I longed for red lips,
red roses and rest,
soft cotton and comfort,
found upon your smooth breast.
The red of your love so entangled me,
But oh how I did crave the pain
To banish my own mediocrity
And burn in your molten red rain
In our days we danced so wildly,
Through red skies so happy we flew,
But soon our red turned to crimson,
A red much too heavy for two.
Now I long for white roses,
A somber display,
I’ll curse it in horror,
And fling it away.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
Such a leathery lonely and laboring,
Traveling traitor is love,
griping and groveling for favor,
a fair-weather forecaster,
a fickle friend,
a lonely wanderer,
out in the night.
I kindly ask
that you keep kicking me,
With your calloused feet of hindsight.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
From off to the side I looked,
But the subtle magic
Was no easier to see.
The man,
The one I used to be,
Met me in the mirror,
To tell me no more,
Than what I could embrace,
Ah yes..
Now I see his wasted face.
He was a magician,
Trading in appearance’s,
He came with a flame,
And scarves and cards,
With dazzle and frivolous cheer.
Yet only I turned out to see,
His dreams turned into jokes,
Then gone with thunder
and puffs of smoke.
So he turned a wish into three,
And one by one gave them to me,
Then he smiled and bowed quite low
In a grand sweeping of black,
while softly kissing the edge,
Of his magical silk top hat,
While I was seduced unwillingly.
But he could not change,
The color of my sky,
Or a single graying hair of mine.
He could not make the night more silent,
And when with the sun I awoke,
I found him fast asleep,
Alone with the face of a child.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The land awoke today
bright and windless
to gaze upon a porcelain sun.
In love with light,
it shows once more,
those luminous shades,
of brilliant liquid color,
within its well-shaped orb.
It is a clear and selfish light,
that never waits to see,
its own flawed colors,
shattered as broken glass,
reflected in windows of poverty.
Alone this painted orb,
knows only of self-comforting,
and in its seclusion,
it will never know,
through either love or wisdom,
just how beautiful it can be.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
Once in a dream, the trees in an orchard
called out laughing to me saying:
Here is this sweet fruit,
hold its fullness in your palm,
Feel long of its soft, sun-warmed skin.
And so I held one, then forever wanting..
wanting others I could never hold,
as the sunlight fell through expectant leaves,
in a golden cascade of a summer scene,
giving the trees something more to laugh about.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
Below the tree line,
love ran its rank course,
in hungry silence, with diligence,
where all are meat, and none are free,
to the lone wolf prowling,
through the pines,
pure of heart, and lovers dreams,
over many a distant hill he roams,
to suit his sole intelligence,
with comforts none, he speaks to me.
Here amongst these rolling hills,
sharing none other's love or trust,
resigned to chase his dimming suns,
with knowledge of his end to come.
None should know such lonely thoughts,
as this simple creature, filled with light,
chasing always loves request,
to find his longing in the night.
Howling deeds that others shun,
Silver drops of heartache shimmer,
from jaws of silent moonlight come,
glowing with the faintest glimmer,
of peaceful evenings left undone.
Such longing desires for others,
those friends, enemies, lovers,
they cannot see above,
such chilly hills where solitude lives,
Lone wolves run free and live apart,
They have no brothers,
No friends, no lovers,
to claim their lonely wandering heart,
the grimmest, coldest winds that blow,
are all they need to nourish and feed,
their hunger wandering cold,
and lean among the silent trees.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
"Your words," she said,
"so deliciously delicate,"
But how would she know?
Could she taste her succulent syllables,
as they dripped from my quivering lips?
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
On his table is a cup,
filled with a need,
to caress her receptacle,
of weights and measures,
without such
the sweetness of her soul,
he could not know.
His own hands mix sugar and flour,
vanilla, and longing.
His mind must be precise,
Or her lines may flow out,
to a flavorless poem,
a definite defeat of taste.
The lemon cake she likes,
smooth dark frosting,
rich with butter.
His mind needs more than tablespoons,
Of sugar and flour, cups of it,
Mixed with a pinch,
Of a sweet sultry gaze,
Sifting through his lover’s day.
Till with his hand he cups her chin,
And turns again,
to mix her mouth with his.
This woman is his table,
And he the cup.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
My love was nothing
But a dream of dreams
That flowed through your hair
Under bright blue skies,
That warmed your face,
And in your eyes,
I could count an infinite list
Of our loves souvenirs
Our future and past reeked of our sweat
Now a cool mourning mist
on old wrinkled hands
Our carpets crushed in defeat
Paths worn through threads
Of our imaginary lands.
Our ceiling of love bowed to our life
heavy with moonbeams
and our child’s cries.
our finest china sang with delight
While our kitchen quaked,
with sudden desire.
The garments of our home,
were miraculous threads,
Stained with our song and light,
And while we embraced in sleep,
my love did lie awake, yet dreaming.
my love for you,
was a living thing.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
I would sail the seas
of sudden sorrow,
If only...
To have you for my own.
So silky soft and clear.
I would shape and shift
your need for me,
While I coil and uncoil
Your long soft hair.
I would kiss you,
Unaware.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC