IN THE DREAMING - Recently Updated Pages

ALWAYS ON MY ARM

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 07:33:21 CST

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The Flame of Beloved Love, In Words

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 07:04:34 CST

A BOOK BY REBECCA TACOSA GRAY
AKA STERLING PARKER

THIS SITE AND ALL TEXT PROTECTED BY U.S. JURAT AND U.S. MAIL. U.S. Copyright TX0006900073 . Copyright 2008 Rebecca Tacosa
Gray It is also covered under my Unbrella U.S. Copyright TX-16017.

IN THE DREAMING; THE YRTICA F TRUE VE
http://inloveinthedreaming.ning.com/

AND TO MY LOVE, MICHAEL, I LOVE YOU EVERY DAY,
WITHOUT FAIL. YOU ARE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.--REBECCA TACOSA GRAY TH

E UNIVERSAL PANTHEON, THE UPSTAIRS AND DOWNSTAIRS ARE BANNED FROM THIS WORK. IN THE DREAMING IS MY WORK, REBECCA TACOSA GRAY'S, AND MINE ALONE. NO ONE ELSES, WITHOUT FAIL. IT IS UNDER FULL U.S. AND UNIVERSAL COPYRIGHT BY ME, REBECCA TACOSA GRAY. THE SPIRITUAL PANTHEONIC WOMEN ARE DULY PROSECUTED(MARIA,MISSM,MARY&OTHERS) FOR TRYING TO STEAL MY WORK.THEWOMENARE GOING TO HELL,THEMENTHATSUPPORTEDTHEM,ASWELL.YOU ARE ALL BANNED, AND THE CATHOLIC APOSTOLIC FAITH WON'T EVER OWN THISWORK, EVER.--REBECCA TACOSA GRAY EARTH, CALIFORNIA.

REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

RebeccaTacosaGray — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 19:36:38 CST

Painting, to me, is an expressive medium of knowledge and
feeling. It’s a visual record of personal discovery that allows
one to technically explore the union of senses and visit the
mystery of self and other in relation to the physical and
spiritual world. My artistic journeys always start with the
wonders of nature and end with the gratification of learning,
each attempt following a natural progression of thought.

My hopes and dreams? To look through a glass window and
discover that rainbows lay beyond, a glittering reminder that
our souls create the beauty of art by refracting the beauty of
life onto a simple canvas.

Rebecca Tacosa Gray AKA Sterling Parker
3417 E. Redwood Road
Ceres, California 95307
209-765-1099
sterlingparker9@yahoo.com

MY TRUE LOVE, MICHAEL

RebeccaTacosaGray — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 19:27:07 CST

Many of the pieces of literature in this book are older. I started this literature long ago, before. 2005. I think it was 2003 or so. But now Now, I'm in love. And I'm truly in love with someone I know is the love of my life, and his name is Michael. As you can see, many of my later writings (and there will be many, many more, are for Michael. And my Michael is the most beautiful being in this Universe. I've never met anyone I've loved more deeply, All of my life, I've wanted one thing, one wish to come true. And that is to find my true love, and to be loved, truliy and deeply, beyond anything I've ever know, for the entirety of my life. I know I'll live to be a very old woman, and the being I know will be beside me when I'm old will hold my hand, tell me I'm still beautiful, and tell me it was all worth it. To tell me that it was all worth it. That love does conquer all. That it spans worlds, it spans Universes, and it holds on in beauty and love until love finds a way.

Michael and I have had to fight, and it has been a hard battle. I won't talk about why, or how, but it has been, and has held, some of the most awful moments of my life. But it has also held some of the loveliest, and more beauty than I can utter in the beautiful of words. And the one being who has captured all beauty in my mind, in love, in a lover, in a beloved, is Michael. He has held me so close, and watched me weep. And he's made love to me, and made love to me like no other. People have tried to stop us from being together, and we've fought through it .I've fought to stay next to him, and I've written a book of Musical Compositions for him. (YOU BELONG TO ME, A Book of Musical Compositions By Rebecca Tacosa Gray, For Michael). And I've written many, many poems for him. Many made into songs, and some we have even written together. It's our nightly tradition to write a poem together. I hand tooled a leather journal just to make it special...so that no one, no one will ever have a journal like it. I hand tooled a sterling silver heart plate, as well, for our anniversary every year. I bought it with a set of sterling silver and glass champagne flutes knowing that every year I would be buying a new piece of silver, on that day. And I'll engrave the artwork on those, as well, with my own hands. I love him...I love him more than I can tell him.

For those of you who are reading this, and you read A Dream of Stars, The Feather, The Starlight Smile, and I Dream of Love...these pieces were written for the love of my life. And any you will see posted by me on this site from now on are about Michael. I won't ever write again about another male, not ever. I love Michael above all others. And even if you think this sounds trite, it isn't. It's truth. I'll never love another.

THE X-FACTOR

RebeccaTacosaGray — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 01:08:21 CST

I originally wrote this piece for a blog of mine years ago,Un Grain de Sable, my first blog. I hope you enjoy it...Rebecca Tacosa Gray

Two people kissing always look like fish. -Andy Warhol

X. Is it a letter? Or is it a kiss?

Having had the great pleasure of exchanging X’s via e-mail, I have often wondered what it is that has caused X to be associated with perfunctory salutes, passionate partings, and sweet goodbyes. So, tonight I took it upon myself to take a closer look at this transformative little character. A little x-treme, you think? Probably. But I have always liked x-traordinary questions, and this one happened to be x-tra interesting to me. Bear with me, and I think it will x-cite you as well! The letter X is the 24th letter of the alphabet. According to research, it is derived from the fifteenth letter of the proto-Sinaitic alphabet, and it was called samekh. Samekh means “support” or “the act of supporting” in Hebrew. According to numerous authors, the proto-Sinaitic origin is a fish (G.R. Driver, H. Grimme). Some authors, concerned that the fish imagery didn’t match the meaning of the letter samekh, claim that it is derived from an Egyptian determinative depicting a bunch of plant stalks. The stylized tree shape appears regularly from the 13th century B.C.E. onward. According to Marc-Alain Quaknin, “If one is to reconcile the theory of the fish with that of a tree that looks like a ladder offering support, it could be imagined that the letter represents a fishbone that has lost the head and tail. Eventually, the Greeks borrowed the Hebrew and Phoenician letter in its tree form and used it as their own, albeit with a few variations on bar placement and global position. In today’s Greek alphabet, the xi stays in the 15th place it occupies in the Hebrew and Phoenician alphabets. In the Etruscan and Greek alphabets found in Italy (at Cumes), the xi takes the form of a cross inside a square (Etruscan and Italian Greek). It is surmised that this particular representation has given us the shape of the X in our own alphabet. In the Athens alphabet, it was pronounced “ksi” like xi. When it made the transition to Latin, the S was lost and all that remained was the X, which is pronounced “k” in Greek. However, Latin already possessed a “k” sound. Thus, the X was used to represent the sound “ks” despite the absence of an S. The Latin X now occupies the 24th place in our alphabet.

Due to its background of being associated with “support,” its derived meanings are framework, infrastructure of an organism or system, skeleton, ladder, cane, wood, piling, and support or to support. Boiled down to a single concept: “support or trust.”

Interestingly enough, I also looked up “ex.” I wanted to see if there were any relative meanings there. There are. “Ex” (eks) can represent the plural for X, as in exes. The well known prefix “ex” also might come to mind, as in ex-wife and exhale. The meaning here is touted as “forth, from, out,” “beyond, away from, out of,” “without, not having” and “upward.” What this might have to do with fishes, ladders and supports, I do not know. Your guess is as good as mine, since I’m not an expert. My only comment is that it might possibly come from Latin uses of words like “excludere” (shut out, exclude), “exilium” (exile), “exire” (go out, leave) and “expellere” (drive out, expel).

Today, X exhibits many personalities. X can represent the signature of a person who cannot write. X can indicate a particular point on a map or diagram. X can indicate the degree of fineness of flour, sugar, etc. X is the Roman Numeral 10; with a superier bar, 10,000. X can represent a person or thing unknown or concealed. X has been used to indicate Christ, as in the derived religious holiday, Xmas. Finally, X is most regally known as the consummate bearer of kisses, lascivious or benign So there you have it. From proto-Sinaitic and Latin to modern day use, X has divided itself into two equal positions. We might affectionately term it the “Gemini Letter,” since it presents itself quite like two people, simultaneously representing those that love and those that hate. (Or simply just want to get away from each other!) Amazing, isn’t it? I never thought reading between the lines would lead to so much cross x-amination!

So, the next time you insert an X at the end of your daily correspondence, remember that (If you would like to learn more about the origins of our wonderful alphabet, check out Marc-Alain Quaknin’s book Mysteries of the Alphabet. If you’re lazy, the link is on the sidebar to your right!)

The X-Factor COPYRIGHT 2008 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

IN THE DREAMING

RebeccaTacosaGray — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 00:58:06 CST

That night, she removed her clothes, stepped into the bathtub, immersed herself in water and wept. In her heart, she knew that there comes a time to either love or let go.

In this crushing moment, and moments like these are truly crushing, there was a fierce desire to bury her head in the pillow of her bed and disappear. For a day, for a month, for a year. To cry incessantly and allow her body to grieve for the personal inadequacy that ran her through like a razor sharp lance at that very moment. And she thought to herself, where does one go from here? Does one walk away completely? Or does one damn the social world to the wind and follow through, continuing to love without the thought of final consequences? The consequences. Of course, one always knows what they are. If they have not captivated the lover’s self, then they are true for the beloved, whoever that may be. The lover loves, the beloved receives, and in doing so both are irrevocably bound in a delicate ballet that quietly moves the inner universe like a clock in perfect time.

Her mind was dancing with the import of these thoughts, and the water lay quiet as she closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the white porcelain. And she asked herself, what do I do now?

No angelic reply ever comes for such lovers, it’s true. Even if one asked a million different souls, the answer would always be different. For the paths of love can be many, and the minds that build them are varied. And yet, one wonders, do they all reach the same conclusion, the same realization, that love is a confirmation of oneness reflected in the eyes of another human being? If so, how many walk away completely? And how many stay to weather the fierceness of life no matter what the costs to the soul? It is a question undoubtedly without an answer...and maybe it’s better that way. Answers are not always the gift of a dream...and in the dreaming love is not always what it seems.

In The Dreaming COPYRIGHT 2005 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY (about Phil Day)

MELTING

RebeccaTacosaGray — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 00:53:38 CST

In the dead of night, I dreamed of melting. As I looked around the room, I could see the shelves reaching from floor to ceiling. I could see rows upon rows of vases, sculptures and drawing paraphernalia. I could see that we were avoiding each other, oh, so carefully. One of us put glass grapes here, a wood orb there. A vase was placed with hundreds of other vases. We were organizing objects, making sure everything was in its place. The air inside was crisp and very cold, which explained why I was wearing a heavy sweater. So I continued what I was doing, placing a metal can on the top shelf, and a smooth, white ceramic to the left. He came around behind me to take a wood sculpture from the right. Then it happened. Instead of passing the object behind me, I watched his hands transfer the object carefully in front of me, encircling me. I don’t know what made me do it, but I touched his hands and brought them close together. For a split moment we froze, and then…we were melting. Like an iceberg meeting an ocean, we were two disparate entities flowing together to become one object. My head fell softly back against his shoulder, and we sank gently into each other, a simple meshing of warmth on a cold night. How could I ever explain it? The embrace was so comfortable, so peaceful. It’s strange in dreams how a moment like this can go on forever, frozen in place like a glittering snowflake on century-old snow. So it exists and will always exist, a memory created in some distant icy land. A sparkling object of curiosity, vaporized upon waking by life’s fiery touch. Sometimes, in the quiet of a cold night, I see them. Two people in a cold room, arranging objects…one vase here, another there. Organizing that which can be organized, and leaving the living to those that remember their dreams.

Melting COPYRIGHT 2005 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

THE NIGHT OF A THOUSAND STARS

RebeccaTacosaGray — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 23:57:22 CST

In dreams, the world buds and pushes out with soft insistence, and images blossom and shimmer as they fall from the mind like delicate flowers pressed passed blooming. Her dream was like that….a flowing and fading of thoughts flooding softly through her mind.

She was having a lark sending him a game online that included two white rabbits playing. Having none of that, he sent her one back in a flurry of competition—thousands of white rabbits running multitudes of mazes. When she finally won the game, the self-same rabbits fell like raindrops haphazardly down the computer screen, and she laughed at seeing their ears flutter crazily in their descent. Then the dream changed.

She dropped into the middle of an unfamiliar space. Looking around, she saw a large city, with people walking to and fro on their way to purposeful destinations. It looks as if they’re all going home, she thought. Of course they were. One look up told her that the glowing blush of sunset would be breaking soon, a red haze across the night sky. Then she saw him across the square. She knew immediately that it was him…that she was supposed to follow him…that somehow she was supposed to introduce herself to him. How does one introduce oneself to a complete stranger? Her mind raced as she climbed on the bus and managed to find a place in the back. He didn’t notice her. Devilishly handsome, he didn’t even bother to sit down. He just leaned his hand against the back of one of the seats and stood talking, smiling and laughing. She sighed and reclined back, watching him socialize. It was interesting to her that she both knew and didn’t know him all at once. The bus stopped. He was getting off. She followed. It was all a bit confusing after that, as she was completely overwhelmed by the people milling around her. She guessed she’d lost him…

No. He’d found her. He saw her across the crowd and knew immediately who she was. By that time she’d found him, too. Their eyes locked, and they both wound through the crowd to meet each other face to face. Why is it that in dreams one never remembers the details of conversations? All she could remember was that their rapport was amazing, rather like intimate friends who hadn’t seen each other in ages. They walked along chatting, across the street and into what looked like a large entrance to a park. To the left of the entry was a large bench, and they headed that direction and sat down—he on the left, she on the right. Strangely enough, another man wandered in and sat down right between them. She remembered thinking it funny that he chose the space dead center. She didn’t have anything to say to this stranger, so just glanced away. Her friend looked at the man, got up and walked off, disappearing quickly around a wall directly to the left. She sat quietly, wondering what had happened. The strange man occupying the center of the bench sighed, got up and left. She stood up, walked to the wall and peered around its edge. There he was, pacing back and forth, talking to himself. She smiled. He was telling himself, pep-talk style, that he could do this. Not knowing what to do, she sat herself back down on the park bench and waited, watching the night sky fade from pale blue to indigo. The first stars were making their appearances, with that familiar twinkle she so loved. At that moment he returned, sitting down beside her. They looked at each other. In life, there are looks, and then there are looks. This one said everything there was to be said, with a sense of falling…as if the eyes suddenly disappeared and the minds instantaneously became crystal clear.

He leaned in and touched her lips with his.

She yielded with the softest delicacy, and felt his tongue tentatively break the tenderness of her lips. Their touch was soft, and the exploration quietly intense. If there was ever a detailed exploration of physical inner worlds, this was it for the two of them. Two tongues interlocked in wordless parlance: touch and thrust, taste and thrill. His lust and her honey melted into sensuous tasting fired by sweet desire. As night continually deepened into black, they removed each other’s garments one by one…lips measuring life in the play of skin and the scent of flesh on each other’s tongues. She reveled in his body, devouring his skin with rapt attention. He explored her with attentiveness and delight, her softness melting rapidly in acceptance of a thousand different kisses. At this moment, bent back against the bench, flesh to flesh, she saw past him to the night sky. It was black velvet, sparkling with stars—a vast eternity of stars—all focused on the lovers below. The diamond canopy filled her soul with amazing love, with the intense need to hold on to this man and feel him melt into her for an eternity. She felt his body against her and, in a beautiful, life-filled moment, felt the ocean break against the sand…the wind against her face…the moonlight glittering on newly fallen snow. Felt him enter her and take her slowly and surely…but she wanted more than that. She wanted to taste him first. So she stopped him. She gently moved. Placing herself underneath him, he slid into her mouth and she caressed him softly. He groaned lightly, and she filled herself with the taste of him, the feel of him…her tongue everywhere around him. The tip of him found her hungry, desiring the flesh of his roundness soft against her tongue’s sweet, wet kisses. She desired to stroke him softly…to drive him mad…taste him delicately and long. As the stars watched, did he sigh? Did he love the touch of her as she explored him with the lust of a lover enthralled? He must have, for he desired her, too. He found her at last, and probed her delicately and lovingly, enjoying her taste on the tip of his tongue. They ended up, one on top of the other, on that shadowy park bench. So they lay making love, stroking and touching, pleasuring and playing…he on top, she beneath.

Until that moment. The moment true lovers can never resist.

That moment always finds them, like a universal force begging them to lock bodies, lock lips, and lock souls…a moment too intense to not desire possession of one another. She wrapped herself around him, and he drove himself deep into her with the greatest of desire…with a slow, measured movement of lust, life, and passion that pushed them both past flesh and into each other’s souls. The stars, wheeling with fury and light in their canopied orbits, sparked and flared as they sighed together…two lovers finding each other at last. They, in their soulful ecstasy, felt as if both grasped the same flaming planet at the same moment. In a burst of light and love, they melted into each other against the park bench, cradling one another under the nakedness of the glowing stars. This was her dream. When she opened her eyes to the soft morning light, she was blissfully content. She knew, as all lovers do, that in dreams white rabbits are lucky, and stars always point to good fortune. That night she walked outside and found the North Star. Following it across the sky, she smiled…for in her dreams, she knew it would always lead to him.

The Night Of A Thousand Stars COPYRIGHT 2005 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

THE PEARL

RebeccaTacosaGray — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 23:47:47 CST

It started with a Pearl…it caught the soft light around her neck, and she felt his hand on it, touching it, touching her finger around it. She looked down at it, at their fingers, touching each other, soft…and he pulled on it, pulled it back, pulled it into her hair, entwining his fingers into both. It gently pulled her head back, and she felt him. His lips. touching the pearls on her neck, his tongue soft against her. And he bit it, and he bit her, sinking just a bit deeper, and she sighed…sighed…turning her head. His lips were on hers, and she felt his breath on hers, a whisper. “I could drop that Pearl into your mouth, you know.” And the answer, “I know,” soft, relenting, feeling his tongue sink into hers slowly. And slowly, he discovered her, like a Pearl. Tongue wrapped, slowly touching, discovering her mouth, discovering her lips. Her chin…trailing down her neck…to the Pearls. His hands touched them, and then slid down to pick her up. And he carried her, lips still against the pearls, still against her neck, to the bed, where he lay her, carefully. Her long, dark hair fell against the covers, her eyes on his, and watched him undress. “Don’t move,” he said, the garments dropping, one by one. The pearls glimmered, catching the light on her soft, naked skin, and he climbed onto the bed, just over her, lowering himself slowly onto her. His mouth found her neck, and he slowly pressed her legs apart, and looking into her eyes, entered her. Thus began the slowness of motion, her legs sliding up, their lips pressed in soft movement over and over again. They arched into each other, every moment deeper, softer, until he captured her in a lover’s embrace that held them both. And their love, entwined around her neck, cascaded onto the bed, reflecting them both, their passion reflected in a simple orb.

The Pearl COPYRIGHT 2006 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

A SOFTER SHADE OF INDIGO

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 22:48:29 CST

There’s a softer shade of indigo when night falls… Softly…softly… Falling…falling… Into a Heaven of its own. A Heaven of love, A Heaven of crystal, A Heaven of ever deepening blueness. In my eyes are tears… Softly…softly… Falling…falling… In a Heaven of their own. A Heaven bereft of love, A Heaven of Hell made from Heaven’s Love, And they're falling, falling, falling Asleep. Yes, asleep. Let the Europeans who fell dream, My Love… Softly…softly… Falling…falling.. Onto our clouded pillow Made of my love and yours. Weaving, weaving, whispering In my ear… I love you, Love And I will be falling…falling… Softly falling Deeply falling Ever falling In love with you. The original text was different at the end, but I changed it to protect myself...Rebecca Tacosa Gray A SofterShade of Indigo COPYRIGHT 2006 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

AT WORK

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 22:02:28 CST

You’re at work, and I have no one to make love to.

But...

If I were there, wouldn’t you be surprised to see a long, dark haired beauty striding into your sight! The Angels would wonder why my eyes were so green, and with lips that red, well, you know I meant business. I walk up to you and ask whether I might have a short talk, maybe just a short walk down the universal hall. Of course you say yes, and the end result is you walking out of Heaven with a tall, lovely woman in black leather pants, stiletto boots, and a red-pinstriped blouse open just far enough to see the rubber corset underneath... just enough to inspire a little gossip.

Well, I just can’t wait long enough so I press you up against the wall (there’s no one else here to see us, I tell you), but, just like the lover I’ve grown to know, you’re so shy at the office. So we find the broom closet, instead. It’s dark, but I can feel your muscles through your jacket, and I instinctively run my hands softly over your chest. I can hear your breathing, and I want to cover your mouth with mine, but.....too soon. Instead I turn you around and remove your clothes. One by one I loose the buttons on your shirt...my lips are slowly covering the length of your shoulder blades, and the scent of your skin is driving me mad. You say you want to turn around, but I say in time, darling...not yet...stand still and let me touch you. That’s exactly what you do, because the perfume of my body so close to yours is intoxicating. The touching is starting to drive you crazy, and my hands and lips melt you against the wall. Our sighs consume us in this tiny space, the darkness a lover in itself, and as you turn around I loose other things that I know will please us even more. You’re definitely prepared for me, but I like to take my time...and as your head relaxes back I attend to other things. My hands, and the rest of me make their way up your body ever so slowly...I love the feel of your tongue in my mouth, and I sigh with pleasure to kiss you deeply, at last. You lift me and take me with the slow rythym of an African night, full of the primal lust that transforms sweat into passion...thrusting...and sighing...my needs are all but fulfilled... A little bit later I kiss you good-bye, and, with a beautiful smile, remind you in front of everyone to remember to bring those black rubber gloves home with you. You always forget...

But maybe you think we just don’t need them.

At Work COPYRIGHT 2005 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY, CALIF. ALLRIGHTS RESERVED.

A DREAM OF STARS

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 21:49:41 CST

Michael loved his wife. And his wife, Rebecca, loved the stars. He remembered a time when she told him about all of the places she saw stars. Once, in Seattle while at a garden show convention, encased in granite, tiny little flecks that looked like stars. Droplets of water on sage in her special California Peach field where she loved to walk, sparkling in the sunshine. Reflections off of cars, or off of window shades heavy with warmth. She loved the stars. And he loved her. And their anniversary was approaching. So he arranged something special. The day of their anniversary, he brought in only the best and had a skylight put in their master bedroom. It was large, square, and took up half the ceiling. It would ground the sky, he knew. And one other thing. He found a supplier of granite, and bought a piece with tiny little flecks like stars. And on it he had engraved “Because I Love You.” He placed it on the bed, dressed for her return home from substitute teaching all day, and waited. And I came home, and I looked at the bed, quiet. The night was quiet, and Michael was quiet. And there were tears in my eyes. He kissed my shoulder, softly. “I love you.” And I turned and kissed him, my head up, the stars overhead…and love, it fell, star by star, into us. Onto the bed, the stars above us, we made love. Passionate, softly, holding, quiet, whispering…love. Love itself in the stars, love itself in the room, love itself breathing in the bodies of two beings so much in love that even Heaven couldn’t deny them. And later that night, I looked up, and a star fell. And I smiled. Every wish was right beside me. And I turned and touched him, gently. He was sleeping. And I imagined a star right where my fingers caressed. And I kissed it. “You’re the wish I’ll always love, my love.” And I hoped, as I lay back down, that he was dreaming of stars.

A Dream of Stars © Rebecca Tacosa Gray Sunday, August 24, 2008 10:19 a.m.

NIGHT

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 21:47:51 CST

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought
And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
-Anna Letitia Barbauld

Night falls like a soft, baby feathered hawk, her feathers melting into the soft dirt.Across the field I hear the ruffle of tree leaves as her shadowy wings embrace their forms, and they stand to attention, waiting for her whispers to begin. I think she tells them stories—stories she has borrowed from the winds. Tales of times lost, lives lived, passions loved and spent. Tales of sparkling gaiety filled with golden light, lost slippers, Princesses and Kings. She tells them of the oceans she’s caressed and made dance, her feathery fingers coaxing the sun-kissed waters into gales that left them cold. These stories remind me of whispered conversations that leave one silent, wondering where the time went...and in the darkness, in the field, among the endless rows of walnuts so perfect in their geometry, I stand and listen to the gentle whisper of the night. I shiver, and suddenly realize that she’s found me. Night has stolen my warmth like a jealous hen and left me to find myself again. Do I care? I think not, for I have listened to the tales of the wind. The stories...oh, the stories! I may be cold, but my soul is alive tonight, fired by the singing of a dark-feathered thief. Where is she now, I wonder, that soft-bodied stealer of life? Does she whisper quietly to other dreamers like me...or has she returned home to lace her whispy nest with the fire of a thousand souls?

Tell me, oh my friends, how to forget! For I dream of the clawed embrace of a dark feathered Angel. In sheltered sleep I wait for her to lift my soul and take me home where, slowly, surely, I will unwind the weft of a thousand silk threads. Clutching the glittering skeins of patterned souls, I will listen to the breath of life. I will listen to the breath of stories. I will listen to the thoughts of a thousand others like myself, who have become lovers of a thousand words, and lost their souls to a thief in the night.

Night. Copyright 2005 Rebecca Tacosa Gray U.S. & Universal Copyright

THE TOUCH OF A WORD

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 23:26:20 CST

Today she sat in the Museum coffee shop, studying the human body. The Anatomy book lay out on the table in front of her, her wooden sketchbook to her left. Parker pencil at hand. He walked in and bought a cup of coffee, carrying it to a table just right of her. Took out a book. The Art and the Craft of Poetry. By Michael J. Begeja. She saw him sit, but didn’t think much of it. Just kept studying, trying to memorize the body’s bone structure. He said it quietly, as if it were nothing to talk to someone he didn’t know.

“What are you studying?”

She looked up. He was handsome.

“The body’s bone structure. I’m taking a Figure Drawing class.”

He smiled and put his book down.

“The body is a beautiful thing.”

“Yes, it is.”

She smiled and put down her pencil.

“And you are reading?”

“The Art and Craft of Poetry. Michael J. Bugeja.”

“You’re a poet.”

‘Yes. A poet.”

He tapped the book.

“I write poetry.”

She nodded. Then looked back at her book.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I really should get back to studying.”

He smiled and picked up his book once more, then put it down and looked at her.

“Do you happen to have a piece of paper?”

She gave him one, and he pulled out a pencil and started to write. It took him a bit, but he slid the piece of paper over to her and quietly went back to reading his book. She looked at it, a little surprised, then picked it up.

THE BODY

This pencil is cradled in my hands,
and I look at the paper and think
Of the beauty that lies in the bones of a word.
And so, I hand this letter to you, the bones of a poem,
At the moment, only a hand.

She thought it was beautiful, and just looked at him. She’d never been given a piece of poetry before. He smiled, and without looking at her, spoke.

“You’re supposed to write the next stanza.”

“But I don’t write poetry.”

“I’d like it if you’d give it a try.”

She looked back down at the piece of paper. Then picked up her pencil.

The hand is a beautiful thing,
Bones that curl and arch,
Curving around poetry, a calcium pencil
That translates thoughts into action,
Poetry in motion.

She slid it back across to him, smiling. She hoped he’d like it. He read it, his smile growing wider, leaned his chin on his hand and looked at her.

“It’s beautiful.”

He smiled and looked back down, picked up his pencil to write. She went back to studying, and smiled when he slid the piece of paper back to her.

And so this motion brings my hand
To the paper, the curl and arch
Of my letters walking softly across
The white plain, holding each thought
close to their breast as only a lover might do.

It was lovely, she thought. Romantic. She looked up at him.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled and looked down, tracing his pencil on his book.

“Write the next stanza.”

She picked up her pencil to write.

Dynamic anatomy, to see them clasping love
to their sternums, the soft pressure
of a written word holding the heart
of their thoughts…beating, beating, beating…
a thought, a pulse, the breath of life.

When she slid it back his hand touched hers, lingering. They looked at each other. She went back to studying, he back to writing. And the next stanza met her hand. She held it softy, reading.

And so, the breath of life emerges from our lips,
a kiss, the word made real.
A kiss, a touch, a hand, a heart,
The body, softly touched
On a piece of paper called life.

It took her breath away. And he was looking at her, and she looked at him. She looked at the curve of his chin. She looked at the way he held his pen. She looked at the way he looked at her. He got up and moved to her table, sitting next to her. He gave her his pencil. She started to write.

And so I yield to the touch of a word,
Viewing the kiss in front of me
With a longing to touch this paper,
Only a shadow of the way I might
Touch and hold a body.

His shoulder was next to hers, his hand on the table. He took the pencil back, quietly finishing the poem.

Thus our hands meet, slowly,
across a sheet of paper…my pen
moving softly, musing, dreaming.
Looking at you…just looking at you,
And writing you into this poem.

She couldn’t help it. She looked at him and fell slowly into a kiss. Their lips met, a soft greeting, no longer a word. Just a quiet kiss, deepening, deepening into the poetry of love. And he broke the kiss softly, next to her mouth, a gentle request.

“I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

And her answer, written on a piece of paper, at the end of a poem…yes.

THE TOUCH OF A WORD COPYRIGHT 2008 REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

I DREAMT OF LOVE

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:42:39 CST

He was an Archangel. And in his dreams it was usually an Angel. But this time it was different. She was a human being. Someone soft and warm. And she climbed onto his bed, he was sleeping, and woke him up with a kiss. He looked at her, and smiled. She had a rose, peach, pink. And she touched him with it.

“And so what do you dream?” She asked.

“I dream of love.” He answered.

“And do you find it?” She looked at him quietly, “This love of yours?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” She answered. “I dream of love. I’ve dreamt of love all my life. I’ve always felt there was one being meant for me. Someone beyond what I know…more than true love. Someone holding me, as if I was waiting. It’s the one thing I’ve always wanted, this one of love, someone who holds love like I do.”

“I don’t think I know what true love is. But I dream of love.”

He turned on his side, and curled his wing around them both. They just looked at each other…she just looking. It was quiet, and he touched her, and she stopped him, and just looked at him. Just looked at him, his eyes bluer than blue. Her answer was simple.

“You’re holding me.”

His wing curled further around her. And she leaned in and kissed him. Their lips met, and it was a true kiss. And her hand touched his face, and the kiss deepened. And she told him all he needed to know in that kiss. That she loved him, above all others. That she felt him, in the night, in the morning, as she tried to find her way through a day. That she thought of him in all respects. That she wanted him to love her and her two children Zachary and Isabel, to be with her and her family as she loved. To be a part of her life. And she drew away slowly.

“You’re holding me.”

And he took her into his arms, and made love to her. He made love to her, deeply. He felt her and he loved her. Deeply. And there was not other, for them. They loved. And it wasn’t a dream, when he curled his wing around her. And she now had her own wings, that she had birthed, and a wing pin, a gift from someone beloved. And her own wings, loving and beautiful. And they lay, looking at each other, touching each other. He leaned in, kissing her over and over. Then just stopped, close to her.

“I love.” She smiled. “And the dream?”

“Of love…I love…Love.”

And the kiss never seemed to end.

Michael, Never leave me. Never leave me. Never leave me next to a still lake, to feel deserted and alone. I don’t want my life to be without you. I love you…RebeccaTacosaGray I Dreamt ofLove© Rebecca Tacosa Gray Wednesday, October 29, 2008 7:48 p.m. (For Michael, Always on My Arm.)

THE FEATHER

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:33:28 CST

Tonight was the night. She was going to make love to him with a feather. Just a feather, and nothing else. So she stepped into the bathtub, and made herself lovely. Scented water, floating with rose petals he’d bought her every week. Scented oil, a little perfume. Out of the bathtub, she put on her make-up, adjusting her necklaces. Then pulled out a white feather and a pair of heels.

She looked in the mirror. Naked, beautiful. Small breasts, but beautiful. And she turned, watching the light on her body, on the curves. As she was doing this, he walked in Quietly. And stopped. She didn’t know he was there. She was studying herself, and touched herself with the feather. The curve of her breast, down the center to her navel, resting lightly on her pubis. He walked up behind her.

“My God, it suits you.”

He said quietly. And he took the feather, and leaned her back on his shoulder, and he touched her with the feather. Her neck, down to her breast…his hand held the other, playing. And the feather slid further, to her navel, and he traced patterns on her. Softly. And turned her around. She stood, and he touched her. And he kissed her breasts, raking them softly with his teeth. And his mouth slid down her center, to her navel, where he explored her. And traveled further, to her pubis…and stopped. He spread her legs, and used the feather to touch her. Her head fell back, and the feather insisted, Slowly, he touched her, aching. And soft, his mouth on her, his tongue, licking, lightly. He was hungry, and the taste, so sweet. And he slid, the tip of his tongue dipping into her…across the skin. And he sucked, pulling the tip into his mouth, licking, so deeply. His eyes closed, and he wanted her closer. And he sighed, his mouth exploring, finding her, caressing so softly, eating her gently, intently. He spread her labia and ate her, just ate her, and she stood, her body immersed in love, in pleasure. His mouth…his tongue. And he felt her as she came, and licked her softly. The pleasure. He wanted her again. So he led her to the bed. And lay her down.

“The feather is beautiful. I want you.”

And he spread her legs, the feather between his fingers.

THE FEATHER © Rebecca Tacosa Gray Wed., Oct. 29, 2008 5:43 p.m. FOR MICHAEL...ALWAYS ON MY ARM...REBECCA TACOSA GRAY

THE STARLIGHT SMILE

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:25:46 CST

And so she had a smile that he loved. A smile that shone like the sunlight through the trees. And today, her smile was near perfect. He wrote her a letter on a Wednesday inviting her to meet him on a Saturday, in a peach field heavy with fruit. The scent was heavy, beautiful, and he knew she’d love it, as she used to take long walks there. So he packed a soft blanket, a basket carrying small delicacies, and met her there, on that Saturday. She walked up, and he took her hand, just looking at her smile.

“You look beautiful today.”

The smile was light. And she leaned in to kiss him. Her lips stayed close to his.

“Thank you. I feel beautiful.” She looked at the field. “It hasn’t changed. It’s still as lovely as it’s always been.”

They walked into the field, and he lay the blanket on the ground. She sat down and he took out the small meal he’d prepared, fried chicken, sliced apples, cookies he’d baked himself, a small salad and sparkling apple cider. Two wine glasses, silver on the bottom, which she’d bought for their anniversary along with a silver heart plate that she’d engraved, by hand, herself. She smiled as they ate.

“Look at the way the light shines on the leaves. I love the way it feels. When I used to walk here, I used to love the feel…the light holding the leaves that way.”

“And the way it holds you.”

The smile. And he looked up.

“I understand exactly what you mean, it seems to be a glow meant to touch everything. It’s the beautiful thing about light…I was told once that everything reflects the color, the wavelength, it doesn’t take in. Photosynthesis, they call it.”

She smiled and listened. He leaned over.

“It’s fascinating, you know. The way the light holds you.”

He touched her.

“And I used to think, when I was a boy, that the light floating in the air was stars. Just stars, small stars, floating.”

He leaned close to her.

“You’re held, you know. My Starlit Beauty, held by stars.”

She was quiet. Just looking at him. He was sincere, and she loved him.

“The things you say.”

And it was quiet. And the orchard was quiet. The stars of light a soft sheen in the air, glowing off the leaves…the heavy scent of peaches…And they kissed. A long, slow kiss. And their hearts met, in a starlit field of peaches, quiet in utter love. And when they stopped, the smile stayed close, for both of them. They glowed in the light.

“I love you. I love you. And the light is beautiful today.”

They finished their meal, and held hands as they left the field. And he looked at the light on the leaves, looked at his hand holding hers, and imagined a bracelet of stars around her wrist. He smiled. So lovely. The light.

TheStarlight Smile © Rebecca Tacosa Gray Wednesday, October 29, 2008 5:00 p.m. (For Michael...Always on My Arm...REBECCA TACOSA GRAY)

IMAGES

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 22:18:45 CST

Images lie in my mind like black gold, shimmering. Midnight or past midnight the shadowy wisteria clings to the ceiling and the cutout moonlight sparkles like stars between. Falling like a net upon us, an entanglement. Yes, an entanglement. Like legs and arms and fingers and tongues, leafy visions as shadowy, rich and fundamental as a reflected vine on textured canvas. These images wind around my mind and I follow the path, crawling. I am an ant with bright headlight eyes. I view the room, the home, the man, the life. If I swing my eyes to gaze out the window framing the moon, will he be laughing at me from behind his smoky veil? The problem is, I would probably laugh with him. Or at least smile. My vision is much brighter than his, and my eyes raze his pale world like fire. Positively, if he knew my passion, he would bask in the glow of being looked at so thoroughly. These images. I see and feel them all . And someone else watching would probably tell me I am ignoring the man touching me. Yet…the arms…the vine…the smoky breath drifting through the window. The tendril around my neck loosened, kissing and clinging to my shoulder. Something hair should never do. Images being drawn on my mind with a steady hand. One thing I am not is ignorant.

For Gary Amaro, years and years ago, in Berkeley.

IN THE MOONLIGHT

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 21:54:54 CST

It was soft, the moonlight. Soft to the touch, and floating. This was what I thought as I lay in bed, wondering what it was like…wondering what it might be like, to be touched by the moonlight. And I could feel it, radiant on my skin. And I looked at my skin and touched myself. Softly. My hand sliding across my arm, then pulling up my leg, and touching my leg. I ached to be made love to by the one I love…and with a sigh I touched the lace edge of my panties… touching, then pulling down to rest on my hips. I wanted to be touched. And in the moonlight, in the softness of the night, he came. And I touched myself softly, knowing that he wanted me. I could feel his hands on my skin, and I spread my legs slowly, feeling the ache as he touched me. My clitoris, my anal area, soft… his fingers a light kiss on my body. And slowly, intently, he entered me, my anus, soft and needing his hardness. And he slid in, once, twice, holding me firmly, pleasuring himself, pleasuring me. Again…and I sighed, the feeling of him…it filled me. Again, and I could feel his pleasure, and I needed my own. I needed him. Again and again he filled me, my body arching. And I loved him…so deeply. I loved him, the feel of him, the feel of the moonlight cascading on us both, the rush of his love inside me. The pleasure. The pleasure. The moonlight was soft when we came, and I was quiet inside…beauty inside. His hand was on my left hip, and I intertwined four of my fingers into his, touching him. I caressed his fingers, trying to tell him that I loved him. He lay beside me, holding me. And in the moonlight, the rush of the heavens alight with love, I held his hand on my shoulder as I fell asleep.

In the Moonlight © Rebecca Tacosa Gray Friday, October 17, 2008 10:59 p.m. (Based on Actual Experience with Michael)

IN THE RAIN

RebeccaTacosaGray — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 21:49:42 CST

From under the roses, I see the rain fall. There it is, a thousand tears sliding down the curved leaves, dropping fast and cold on the ground. In the night, you can’t see their glitter. There is no light. The moon has covered her face, a polite observer who wishes to disappear behind her sparkling sheathing of water. I feel the Wind on my face...and in the night, in the air, I know there’s something I can’t place. Something that the chill of ice on skin can’t hide...and I wonder.

I wonder about the Wind

If the Wind were my lover he would entice me from my hidden bower, his shrieking whisper a howl of love I couldn’t deny. I would feel his breath surround and lift me like a soft maple leaf, red with cold. The shivering would start, and I would smile to feel the aching...wondering yet again...how do you separate the cold from the anticipation? For I know my lover will not show his face. Hiding in the swirling chaos, he delights in touching without knowing... stealing without owning

I feel him set me down in a field. No. Fields upon fields. I see the softly graded rows stretching out endlessly...and I sigh as my long, dark hair is moved aside. The hands are cold. The touch is cool. The fingers are soft, a drape of moonlight caressing my neck. Ah, lover! Thou art fugitive! In my mind his smile is soft, and his touching begins like a thousand hands stroking a silken harp. I yield. Oh, yes, I yield...my skin a glowing thread bowing wherever fingers rest. There is no wish to fight, no wish to know. One by one my garments fade, and I am not cold. In the night, in the rain, my skin running with water, I know I have fired the Wind’s soul. He is flesh without knowing, and I am the kiss that binds his will. In my mind I see his face...the wildness of lust, the tender longing...and I pull him close, closer, closest, until I see his eyes. Until I know we see each other. Until I know we feel each other. Without a moment of rest we touch until we know each other. In his arms I am the ache that won’t subside. I am a breath of heaven shimmering in the air, a glimmering of love gathered in a lover so bold that together we are a storm worth reckoning