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She is not just pizza, she is Persephone on dough, fig-dark sweetness pressed from autumn’s womb, spread across the earth like a secret hymn.

Her shallots burn like dusk in the underworld, their caramel fire licking at the edges, a hunger that stings as it seduces.

Mozzarella  
the pale moons of her *******  soft, molten, surrendering under heat.
Fontina, the molten gold of her laughter, binding every element into delirium.

Out of the oven she rises, clothed only in veils of prosciutto thin silk of salt and surrender. Then arugula rains down, green fire, wild meadow,
a crown of pepper on her head.

She is feast, she is goddess,
she is the altar and the appetite,
the sweetness of figs,
the bite of arugula,
the yielding heat of molten flesh.

That is how you like your woman:
a sacred hunger,
a myth you devour,
a body both temple and banquet.
As I am an older gent, am I, who appreciates the finer finds
of god's inventional interventions, acknowledges
though born by theft of mine bone,
all creatures feline,
I admittedly knowledge this
only heightens their aromatic scintiilating
Je ne sais quoi, that being how one says in French
"I don't what it is exactly, but I loves me some a lot!"

but I play favorites,
and her name is inscribed
in my rapidly aging brain, which
by the bye, is a poor excuse for writing
such a lame po-em
but what the heck,
lucky you, gets to smoke
the chaff & wheat
don’t always
understand you
incomprehensible
beautiful
woman, you     ..
As I sit here, I wait for her
I make new promises
I am confident
She is my solace

The bird with feathers of red autumn
Her tune, marked by joy, is sweet
I hear her blithe symphony
In the park benches, in the hymn of leaves

While beauty is found
In this faded old memory
In the end
Change arrives like an old friend

Once wintry chill arrives
The park turns still
And she is not there
A breeze stirs the sleeping flowers
How shall I discover, uncover, and re+cover you?

the goal?
to make you mine, a follower. a fan, an intimate, a lover of'
each others (words?)

My options?

offered thee three to me!
A~Z,

or  
your successes by
Popularity!

then of course,
read each crafted in order
of appearance,
but even that,
can be forward and back,
latest to last~est,
oldest to the knowing~est?

value your insightsfuls,
oh! on how to get best
into your insides but through
your
insights...

do I detect a tiny tremble,
in your finger writing tips?

random < in no particular order order>  helter skelter?
you mean, be keen,  like falling in loving,
discovering, the nuances,
old and new, prior and au courant,
just jump in, and let the au current
take me//

mmm
do admit, like a bit,
being big fandom of random,
which feels a tad like falling in love...
when the little surprises,
come best unexpectedly

tonight,
I will stuff myself with carbohydrates of additional sugar,
me love me sweets,
love me my bittersweet chocolate of triste,
which in english, has multiple levels of
most interesting con-
notations....

so down the hole,
who knows what will be
discovered
unveiled,
recovered,
hidden weaknesses,
historic strengths,
you asked...
and I shall be
the uncoverer
of the little tidbits,
that satisfy so much more
than just poetic simplistic curiosity

it is no wonder to me
that prolific and profile,
are rooted from the same
rivered source...
until later, then
sad eyed lady of the lowland (see note)
lyrics to sad eyed lady of the lowlands

https://www.google.com/gasearch?q=lyrics%20to%20sad%20eyed%20lady%20of%20the%20lowlands&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#ebo=1
it is the inky, only one, you will ever be gifted,
the others, you will need create from scratch...

In these days where
solving for Self, "Selving," dominates,
a long time,
now-all-the-time work,
this selling
of the cells of sel~awakening.

though, duty insists,
                                    I insert the Psalmist's wise words,

"There is nothing new under the sun'

a cautionary comma to reckless abandonment of senses,
instincts, passed down wisdom.

a hardy learned lesson that's
not needy
for forgetting,
advice offered up with a
compote of temerity, tenderness, timidity.
'tis:
    
                                  far, far better to fail well than not at all!
The Poetry of Waiting

Not the break,
but the breath before the break.
Not the silence,
but the listening it invites.

A caesura is not absence,
it is presence held still.
A hush with its hands open.
A comma that prays.

It lives in the gasp
between heartbeat and echo,
in the moment the dancer
hovers mid-turn,
in the glance that says
more than the line ever could.

It is the ache
that punctuation cannot name.
The pause
where grief gathers its syllables.
The space
where longing loops back to begin again.

We write it
with white space,
with hesitation,
with the courage
to not fill every line.

We live it
in hospital waiting rooms,
in the hush before “I love you,”
in the breath between diagnosis and reply.

Caesura –
the sacred seam
where poetry listens
to the body.
A caesura is a metrical pause or break in a verse where one phrase ends and another begins. It can occur in the middle of a line of poetry and is often marked by punctuation such as a comma or a dash. The term originates from the Latin word meaning "cutting" and serves to create rhythm and meaning in literary works.
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