, like soft falling snow, graceful and quiet. the elegance, the beauty, outshines the sun on any given day. when her smiles make an appearance, my heart becomes weak, and falls again. her skin, creamy; glowing. her heart, caring and giving.  a dedicated humanitarian, her modesty might say otherwise. a seeker of truth, dwelling within the words.  a wonderful mother, a juggling between life’s acts and little wonders. a wife that only a man can dream of. wishful thinking to my reality. she is a symphony in life. a rock upon which i can lean on. a friend no one can be. the best. you are. you are more than these words, more than what my painting can say. you are the essence of my desire. oh, my love!, my heart longs when you are away!, and when you are within these arms, i beg for forever!    

c.2013 BGW

somewhere warm (part one)

the palm trees sway softly, as the warm coastal breeze travels lazily in the air.  baby blue skies and the bright glowing sun, beaming down upon us all. crystal aqua-blue waters, the soft grains of white sand surround the island. the rushing of the waves crashing ashore, the distant laughter of children playing, people relaxing. about sixty yards off the water’s edge, nestled in the sands, are a row businesses. a mix of beach bum dugouts, tourist trap shoppes and local cafes. and that’s where i am. in the open air cafe, sitting here waiting, trying to complete this sentence. this is where the locals come and go to hang out, and to get away from the circus of the season. tourists wouldn’t dare coming in here, because here, they are the foreigners, and the beach bums know that their lying tales wouldn’t stand tall.  this is as real as real can get, island living. the cafe is like a throwback to the early nine-teen forties and fifties. island yellow walls, white wooden trim. dark grey cast iron and dark wood tables and chairs and four heavily worn, red pleather booths that were in the back of the dinning area. ceiling fans circulate the sea salt air. smaller indoor palms lined the perimeter, where the walls retracted. bottles fill the shelves behind the counter, where the barkeeper cleans the glass.  i set my pen down, and stretch out my hands, cracking my knuckles in the process. and while i try to figure where this story was going, a bead of condensation runs down my glass. i pick up my pen again and start where i left off. the black ink rolls onto the parchment smoothly, as my thoughts become words. it’s getting on to be noontime, and the small cafe starts filling in with the lunchtime crowd. dressed in a white coastal shirt and a black skirt that compliments, the waitress tames her long hair, pulling it into a pony-tail. her spanish tanned skin brightens the whiteness of her shirt. she quickly tries to serve all fifteen tables, and does it with grace. a pro. and the smell of fried plantains and grilled chicken quickly fills the air. taking the last sip of drink, i glance up to see where she is, and she sees me eyeing her. not doing so in a perverted way, like i’m sure she’s use to, but just to let her know that i was ready for another glass. she delivers me a glass and a smile and i return it with a thanks. on the corked coaster, my glass rolls another bead of condensation. the diminishing crowd of hungry locals allow me to get back to the concentration that eluded me, passing forty-five minutes of people watching. each table and booth carrying their own personal story. and if you ever took a moment to think about it, each and every single individual, has their own personal book. to some, a novel, and to others, a short story. now getting to be half pass two, i look back at what i have written, the ink still not dry,  is smeared by my thumb. i set the paper down, and take another sip from my cooled glass. slowly i look up at the beauty of the landscape that sits afront of me. the breeze crawling through the cafe. i stand, and gather all my papers and file them inside my folder. i reach in my pocket and leave the money for tab and tip on the table. i grab the glass for the last time, and take my last swallow. i push in my seat, and thank the camarera. and as i walk away, i glance at the second seat that was at my table. knowing that i wished she was here. and i am directed back to the memory of her. the face, the name. but that is in  a whole other story in itself…………c.2012 BGW

the walk home (evening edition)

five p.m. walking home from a hard days work. the concrete sidewalks, counting the blocks. each step quicker than the last, hurry home. and as i walk, the greyish skies above open up. i pull the collar from my warm pea coat up around my cooling neck, and i slide the umbrella open for my shelter in motion. the lamplight forms a glow as the english mist looms. the sounds of the wet pavement streets grow louder as the cars speed by, also on their way home. i continue until i meet the wooden gate, the point where the past of the day is behind me and greats the rest of the world that is me, i am. as i open the creaking gate, i jump over a growing rain puddle, and i land on the mossy covered cobblestone path that leads me to my castle. i climb the few steps to the porch, closing my portable shelter, brushing the wetness off my jacket, meeting the door ahead. i reach in my pocket and grab the cold keys and picked out the silver metal cut skeleton key and slid it into its home and turned the knob. the very first thing i see is my son playing blocks in the front parlour. as a big smile comes across his smooth baby face, he gets up and walks shakily over to where i am standing and hugs my leg. my daughter sitting at her mothers desk, working diligently on her homework. and without disruption or looking up softly says “hey”. i pick my son up to hug. i take in a breath and smell the aroma of dinner basking in the surrounding. drying her hands on her white apron that she quickly unties and slips off, my wife. coming up to me, she gives me a loving smile, kiss me welcome, hug me love. i set my canvas satchel down, along with my son, and place the umbrella in the corner, where the last of the raindrops fall upon the green slated floor below. i hang up my dampened coat on the coat rack in the other corner of the entryway. i start untying my tie as i head up stars for my shower. i wash the off the days work, and scrub off the workdays burden. my wife knocks at the door and opens it. and with her soft voice reminds me that i forgot my towel. i see through the steamed glass as she tries to place the cotton towel on the hook beside the shower door. i quickly open the glass door and gently grab her elbow, wet laughter met by a warm embrace of the love that often goes without or forgotten. busy schedules, conflicting times. quickly and quietly, the passion brews. we both laugh as we dry off and change into our evening attire of comfortable clothing of soft flannel pants and a dryer sheet scented t-shirt. we head down to the dinner table, i gather the kids as she makes the final preparations to the dinner meal. we all sit, all in our proper seating place, and i smile. i smile just watching my wife placing the bib on our youngest. she catches a glimpse of me watching her, and replies with a crooked smile. we all bow are heads and grace is spoken. and as my daughter speaks of thanksgiving, i sneak a peek of my family. and in that quick moment, i saw in slow motion, a panoramic view of my family. and at that moment, i felt it. simultaneously in my heart, body and mind, that this is it. this is what i live for, this is what every single aspect of my life lives for. this family, this house, our lives we share together. working to live, never living to work. this is me. i am. after dinner, homework done and the children are all worn out, we put them to bed. we follow suit. there, we listen to the silence, peaceful and relaxing. child-free for the moment, soak it in. i hold you until you fall asleep, i quietly turn over and turn out the light. the day is complete.  c.2012 BGW