Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tag: romance


Let’s segway
these afternoons
into lifetimes.
We can write battles,
we can write
endings where
all lovers win.
Bittersweet ends
with elderly arms
gone cold,
souls found holding
their darling in bed.
And every line
will be worth
a pause…


So strung out —
Your looks
narrowed to lashes.
They falter,
flutter and flail
fortunate cheekbones
as we slip
to slumber.

Feste’s Lute: Carnival Times

Per a request, this is an account of how I met my wife. It’s six years old, and so awkward in places (especially at the beginning) that I hesitate to post it. I’ve never felt that I was the best prose writer… However, I like the idea and, once past the first few paragraphs, the piece as a whole. It’s beautifully sincere.

Here’s a hint, the threads are books. We met because of the books we loved, with some matchmaking from the music we loved…

click thru to the original for more…


I feel so content. It seems like all my life I’ve spent searching, trying to find something beyond the bland modern fascinations. It seems like I’ve run from distraction to distraction hoping that, amidst all the glitter, I would find gold.

One day walking amidst funhouse tunes and clusters of…

Feste’s Lute: Carnival Times

Because I’m Clumsy

There are thoughts
far too precious
to spend on lined
feelings too
in nuance
for prose —
Sweet glances
sit wrapped tight
and kept with
my dearest
hopes in hidden
of worship.

Revision – First Touch

tiny fingers tangle pressing
spark my soul, arc tracing lines.
the laughter in her warm, soft face
speaks a silent choice to mine.

Revision – Michael at Dawn

Be with me,
My little writer
wrestle angels, daybreak waits.
Lips divesting,
whisper fervent
snare the fool who needs no bait.

As Angels Alight

There’s something amazing about falling asleep at night with someone clinging to you, their head resting on your shoulder. It brings me awake and sets all thoughts of sleep aside for those first moments in our darkened room. It is a time of being loved in repose. Not with a thought, but in existence. Simple yet blinding to comprehend, its essence is what I imagine will encompass the first epoch of worship in heaven.


I wish I could write something anything lately about what I really feel for my dearest. I am ever so much in love… and I read the old words from her and I.

It all seems so lovely, but now things feel so much more grounded. Not in a bad way. We used to soar and fall before in the heights and depths of thrilling bliss and overcoming fear.

Now a high hill with a tower stands where only a cliff had been. There, on the east side in an open balcony, we stand together looking at the new sun, still barely above the horizon of our time together. It still rest in the familiar hills and valleys of our past, but its rays illumine forest glades we’ve only glimpsed in hopeful dreams. And with those fields and valleys the future stands like the tower behind us and beneath us.

But all that is simply metaphor. I said once that I wanted to be there to hold her until all the sorrow drained away. Now I want more than that. I want to always hold her.

I’ll meet you in that glade.


As saints of old,
or those carved in church nooks
my eyes gaze over to you
and wonder at your form,
your abrupt turning
to everything that ‘waits your hand
and the way you close and seal a book
with a lingering sigh

And I must move to capture
the riddle in your pause
And I know I won’t quite catch it
before you find a cause

Still I crawl over to collect
the remnants of that stillness
and whisper thrice my willingness
to bare your arms of business
to kiss the naked skin so flushed
to let it feel respite

but like the bridge that
Sin and Death Built sprawling
to squirming Satan outside the Garden
I offer no sweetened end
only transport and battles
in a war we cannot win


Many of you may think disjointed is the word for me recently anyway. Not that I mind. Today at a convenience store there were at least two crazy people. (edit: I am really not making fun here, I think our view of what is normal is crazy in itself) One of which obviously had a hard time reacting to the world. She’d move slowly toward everything that involved her…. it was obvious that her mind couldn’t process the input, so what she did had to be very slow and deliberate. I moved to one side to do something and was confronted by the other strange person. Her companion. He, on the other hand, processed input just fine. His output was where things went a bit screwy. Rushing to help, jumping at the slightest inspiration, talking nonstop about everything and anything not related. Related thoughts seemed unnecessary to him, I think. Anyway, he says, “Don’t mind her… she just ain’t quite like we are.”

I loved that.

There’s nothing like the strange talking about the strange. Ha… I was, very seriously, thrilled to be included in his fraternity. Fast, silly and disjointed is perfect. Not sure I’d enjoy the woman’s experience quite so much. So… here I am, strange myself… talking about the strange. Hope you enjoy it just a bit. On that note I’ll leave you with a poem I wrote while in a business meeting tonight. It’s all nonsense certainly. I didn’t even try. Then a haiku, cause I’m going thru a quick haiku phase.

Article 9 meetings
continued daily
lost my train
words pouring off my earlobes
somehow ruptured
in the “need to know”
prelude to boredom aspires
and steals the show
-cue nervous laughter-


the kissing sunset
does thank her waiting earth-love
for his faithful arms