Grand Rising (II)

Grand Rising (II)

Every morning is a grand rising,

ascending in the midst of your vast

mind,

you priming mine to paint it 

with your lightness.

Where chaotic strokes of weight 

used to be, you wash the canvas clean

in regal gold, and reinvent the sharp

edges into velvet lilac.

I commend your artistic eyelids,

for brushing with patience,

and having a keen attention for

detail.

For it is hailed how you distill me, 

scrubbing my thoughts, and

massaging my temple,

leaving me a simple way to exhale.

Now hold the palette steady while 

we blend this quiet space into a 

living gallery.

Anesthesia

My Anesthesia,

you keep me under your power

the way you put me to bed.

The way you tuck me in tight

is a wonderful touch, feeling

the midnight in your flora duvet.

I drift in the quiet, a willing surrender,

where shadows dissolve into soft,

heavy lace.

Mm..time goes tender and distant

from there, ahh in your cohesive

embrace.

—JG   ©2026

The Currency of Being Found

Don’t look now,

just be you and his eyes

will find your artifacts.

You have been digging to

locate what makes you a 

treasure when you shouldn’t 

have to ask.

Don’t ever question what 

makes you a good coin

amongst many— 

a penny for your thoughts

Toss it in water and let it

sink in; you my dear are 

what it means to be brought.

—To the forefront of any 

sensible man’s mind

—JG  ©2026

The Onset High

My mind has been wandering,

wading through every thought,

dismissing those that aren’t of

you.

For they are just distant hums,

blurs of noise I rummage through.

Every path my attention takes

just loops back to what you bring,

leaving me unable to pillar time,

tasks, and routine things.

You are my drug,

my dopamine—

keeping me cognizant of the high

I need,

spotlighting the onset of my anxiety.

—JG  ©2026

Cupid’s Bow

I’m shooting from the heart,

Cupid’s hanging off my shoulder,

reloading his bow, aimed directly

at you.

For this love isn’t superficial—

it cuts deep, drawing your blood,

preparing a stretched canvas

where you’re the muse.

Let every crimson drop bleed out,

brush-stroking your exact likeness,

leaving all the beautiful blemishes

intact.

You’re the living masterpiece,

dying to exist in my world,

thriving under of my chaotic impact.

—JG  ©2026

Anchored to You

Know that you are beautiful,

still—

like waters he refused to jump in

while fearing their actual depths.

True love is a sacrifice,

one he doesn’t deserve if he can’t

fathom giving you his last breath.

For you belong to someone who isn’t

afraid to drown himself,

to experience the wait of your truth.

Instead, he only gets his feet wet,

leaving himself weightless of being

anchored to you.

—JG  ©2026

Interstellar Rose

Her fading scent vanished,

like an interstellar sea of dying 

rose where she held me in the 

warmth of her repose.

Remembrance condenses on my 

skin like stardust settling on a dark 

canvas—

cosmic art immersing me in her

absence.

Gravity pulls me deep into orbit 

through a vacant space,

where the distant echo of her 

whisper creeps.

It says, “Look for me”, 

and before my eyes there lay

a quiet petal within my reach.

—JG  ©2026

A Hebrew Queen(Speaking from the Ether)

She speaks to me in a way 

current times don’t show.

The further I think back, 

not a previous exchange 

with another comes close.

Her words are so adrift,

but still covering.

They are starting to fill all

of my celestial vacancies,

—eclipsing me.

—JG  ©2026

Devine Imperfection

Beloved, 

may I remove all of your clothing,

slowly but surely revealing all of

what’s underneath.

For I wish to lay eyes on your Godly

creation, in full—

Paying utmost attention to your flaws 

as they are most sacred to me.

—JG  ©2026

Borrowed Breath

I’m embracing the unwritten 

lines in between your quiet;

My hands, gentle enough to

inhabit you without breaking

the stillness.

Don’t express to me how it 

feels,

but do close your eyes, and take

it all in as our time reveals.

Relax in my arms, as the 

emergence of ink begins to show.

Word for word, stanzas in tow,

a tranquil poem—now flows.

Our margins are deep,

holding secrets our minds can’t 

fathom to keep.

No whispers are needed 

to measure the depth—

just the steady slow rhythm of

borrowed breath.

—JG &...