SamadhiMuse

                                             29 May 85
         Dear Lise:
              You write like you are; every stroke cut from
         directness and feeling.  I applaud your letter and love
         you.
              Its a special time now.  Lovers for a few moments
         or a few months between our pasts and what the future
         holds for us after we part.  My sweet sister lover, it
         will be painful for me on that day but now…, now I
         only want to revel in your love.  And what joy and deep
         pride it gives me, that you love me!
              I don’t know if you know what power you have and
         what joy you give when you love.  You wonder if you
         give me anything?  Watch me next time you shine your
         love on me.  Watch the pleasure fill me like the glow
         of whiskey.  The grace of love, unbound.
              You, that person I talk to after we make love.
         The one who sat on the hospital bed and smiled at me as
         I wore her chain.  The one who held my hand as we
         crossed the border into Mexico.  The one who said, “I
         don’t like to play games, I’m not very good at them”.
         THIS lady is the one.
              Cut away all the details and problems of your
         life.  Cut them all away and what you have left is she
         I described above.  The essential woman, Lise.
              This Lise, the one I love is so radiant to me that
         I cannot see the problems.  I walk thru them as if they
         do not exist.  What waits beyond any minor problems is
         so beautiful I can see nor acknowledge nothing else.
              I’ve know people whose lives are “Irvine picture
         perfect” and their spirits are only shadows.  Their
         words meaningless birds in flight, their confessions of
         love nothing but poor reflections of someone’s TV life.
         They are so empty of courage and sweat and spirit that
         I grow disgusted.  (But I never can work myself into an
         actual state of ‘hate’ like the French).  And you, my
         love, … when you say you love me it has meaning and
         value and depth because of who says it.  Because the
         one who says it is someone I both love and respect
         without reservation.
              If I could never love again in this life, I would
         be content to stop here.
              I look around my place.  The candle burns for you.
         I look at women in the market and all I can think is
         how are they like Lise?  I won’t see you for several
         days perhaps but I know you are there 2 or 3 miles away
         and I feel you presence, like the candle I see here,
         burning.  Pleasure and anticipation sit with me as I
         write this letter.
                                       Love,
         p.s.  you told me you liked my poetry.  now I may never
               stop sending it to you.

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

            These days pass like showers of silver
            through my fingers
            and I ache for them
            remembering so many empty days.
            Loving them, intense spectacles,
            writing them, ghost images remain;
            passing images, exquisite moments,
            Lise.
                              gallagher
                              11 June 85
            – on mushrooms with Lise.

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —