life is poetry my dear, while minutes and moments turn to years and all the laughter, all the tears teach us to release our fears; to live like kings surviving jeers. so raise your glass and let’s make cheers for love keeps living, far or near; a story for the poet’s ear. I’m glad you’re in my story, Dear.
how does a woman tell about awakening? the burning in her breast the fire that lights the embers long smouldering ‘neath years of stress and fight and proving; when finally she esteems herself enough and sees the lines and curves for wisdom wealth and birth. knowing her power, real allowing her to feel that freedom waits where shame has fade away. she knows the joy of being this woman- having this form, the center of creation in her body and her soul to share or keep- is like a dance.
dance alone she may or with you
you’ll know her by the passion of her touch her laugh her joy her zeal for life when two become one if first she knows herself and so do you
The only way to pure love is through the self. A woman who sees her value is a treasure to those who know her.
...I'll write it. Baby with those blues, you sing a tune and smile at me like miles away we’re going but not together. Not for now. You sail your way I go mine “Into the Mystic” like Morrison. For your voice and your guitar I would write another tune, another lyric sunrise with you and I held closely feeling whispers holding hands reveling in what we made together. Ah yes, this serenade I keep. Your Little gypsy, My Sailor man, I’ll build you a port. I’ll shine my light and camp a while if when the fog horn blows and calls you home you’ll sail my way. You play our song, I'll write it.
I could write you in between the lines, slipping in nuance like a kiss in the sheets; but would you stay? I wish to keep you in the way you’ve gotten neath my skin. Hold me close and whisper, “take my body feed my soul.” A script we two compose- make the love and write the prose.
with mischievous smile and painted skin, if ever man should fly it would be him. the world a ground for wanderlust (no place could keep him in) has bid goodbye while up he climbs on quest to clear his mind. Africa, Andromeda mountain peak to star; no limits of time or place too far. ‘ere he leaves this Earth, before we all, one rock will surely call. atop its peak he’ll stop to rest Everest, Sam, ever rest.