You..My tangled divine of tender thought.
Deep passions planted as twilight’s homage.
Et al, wrapped bare as Dionysus dream.
Twist we do as sunny side up we are.
And you are, sheltered from the inclement of ever so frosty.
Espalier. Me.

You…Of lush growth, green assured.
and so, cajoled by mindful weed.
A peek-a-boo folly as seasons fortify.
Oh that of my ripe full body, dare, gather me.
Plump select as moonlight crush, in barefoot belly dance.
Age. Me.

You…Fine sup you are of blend mature.
That of cork once popped.
de stilled a few times.
Knows yet, that as me…
Were I to put a label on you.
Well…
You would be a great vintage, with just a whiff of attitude.
Raise. Me.

I pricked my thumb on sunshine
And it bled a bright new day
I sucked my essence through your song
Held you closely to my sway
We 'pinky promised' everything
Rode the spiral to our mind
Brought a stillness to each other
Shook our heads at our choice find
I crept in upon your bed sheets
Dropped my guard in disarray
Looked inwards to our vacant lot
Your feast was my way lay
We bathed naked in the moonlight
Sang thoughtful words of share
I cauterized your bleeding heart
We made love without a care...

Let’s pretend its kismet
I’m not opposed to that
We can meet in the piazza
Have ourselves a chat
You’ll know me by my red dress
That I have chosen for this day
And the trio serenading us
Will see our voice in sway
You may order coffee
A latte for me please
Maybe we can break some bread
Fon due our talk with cheese
Pigeons on the cobblestones
Will flap their wings in pray
Lovers smile a knowing
As we hand in hand our day
You may bring your camera
To mark this fait accompli
And I’ll scribble in my notebook
My Je t’aime, mon chéri…

"Go on", prodded the elbow.
Allow the weep that nocturnes with the hum of a thousand trapped butterflies;
puddle in their escape through tear ducts once blocked.
Howl and trickle with a presence of mind and let proud the sob as the waft
of spring onion, wild and potent, fumes in displace.
Foetal in a pool of rusty violin strings, that in gesture of their fanciful flight,
rock amongst the reminisce.
And then and oh yeah then, clamber tall the sodden bojangle, survey the encounter and with eyes anew, washed fresh, see it all, truly see it, as the murder of crows that it is.

on desk
on floor
against the wall
it’s true
it’s true
I have a few
it is not here
or over there
my word!
my word
is everywhere…
I Seuss’d …It’s fun! :)
—————————————
I gave you my word.
Now yours.
Use it.
Warm your sentence
if you will.
And tho not glamorous
it could be.
Made up
with coloured eyes
blush cheeks
ruby red lips.
Yet know, my word is not made up.
My word, that tickles my fancy
not tangled in frilly misguide.
More passionate.
That of a tender shoulder
is honest real.
My word is utter natural
as most good words in life are.
And tho it told of no expectations
it is brimful of meaning.
Take my word.
It is for you.
Pop it deep within your glory box
and remember.
My word was as real a word as any true.
…and that is how our words ought be.

Shallow knights on sallow steeds
Gallop wildly toward their needs
Unkempt, they choose, no other course
Hollow deeds of no remorse

Brazen they, unwilling maiden
Waylay, subject, deface safe haven
Of primal need, to sanction fill
Plunder callous, sorrow nil

A windswept ‘more’, a day forbade
A quest so dire, an escapade
Thrust is sealed, advance be done
Oh coward man, ruthless one

A heart of weep, a claim of story
The night is dubbed to shame his glory
Subdued grief that claims the mourn
A page of innocence, abruptly torn

A shallow night of darkness deed
Now owes a debt of karma bleed …

Again
she has her fill
then only leaves
me
now cold
used
amid the other chipped souls
in wait of her next pleasure

Once
a chosen favourite
long ago
time
now crazed
my insides
stained
weak
a withering
I am no cosy

She wipes wet lips
fanning
with rooibos
over silken forearm
We blend
She devours my very reason
There is no tomorrow
No taste nor savour
She takes me again and again
And yet
her touch is gentle
re strained
a much practised ceremony

Just as always
I alight
and warm for her
She steeps
my flush
in exotic desire
wrapping strong afflatus fingers
tight
around my aging girth
I am drawn to her
This woman
for whom I spill
again…

It takes a life time to write a poem.
For we are that poem.
We are that lifetime.
Borne untouched.
We leave the safety of a warm cocoon,
one that wraps us in our gentle embalm of trust.
And in this wholly venture,
of life now aroused.
Comfort is questioned.
Reason shaken.
Love oft spilt,
like a shimmering of milk,
flavoured on pages lived.
and this is us.
The knights spent, satisfied.
Discourse now a cacophony shattered.
But it is with presence that we remember and hold.
That the truth is waiting, always.
In bide of time.
Jubilant as the holistic Clementine,
tucked amongst the serene pages of yet to come.
And still
and still …
We are as sprinkle infinite, shredded as the coconut that falls as thought from our palm.

There is a moment
Between here and there
Where thoughts relate
Of care and wish
Be it page’s edge
Where words run off…
And meet their fate
In silence thereof

And in that moment
Where worlds stand still
Of stories collide
In rambled smile
Faces are touched
Hearts beat thrill
Little else matters…
Lest another’s share

The moment conceive
Of humbled truths
Where ground rules lay
and souls are searched…
A bare of real
In choice of worth
Chance taken per se
In friendship’s birth

Toward this very moment
Thought notwithstanding
Once penchant sought
Desire expanding
A turn of events
In change of mind
Life circumstance
Decides it’s time

Why, ask yourself?
… that moment’s gone

and so they fell …
Tears as pearly quaver
Salty in their pas de deux from her realize
A can-can polka in strip tease of soul bare
How vibrant, albeit transient in masquerade, their desire
A dance of miniscule quandary in micro adventure
Frilly knickered, in slivers of the truth
In folly, a spent of friendship abandoned
Curtsey now, in diversity of no embrace, why?
…for our lives are but a piecemeal of conversation
Random etymology in lesson
A three penny opera with no beg your pardon
The once bemused attar of forget me nots
Their fragrance now heavy in the air
…and the diminutive whys, wander rhetorically, in and out
of the bungle bungles of reality… because they can-can

Sometimes there is no rhyme … no reason
We skip, break into dance.
The light is fantastic.
Our trippy smile complacent
Circumspect is the altered state,
of a world as it mutters its beat with the always of our heartfelt song.
We run our fingers under the hot tap,
numb gathers, swelling in bloody ripples infinite.
And still there is only a sensation of love.
Hindsight is the cold light of day we splash on our if onlys.
We lift yesterdays garb over our head and closet it as a memory.
The sun shines mourn as sad roams in displace.
And while we link hands with a share of spirit; renew,
everything falls unbelievably into place.
Yet we know deep down, where we truly live.
Sometimes there is no reason …no rhyme.

Her
The flower on the wall
Wilting slightly
Drops a petal
Fills her vase with Johnny Walker
Re hydrated
Firms her buds
He loves me…

The other posies
Gather round
As she is picked
To join the chosen
Form the wreath
'the arrangement'
That tops the coffin
It is her service

Sweet translucent sap
Leaks from her stem cut
For that is the fate
Of the daisy
He loves me not…

I have been
kissed by the night
tempted
as the big juicy apple
shy once
bitten
proffered by the hand
of wild belief
that dipped
not in love
more the alchemy
of mischief intended
and were I to swim
fairytale like again
it would be with a free style
amongst the deep
between the flags
where thought meant
overt share
and with faith of leap
truth be known
my night
is my day
until then
oh yes
until then
I float on my back
in ponder…

Alone, left not a sound
nor word of extricate.
As humble pie they slid.
Words unfinished, like
fancy work embossed
on the hand extended.
Silken gloves removed
to reveal fingers that
we pianists gently stroke
on simultaneous keyboards.
Verbose the affinity, once
shared in a twilight of linger.
And in the dim that sings
La Traviata to the silenced
autumn’s light grew quiet.
She remembers a smile
of a time that tingled …