They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

The girl was running down the road,
her pigtails were indeed a mess.
The boy was playing with a plastic sword,
his mouth was covered with chocolate mousse.
They were laughing so hard,
but I was astounded when they asked.
"What is truth?"

Inside you

is where I want to

be,

thrusting

within the folds

of your mind

penetrating

the sweet softness

of your soul,

throbbing

as I release my love

deep within you.
                                     Jon York   2019.

I used to embrace the pain, I thought it was love

A year has passed,
and I am still writing
poems—pleas—for her

Three years,
and my stubborn heart
still yearns for hers

It has been so long,
and I fear I may have
dreamt you, dear one

I cried out in despair
from the depths
of my human heart
Mother! Mother!
Don’t leave me alone!
Father!
Why have you left me
to rot in the dust?
and then I saw
they were dust
I reached out my hand
to take hold of theirs
and they no longer shrank back in fear
now they only disintegrated into ash
and blew away with the slight breeze
kissing my cheek
I looked and saw
I was not dust
I am not ash

adopt a demon tonight
and if you're a writer
she'll help you become a
great one even
It is worth exposing yourself
to her
You won't call her a demon,
of course. That term is offensive
You'll refer to her as The Muse,
your muse
and she will visit you when the
time is right
and the time will be right
when you start doing your thing
You'll see.