Tag: Poetry

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John Burnside–Sweetness Personified by Pat Gourley

I was first introduced to John Burnside in the 1978 classic queer film The Word is Out. John was Harry Hay’s loving companion from 1962 until Harry’s death in 2002 with John to follow him in death in 2008. The documentary is still available in DVD format today and for those not familiar with the movie it is a series of talking head interviews with twenty-six gay men and lesbians that are very brave, raw and captivating in their honest presentation. What struck me the most about the movie was the segment featuring Hay and Burnside. They were interviewed at their place of residence at the time a compound nestled in the San Juan Pueblo in Northern New Mexico. The image of the two of them walking hand-in-hand through a meadow along the banks of the Rio Grande has stuck with me since first seeing it on film thirty-six years ago.

At that time I don’t think I knew that Harry was the founding spirit behind the seminal queer Mattachine Society decades before in Los Angeles. One had to be quite the earnest, independent, gay historian in those days to get to this piece of history. The roots of the modern gay movement just weren’t taught in American history classes much in those days. The film’s images of these two older very political gay men obviously in a loving relationship for years was startling to me and I thought I need to meet these two. Thanks to a powerful lesbian woman named Catherine I knew through the Gay Community Center in Denver at the time I was able to connect with them and the rest is history.

My first impressions of John at my house on Madison Street in the fall of 1978 were that he was the most gentle, fey person I had ever met. His dedication, unwavering support and love for his partner Harry were at all times evident. The meaning of ‘fey’ often conjured up these days I think is effeminate but the definition is really “other worldliness”. This quality seems to best be summed up by his own words. A short bit of poetry from John:

“Hand in hand we walk, as wing tip to wing tip
our spirits roam the universe, finding lovers everywhere.
Sex is music.
Time is not real.
All things are imbued with spirit.”

John and Harry were at the time I met them deeply involved in the creation of the phenomenon that would become the “Radical Fairies” along with a couple other souls named Don Kilhefner and Mitch Walker. Planning for the first Radical Fairie gathering in the Arizona desert was already roughly taking shape and would happen the following September in 1979.

John and Harry were an amazing couple. Amazing in how different they seemed yet how wonderfully they melded almost into one. Harry while almost always spouting very right-on analysis of almost any situation could be at times intimidating, combative even and most certainly prickly though a real teddy bear under it all. John on the other hand was always flashing the warmest and most welcoming of smiles that often belied the acute insights he could bring to almost any dialogue on a wide range of subjects. And boy could he talk, often well into the night long after I was able to hear and absorb much and I am sure rudely nodding off in his presence.

For me personally John was often great at taking Harry’s more erudite and dense pronouncements on the state of gay men and their liberation and translating them in very warm and understandable ways. Sort of like taking raw queer theory and serving it up as warm apple cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it, mmm good, yes I want more of that, please.

John’s power was on display for me personally on several occasions when Harry would get himself into meltdown mode and John would quietly and skillfully step in and make things all right again. I mean you could not have the father of modern gay liberation be non-functional for too long, he was needed. John knew this and was always available to provide the salve to whatever wound had just been ripped open.

One small example of this comes to mind around the trip the three of us took to Chaco Canyon in the late 1980’s. We were in separate vehicles since they planned to head back to L.A. after we visited Chaco. Their truck broke down along highway 285 just a few miles outside of Denver and this threw Harry into a major non-communicative funk, probably because it was a frequent occurrence for their 20 plus year old Datsun pick-up. John stepped up immediately and had me driving him down to a Napa auto parts store for the fix needed that he had very skillfully diagnosed. This all done by a man without a driver’s license and someone I never in over thirty year had seen behind the wheel, but was always quietly and firmly in control.

I have reams of correspondence much of it hand written from Harry but only a couple of letters from John. One I received just a few short months after meeting them here in Denver and it was John very kindly reaching out to me about a frustrated love affair I was involved in at the time we met. The bottom-line for me was I should have avoided a relationship with a closeted Mormon E.D. doctor with a bad cocaine habit but live and learn. John however approached my torment with loving advice based on his obviously complex and mercurial relationship with Harry and a couple of their New Mexico friends who as he described them were a foursome but without shared sex beyond the two dyads involved.

I won’t quote from the philosophical part of the long hand written letter but rather share a bit of the queer theory he laid on me towards the end of the tome:

“Heterosexual false assumptions are based on taking their beliefs about themselves (mostly false, for them, in truth) as absolutes. We Gays start with a different set of possibilities and the power to deal flexibly with our feelings and hopes. We must not allow ourselves to become frozen when those hopes are frustrated.” John Burnside-March 15, 1979. Sage advice from a great gay Sage.

I seriously doubt the Radical Fairie movement would have come into being without John Burnside’s loving and continual ongoing massage of the message. Not to be too trite here but if Harry brought the ‘radical’ piece to the trip then John certainly brought the ‘fairie’ piece. I’ll end by quoting Bob Dylan: “I like my sugar sweet” and John Burnside was certainly sweetness personified.


© July 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Mirror Image by Lewis

Mirror,
mirror on the wall
Who’s
the feyest of them all?
Surely
can’t be said of me
I
strive so hard to manly be.
Oft
my image makes me wince
Asymmetric
from birth hence;
Discolored
lips far from lush,
Eyes
that skew, no hair to brush.
Yet,
altogether not amiss
Or
with a trace of feminess,
I
pass as straight among the crowd
No
cry of “fag” is heard aloud.
I
wander any milieu,
Yielding
not a single clue
What
physique might catch my eyes
Or
give a hint I might like guys.
Perhaps
it shouldn’t matter
What
veggie I dip in batter
But
if something’s going to fry,
I’d
as soon it not be THIS guy.
©
22 June 2013

About the Author 

I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I retired
and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Cavafy – Gay Poet by Louis Brown

Prompt: Poetry

Consider the following:
(1) Constantine P. Cavafy, 20th Century gay Greek poet
(2) Alexander the Great
(3) New York City Civic Center: poetry reading of Constantine P. Cavafy poetry
(4) Our golden age in ancient Greece.
(5) Sappho, ancient Greek Lesbian poet; the Amazons
(6) Modern Era Lesbian poet was Gertrude Stein (February 3, 1874 – July 27, 1946) was an American writer of novels, poetry and plays.
(7) Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud; in the American ‘60’s, Alan Ginsbergh.

When I was at SAGE New York, I looked at the Community Bulletin Board, and I noticed that there was going to be a public reading of the poetry of Constantine P. Cavafy. I guess over the years we have heard some mention of gay poets, Alan Ginsbergh, and in 19th Century France, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine. I wonder if Sylvester Stallone knows that his character Rambo has the same last name a gay French poet?

When I saw the ad for the reading of Cavafy’s poetry, I said to myself that an insightful gay libber did a good deed in trying to popularize Constantine Cavafy’s poetry. Right now for our community, he is the most interesting gay poet, the hottest potato, for several reasons. Like the work of 19th century homophile writers John Addington Symonds in America, Magnus Hirschfield in Germany, Edward Carpenter and Havelock Ellis in England, Cavafy’s poetry has a specific reference to ancient gay history.

Briefly, ancient Greece was our golden age. To read between the lines, the deal back then was heterosexual men and women got a “deferment” from military service. They stayed home, made babies and took care of them. Gay men were expected to become soldiers. They ran the military both in Athens and Sparta. As a result, gay men also ran the original Olympic games, they were in charge of the academies and all the sacred temples. Same sex love was considered a more refined, a more noble form of love-making. It was public policy. My guess is this all came about because of Alexander the Great (whose military boyfriend was Haephestus). Also much was made of women becoming warriors, remember the Amazons. The most noted ancient Lesbian poetess was of course Sappho. That was the other side of the coin.

When the Italian Renaissance came along in the 16th Century, thanks in part to liberal Pope Julius V, there was a renewed interest in Graeco-Roman history. Remember Leonardo DaVinci, Michaelangelo Buonaroti, Sandro Botticelli, I think it is safe to assume that same sex love in antiquity was an important contributing factor to the interest of the patrons of the très gay Italian Renaissance.

Constantine P. Cavafy; [1] also known as Konstantin or Konstantinos Petrou Kavafis, or Kavaphes; Greek:  April 29 (April 17, OS), 1863 – April 29, 1933) was a Greek poet who lived in Alexandria and worked as a journalist and civil servant. He published 154 poems; dozens more remained incomplete or in sketch form. His most important poetry was written after his fortieth birthday.

He wrote in Greek; scholars will have to vie to become the best translator of his work.

“Ithaca”

When you set sail for Ithaca, 
wish for the road to be long, 
full of adventures, full of knowledge. 
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes, 
an angry Poseidon — do not fear. 
You will never find such on your path, 
if your thoughts remain lofty, and your spirit 
and body are touched by a fine emotion. 
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes, 
a savage Poseidon you will not encounter, 
if you do not carry them within your spirit, 
if your spirit does not place them before you. 
Wish for the road to be long. 
Many the summer mornings to be when 
with what pleasure, what joy 
you will enter ports seen for the first time. 
Stop at Phoenician markets, 
and purchase the fine goods, 
nacre and coral, amber and ebony, 
and exquisite perfumes of all sorts,
the most delicate fragrances you can find.
 To many Egyptian cities you must go,
 to learn and learn from the cultivated. 
Always keep Ithaca in your mind. 
To arrive there is your final destination. 
But do not hurry the voyage at all. 
It is better for it to last many years, 
and when old to rest in the island, 
rich with all you have gained on the way, 
not expecting Ithaca to offer you wealth. 
Ithaca has given you the beautiful journey. 
Without her you would not have set out on the road. 
Nothing more does she have to give you. 
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you. 
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
 you must already have understood what Ithaca means.

Historical Poems 
These poems are mainly inspired by the Hellenistic era with Alexandria at primary focus. Other poems originate from Helleno-romaic antiquity and the Byzantine era. Mythological references are also present. The periods chosen are mostly of decline and decadence (e.g. Trojans); his heroes facing the final end.

Sensual Poems
The sensual poems are filled with the lyricism and emotion of same-sex love; inspired by recollection and remembrance. The past and former actions, sometimes along with the vision for the future underlie the muse of Cavafy in writing these poems.

Philosophical Poems
Also called instructive poems they are divided into poems with consultations to poets and poems that deal with other situations such as closure (for example, “The walls”), debt (for example, “Thermopylae”), and human dignity (for example, “The God Abandons Antony”).

If only our community could get its act together and promote lesbian and gay cultural history in more depth and popularize it; that would be progress.

30 June 2014

About the Author

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Emily Dickinson Lesbian Puritan Poetess by Louis Brown

I originally intended to do a report on the work of Constantine
P. Cavafy.
However, after I took a good look at who wrote what previously
on the Tell Your Story blog, I noticed that Colin Dale gave an even better
report on Constantine P. Cavafy than myself. His article is entitled “Details,”
dated 2-27-2013.  So I decided on my
second choice for favorite of the past and that was Emily Dickinson, before
which, however, on Cavafy:
When I was at SAGE New York,
I looked at the Community Bulletin Board, and I noticed that there was going to
be a public reading of the poetry of Constantine P. Cavafy. I guess over the
years we have heard some mention of gay poets, Alan Ginsberg, and in 19th
Century France, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine.  I wonder if Sylvester Stallone knows that his
character Rambo has the same last name a gay French poet?
When I saw the ad for the
reading of Cavafy’s poetry, I said to myself that an insightful gay libber did
a good deed in trying to popularize Constantine Cavafy’s poetry. Right now for
our community, he is the most interesting gay poet, the hottest potato, so to
speak, for several reasons. Like the work of 19th century homophile
writers John Addington Symonds in America, Magnus Hirschfield in Germany,
Edward Carpenter and Havelock Ellis in England, Cavafy’s poetry has a specific
reference to ancient gay history, that is to our golden age, ancient Greece.
Wikipedia: Constantine P. Cavafy (/kəˈvɑːfɪ/;[1] also known as Konstantin or Konstantinos
Petrou Kavafis, or Kavaphes;
Greek:
Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης; April 29 (April 17,
OS),
1863 – April 29, 1933) was a Greek poet who lived in Alexandria
and worked as a journalist and civil
servant. He published 154 poems; dozens more remained incomplete or in
sketch form. His most important poetry was written after his fortieth birthday.
He wrote in Greek.
+++
Emily Dickinson was a 19th
Century Lesbian Puritan Poet, called the Dame of Amherst. She was one of a
number of writers of the New England “Renaissance,” which include among others
two gay men Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Her years were 1830- 1886.
When I think about it, I could have done a report on Walt Whitman, n’est-ce pas? Considering the historical
period, we are talking about the Yankee defeat of the Confederate Army.
If Puritanism had not been
so repressive, I am sure Emily Dickinson would love to have said something
like, “When people ask why I never married, I would answer that I get a warm
feeling when certain women enter the same room I am sitting in.”  But of course she couldn’t because it was “Verboten”.
  
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us -don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

[This teaches us how to be skeptical of politicians].

+++
Because I could not
stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then ’tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

+++
Snake
A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, -did you not?
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, –
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature’s people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

[Subtle resemblance to Edgar Allen Poe].
Moral of story: we need a Gay and
Lesbian school to popularize our literary past.

© 27 June 2014  

About the Author  

I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
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Poetry Tree by Beth Kahmann

Some need Poetry like another
whole in their head,
Well, I certainly don’t need
another whole in my head, Beth said.
Others need it to fulfill a
proverbial scratch that needs itching
Or a needlepoint project that
needs more stitching
Others still ache and crave
And must partake and
create, 
In order to be saved.
Others, still, need it to
quench a gnawing thirst, just like a water balloon, ready to burst.
One common denominator or thread
seems to be that some cradle their Poetry, as if it is Communal bread. 
All I know is I get bursts
and phrases of conjunctions and dangling participles that randomly float around
in my head, even when I’m in bed
And when I am able
I sit at my table
striking pen to paper
creating, cultivating my own
little song, rhyme, Haiku or fable
Sometimes I awaken from sleep
or slumber or meditation, my mind firing with anticipation.
Then the words and phrases
spill forth before I say my morning affirmations.
I feel so blessed to see Poetry
as my passion and my friend.
I feel like a kid again
who gets a free snow day and
gets to play and play and play all day.
All I know is my soul is
saturated with utter joy.
Not unlike a Toddler Turning
Two who receives a brand new sparkling toy.
Not sure why the title of
this poem is Poetry Tree, well that’s because to me………Poetry is Rule Free!!!!


14 July 2014 

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.
She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).
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Poetry of the New Jersey Turnpike by Ron Zutz

I hope that I shall never see
A restroom stop named for me.
A stop whose hungry drains are pressed
Hoping for my bladder’s best.
A pit that stares at crotch all day,
Awaits my trembling hose to spray;
Urinals that in summer’s rush
See some sights that would make me blush;
Over whose mouth men have rained;
Bladders no longer filled with pain.
Piss is made by fools like me,
But pissoirs named after Joyce Kilmer — only
in New Jersey.

© 30 June
2014 

About the Author 
Ron Zutz was born in
New Jersey, lived in New England, and retired to Denver. The best parts of his
biography have yet to be written.
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Beyond Twinkle Twinkle Little Star While Navel Gazing by Ray S.

Six-thirty AM, do you
wake up one eye at a time, or both at the same moment?
Another day has been
gifted to you what are you going to do with it?
Can love prevail over
so much hate?  The sign on the wall reads
“God is Love.”  Well, who is your god or
goddess or whatever name you have for the ultimate motivator–or is there an
ultimate in your existence?
Feels like it will be a
hot one today in spite of the morning coolness. Your reverie is intruded with the
crash of garbage trucks loading.
Maybe they could carry
away some of the trash in our heads–clear a way for beautiful thoughts and
deeds. Do a little “Do unto others” stuff for a change. Do you, do I have a
consciousness to guide us through this new beginning?
Climb up out of my
navel and fall lock-step into the same old pattern of activity until life or
whatever intervenes. The outside world–it is here and now. Deal!
The butcher, the baker,
the climate change, the wars, the bomb, the screwy religions that have their
own monopoly on a god that neither you nor I can lay claim to. At times it
feels good to be damned by those people.
                                    I am in
good company
                                    Belonging
is everything
                                    Join the
tribe.
                                    To each
his/her own!
Make the coffee, brush
your teeth, etc, etc. Settle down and think what I might have to do and what I
can procrastinate about.
Have a cup, an old
scrap of toast.
Do not move too
quickly, waking takes a while.
It is a good start, the
navel isn’t as full of miscellaneous wool as when my one eye and then the other
opened.
I’ve affirmed for a new
day that Love: i.e. God, the Buddha, Thor, Apollo, Venus, et al. are still in
their heavens patiently waiting for me and you to find It, Him, or Her.
In light of so much of
this self-revelatory navel gazing and wool gathering it may be time to go back
to bed and get a navel refill.
As the poetaster is
wont to say, “Have a nice day.”
  

© 30 June 2014  

About the Author  
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Grief and Its Enterage by Beth Kahmann

Grief greeted me unexpectedly.

Like the other day, when I tipped my toe in a icy cold pool
My mind, as well as my blood was frozen, stymied,
The scene reminded me of a generation of life’s collectible sorrows, all lined up in a row of dominoes, waiting for the first tile, of many accidents, assaults, barrages, ballistics and statistics of fallen human souls in an insanely, archaic savage battering, smatterings of shard glass thrown aimlessly afoot.

Not unlike the slinky that we placed upon the top of our musty, worn out wooden floors. With each step, year after year, catastrophe after calamity, corruption after collision,
Decision after division after dying, and after death.

Grief, then rage filled me and fueled my heart with madness, until I felt like a mummy, entombed in sadness. More than likely, until the day I perish, grief might accompany me on the many trips I take til that final resting place, ’til that final resting place.

©  25 February 2013

About the Author 

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about
poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications (bethkahmann@yahoo.com).
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Do I Have Your … Hand In Marriage by Lewis



[The
following readings are taken from the Commitment Ceremony of Laurin Foxworth
and Lewis Thompson held on November 18, 2000, exactly three years before
same-sex marriages first became legal in any state of the United States.  The venue was the First Unitarian Universalist
Church of Detroit, MI.  It began with a
poem written by Laurin….]

Connection



The sun, moon, stars, and clouds,
Rain, snow, drizzle, fog,
All accept me as I am
Love me, caress me, enfold me.
Water and sun envelope me,
Warm me to the core.
Breezes play with me–all over!
Branches and stalks brush me to say, “Hello”!
The green shoots, the myriad flowers,
The many-colored leaves and clouds
Delight my eyes, my soul.
Soaring, flitting birds lift my spirits.
Earth’s aromas intoxicate, enthrall.
And we are one with the universe,
Whole, content, loved. You and me.

[Next
came the “Welcoming of the Guests”, written by me and spoken by the
Rev. Larry Hutchison.]

Dear friends and family, Laurin and Lewis have called us here today to witness the public declaration of their love and caring for each other. In that sense, this is a very personal event but because this is a union service of two gay men, it is also unavoidably a political one. No singular act of loving and commitment undertaken by two individuals on behalf of each other causes so much consternation as this one. It has baffled churches in America for decades–even centuries–and continues to stir the ire of “average” Americans like no other issue. Therefore, your presence today is in itself an act of courage, as well as of love. For what greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined together in order to strengthen each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow, to share with each other all gladness, to be one with each other in the silent, unspeakable memories of the heart, and to transform their private happiness into social blessing?

[The
following reading is from One Hour to Madness and Joy from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.]

O, the puzzle, the thrice-tied knot, the deep and dark pool, all untied and illumin’d!

O, to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
To be absolv’d from previous ties and conventions, I from mine and you from yours!
To find a new unthought-of nonchalance with the best of Nature!
To have the gag remov’d from one’s mouth!
To have the feeling today or any day, “I am sufficient as I am.”

O, something unprov’d! Something in a trance!

To escape utterly from others’ anchors and holds!
To drive free! To love free! To dash reckless and dangerous!
To court destruction with taunts, with invitations!
To ascend, to leap to the heavens of the love indicated to me!
To rise thither with my inebriate soul!
To be lost if it must be so!
To feed the remainder of life with one hour of fullness and freedom,
With one brief hour of madness and joy!
[That
which follows is the “Blessing of the Congregation”, written by me
and read by the minister.]

The ceremony in which we are all now participating is a bold, even revolutionary act. As you all know, many in our society do not yet recognize the validity and worth of the Holy Union we today celebrate and affirm. Indeed, many are openly hostile to two persons of the same gender who decide to commit their lives to one another. We hope that, some day, men who love men and women who love women will no longer feel the scorn of those who do not understand that love on its worst day is holier than scorn on its best. In the meantime, we can express the joy and approval which we feel for Laurin and Lewis as they publicly affirm the love they feel for each other and the commitment they make to one another today. Let me therefore ask those gathered here this question: “Do you–friends and family of Lewis and Laurin–freely give them your blessing now as they enter into this new relationship and do you promise to give them your love, understanding, and support during both good times and bad? If so, say “We do.”

[The
following was the vow that we each spoke in turn to the other.]

Do you…promise and covenant before these friends and family assembled to take this man…to be your life partner, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health? Do you hereby pledge your faith to love and honor him all the days of your life?

[Next
came the exchange of rings.]

Round like the earth, sun, and moon, bright as the skies and worked by the craft of human hands, these rings are symbolic of the foundation of your lives together and they will give brightness in the days to come. They call from you the human craft of loving. As you give, receive, and wear these rings, remember the vows you have made.

[The
closure of vows.  The five lines at the
end were borrowed from an author whose name I do not remember. I posted them at
the end of a letter I wrote to Laurin when he was wavering between staying with
his wife, Mary Lou, or leaving his home in Hylton Head and moving to Dearborn
to live with me.]
As your civil union brings a new meaning to love, so your
love brings a new meaning to life. 
Because love comes from the heart, true love comes from knowing your own
heart–
“You have to find out who you are and be that.
You have to decide what comes first and do that.
You have to discover your strengths and use them.
You have to learn not to compete with others,
Because no one else is in the contest of being you.”

[The
“Charge to the Couple” is borrowed from “The Book of Pagan
Rituals”.]
Above you are the stars
Below you are the stones.
As time does pass
Remember…
Like a star should your love be constant.
Like a stone should your love be firm.
Be close, yet, not too close.
Possess one another, yet be understanding.
Have patience each with the other
For storms will come, but they will go quickly.
Be free in giving of affection and warmth.
Make love often and be sensuous to one another.
Have no fear and let not the ways or words
Of the unenlightened give you unease.
For the spirit is with you,
Now and always.

[Next
followed recorded music from the album “Exile” by the San Francisco
Gay Men’s Chorus.  These are the lyrics….]
Take to your road, as I to mine.
But let us walk
This time together.
Our two roads lie side-by-side,
So, let us walk,
To walk this time together.
Hold to your mountain,
As I to mine.
But let us love
This time together.
Both our mountains touch
The same blue sky,
So, let us love,
To love this time together.
Cling to your house, as I to mine.
But let us live
This time together.
One light we share,
One love we claim.
So, let us live,
To live this time together.
One road, one mountain,
One house,
And together…
One family.

[Finally,
the Pronouncement/Declaration of Civil Union.]

Inasmuch as Laurin and Lewis have grown in knowledge and love of one another, because they have agreed in their desire to go forward in life together, seeking an ever-richer, deepening relationship, and because they have pledged themselves to meet sorrow and joy as one family, we rejoice to recognize them as partners in life. Will you kiss as a seal of your Holy Union?

© 9 September 2013

About
the Author


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.


Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Little Things that Mean A Lot by Will Stanton

Big things, very important things, I already have addressed regarding my friend James: good character, warm personality, maturity, self-reliance, true friendship, respect, and loyalty. Little things, too, are important, especially cumulatively over the years of our friendship. Each little thing in itself, when spoken of, may not sound like very much; however, if one could hear the loving tone of voice or witness the kindness of the gesture, then one would understand how important little things can be.

On a very basic level, we each made sure that we did our share of housework and chores, although we each tended to gravitate toward our own preferences. He had become a good cook and took pleasure in my appreciation of his varied and delicious meals. I did most of the house renovation and yard work, and he always expressed his appreciation for all my labor, wiring, plumbing, building, digging holes for trees and bushes. At times, he would note my fatigue and remark, “You worked awfully hard today. I think I need to take you out for a steak.” We would go to a favorite restaurant, and within forty-five minutes, my energy seemed to come back. Somehow, he always knew.

Imagine our sitting together reading the Sunday morning paper. He stands up and says, “I’m going to the kitchen. Would you like more coffee?” Now, I am perfectly capable of getting up and going for my own coffee, but that little gesture of James’ reveals a lot about his kindness in thinking about others, even with little things.

James dressed immaculately and also cared about my appearance, too. He enjoyed seeing me dressed neatly and looking attractive. From time to time, he would buy for me some article of clothing, always in very good taste, knowing that I would make a good impression in public. Of course, I was half the age and half the weight at that time, so he had an easier task than he would now. I admit that, since he has been gone so long and my not having a G.Q. figure, I pay far less attention to fashion. I don’t have James to dress for.

Any gifts that we bought for each other over the years never were meant to “buy friendship” but, instead, were genuine tokens of his love and thoughtfulness. He cared about how I felt, being concerned if he sensed that I was frustrated or unhappy, and reached out rather than avoiding me if this was the case. He was genuinely happy to see me happy.

James was a voracious reader and knew a lot. We inspired each other with interesting conversations about a myriad of subjects. We truly were interested in each person’s opinion and always made clear our respect for the other’s knowledge and skills. He was an accomplished, published poet, and I took an interest in his latest project even though poetry was not my forté. He understood my passion for good music and, even though he played little himself, made a point of hearing me play and occasionally acquired sheet music for me. We also enjoyed a good joke. I could tell that he delighted in hearing my laughter because he knew then that I was happy.

We always remembered Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, and took advantage of those holidays to celebrate our friendship. He liked to plan little weekend trips and occasionally longer vacations for our enjoyment, and we took plenty of photos of the scenery and of ourselves together. He arranged a couple of photo sessions so that we could have portraits made of us together. He always was thinking of us, not just himself.

Even when he was dying of lung cancer, he still did those little things that he still could do to reassure me and to show that he was thinking of me. All those many little things, and big things, that he said and did over the years proved his undying love, a love that he expressed in a poem he wrote for me and presented to me so many years ago:

You,
Whose smile enchants
And laugh delights,
Whose northern eyes
Astonish blue,
Wait here awhile
With me beside
This summer world.
So songbirds hush
And watch the stars:
We’ll taste black grapes
And yellow pears
And speak of youths
Lovely long ago,
Whose love they sang
In ancient phrases
And melodies forgot.
Around your hair
Of morning gold
I’ll weave these bits
Of myrtle leaves
And lavender
And fragrant thyme,
While the faint moon
With empty arms
Goes down the west.
Sleep, sleep, love, sleep,
And when the dew
Falls on your lids
I’ll gather you
Beneath me
And encompass you
Against the chill;
I’ll warm you
with my trembling breath
And hold your lips
Upon my mouth
And drink your love
Until they wake,
Until the songbirds wake.
© 14 December 2011

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.