The Huntsman

Static from the Motorola alerts me.

His whispered voice asks if I can hear him.

Urgently I pick up the walkie/talkie.

“Yes”, I whisper back.

Quietly, he tells me the bait has not been hit.

Anything can happen.

It might return tonight.

I whisper into the black device “Tonight it will happen. I feel it”.

His randy response, “I know something will happen tonight. With or without that bear”.


Remembered Kisses

Nervously, my innocent lips seek out Chris’ darting tongue in the dark.   1976

Paul’s hands on my face, pressing against me with immediacy, when I walk into his house.  2008

Gingerly holding Heather in my arms, I put my parched lips softly on the top of her newborn head, while a tear of joy escapes. 1984

“Pucker up” my dad says, as he gently tucks my sister and I into bed. We giggle to his silly singing, “make a magic circle and mark it with an X.”  1966

Chivas and cigar smoldering kisses from Rich.  His eyes remain stubbornly open.   I learn too late that his heart remains closed.  2001

Taking control of Mike with my kisses, I convince myself that he turns me on.  1979

Vernon’s lips graze mine, over and over again, becoming stronger, he looks deep into my eyes as we collapse at the moment of truth.  2009

The kiss I could not give; damned by the mask, leukemia, hospital rules and my dear mothers’ abrupt death.   2009

Reflective Pond

>Reflective Pond
D.J. Hall (August 2007)

Search for hidden pond
With an eager anticipation
For a successful expedition

Opportunity for abundant fishing
For answers, blue gill, our emotions unraveled.
Propels us through a path less traveled
Traipsing mile after mile in summer’s humidity
Past endless rows of sunny simplicity.

Yellow faces watch in silence as we feel
Relentless dampness seep from pores at
Neck, cleavage, face and arms, as the
weight of the chaos I have created
continually trickles through my thoughts.
Much like the unremitting, infuriating mosquitoes.
Threatening to drive me crazy.

Onward, our heavy feet trudge, through a
Midwestern field full of tall grass and ticks
Accompanied by droning honeybees and
Annoyance of horseflies, heat and his enthusiasm.

Sulking, I discover beauty beneath the surface.
Like many other spheres of life,
I find a hidden eco-system at the edge of the pond,
Woven between the algae, guppies and tiny frogs.
As I sit and fume about my discomfort, misery and him
is the certainty that we, too, are intermingled.
Energy, fate, force or whim
Compels me to accept the reality that I had
attempted to submerge.
The certainty that I believe in our love, our future,
and that our affections will once again resurface.

>Silent Longing – A brief story.

>Silent Longing
D. J. Hall

I have become a master at veiling unanswered questions festering deep within my psyche. Thoughts and feelings I ignore during the day can only be squelched fo so long. But, those ignored emotions thrive in the middle of the night and I am tormented by my inner fears and the injustices of which I try to understand. The many questions I try to solve, become completely overwhelming in the course of a dark, silent room in the middle of the night. Or perhaps they are more overwhelming in the light of day, which is why the mind shuts down innocently enough, like a life preserver protecting you from the onslaught of waves, allowing one to climb out of that warm bed each morning. If one allowed the multitude of thoughts, if one felt the pain and worry during the day as intensely as one feels them during the night, perhaps the day would never start at all.

My thoughts are the generic worries which everyone has. But always under the surface is the reoccurring question and concern I have about my partner. This man who has all the characteristics I always wanted, and whom I hold in high regard. This man of wit, moral strength and intelligence. This man who emanates masculinity, and for whom upon meeting, felt mutual sexual attraction to. This man is the only man I have loved to the deepest core of my being and will never stop. This man who has not touched me for over two years.

In the middle of the night, awoken by that familiar stirring, aroused by an erotic dream of my own sexuality and the unmet craving I have for him, I lay awake in silent longing, needing to touch him but unable to reach out. How do I live up to the air brushed images he frequently entertains himself with? Why does he choose to replace a loving and intimate relationship with this damaging diversion? Maybe for the same reason he likes to watch sports that he does not play, living vicariously through what he sees. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, watch. I have gone through such an agony of emotions starting with disbelief and denial to the most ridiculous thoughts of blaming myself. The painful process of grieving a loss of an exquisite intimacy has turned into a quiet numbing anger. I love him greatly and am confident in his sincere love for me. Our love is strong and we are inexplicably bonded. We enjoy each other’s company, quiet movie nights, cooking exceptional meals together and reading in bed. We have built a life together, he has been my friend, my confidante, and sadly, too long ago my lover. He continues to talk about our future while I live in transition, waffling between holding onto the dream of a healthy intimate relationship together or starting over as a single woman of 49. I try not to think about his sexual anorexia. Until the middle of the night.