We walked along the grainy ocean,
Our way, smooth as a path to nowhere
And through a dance of reeds your hair,
Steeped with marshes of wings and air,
Red, mellow as fire from the fallen sun,
Your flowered dress was the first spring
Ever germinating and blue crystal waters
Sprung, of coastal pools, Knockanare wells
And I was flung, as a windy clutch of seeds
Dreaming, your voice, bloomy, song wafted,
Rousing, as remembrance in fragrances —
And the moony, blinking stars soon peopled                                                          ­   
Our woe-less eyes, full of sleep and vision
And all the stones held us deep as sarsen.

Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
jaw agape and panting. Such a sight;
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.

Charming evening's prelude to a night
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl,
jaw agape and panting.  Such a sight.

The gentle purring now belies the howl
from shattering release that takes you whole
where passion grinds your voice to feral growl.

Your strong yet silken legs enfold my soul,
as you recover life from petit mort,
from shattering release that takes you whole.

No need to contemplate what's still in store,
I'll hold this waking dream until we sleep
as you recover life from petit mort.

Tomorrow's work and worries all will keep,
I'll hold this waking dream until I sleep.
Naked, moaning softly, bathed in sweat,
a perfect beauty I'll not soon forget.

The couplet's first in writing villanelles;
if you desire your work to be its best,
a singleness in purpose always tells.

Of course, the open has the hook that sells,
your reader is seduced to read the rest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.

Your second line resides in writer's hell,
the rhyme-rich ending word must meet the test
and singleness in purpose always tells.

Pentameter iambic works just swell,
but matters not, as many will attest.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.

Last stanza rolls around, the poet's well
is nearly dry, their muse under duress;
a singleness in purpose always tells.

The final lines! Relax, and sit a spell,
enjoy the glow of formal poem's success.
The couplet's first in writing villanelles.
a singleness in purpose always tells.

Sapphic poems call upon mathematic
skills, as meter meted out over three lines,
groups of two feet followed by three, again two,
                              ending with five beats.

Even this old formalist, prehistoric
in his method, limps along through elevens,
just like playing Jethro Tull, Lynyrd Skynyrd;
                              seven-four, five-four.

Hear the roar of dinosaurs in the tar pits,
stuck in sonnets, villanelles, rhymes and rhythms,
sinking slowly, praying for preservation;
                              creative fossils.

My love for you is pure and sweet
Your soft lips I adore
And each kiss we share, a real treat
My love, kiss me once more
Embraced in your arms, it feels right
Oh so warm and snug, not to tight
Embraced in your
Embraced in your
Thus our love soars, high like a kite.

You’re sweet poetry’s fine-tuned art
A blessing, from above
You captured each space in my heart
We both knew it was love
You fill my heart, feelings of glee
Butterflies flutter, feeling free
You fill me heart
You fill my heart
Our love’s the best, let’s both agree.

Let me count each way, I love you
As I surrender all
On this spring day, the sky is blue
Deeper in love I fall
Your gentle love, your heart so pure
This look of love, your eyes allure
Your gentle love
Your gentle love
Oh so pure and sweet, love’s detour.

One sip of thee sent giddy all our senses,
Thy soft bouquet hung sweetly on the tongue,
Full-bodied ripeness broke down our defenses
To leave us addicts stuck on thee lifelong.
Wine is a friend when wine is freely flowing,
Yet all who raise a glass and toast a cheer
Know days will come when all their pours are slowing
And even finest wines must have their year.
Take thee a rested breath unto that meadow,
Be free and eased to ponder o'er that stream
Gleaming with gold and silver, wending below
That shimmered crossing wrought of heaven's scheme.
        Until we meet once more at rainbow's end,
        Farewell to thee our lifetime treasured friend.

I saw a hunter by a country road,
In tandem with me he sailed as I drove.

His hoody-head set monkish to the soil
Conjured up music so soundful, sacred,
And I unmoving over a tired flesh—
Coloured vehicle felt naked and dead

For he so saintly robed and dressed to ****
In the colours of the sky prayed with wings,
My harrier, his eyes cleansed purity and gold                                                      
While mine unsightly piebald pale and blue.

But want of food dovetailed two craving
Creatures, yet— over fed I felt rusty
Below his steely hunger and what saving
Grace God might offer either mice or men.

Words Be Thy Will, Free'd
Owing Naught To God Or King --
    May Death Renew Thee.

Some years ago, I begged for firmament,
a lasting place of honor in your skies.
As days of disappointment came and went,
I learned forever's promises are lies.
Still fighting finite life, impermanence,
this chunk of astral rock would never learn
time's atmosphere is entered only once,
and we glow, white and screaming as we burn.

The cold of space interred within my bones
means any source of warmth is welcomed now,
including immolation.  
                                         Had I known
the entropy our years on earth allow,
a reckless plunge would sanction fiery end:
The shooting star is blessed and not condemned.

***,  ice and a slice,
and topped with salted water
poured into the drink

“Spare a penny, Sir?":

        Frosted winds berate small tins --
        Forsaken headstones.

Iamb, iamb, iamb, I plod along
in verse predicting I could write a song.
To call upon the muse of higher power
pour some wine, kick off your shoes and glower.

While putting best foot forward, don't forget:
cliches are lines that surely **** your wit.
Reality, you say, bears greener grass?
Abstraction always steps across as crass.

It's true you could walk on like this for days.
Your meter's tight, it rarely ever strays.
But what of clever feet and sounds succinct?
If images are dull, your verse will stink,

As blossoms dance upon the redbud tree
and oceans fill your squid with ink of glee,
remember what your mama always said:
mixed metaphors fill readership with dread!

Say: sonics surely sock a swelling swale,
Entwined, the twisted tongues tell not your tale.
Less is always more, the teachers say.
If tricks you train, then please just walk away!

I never knew how hard it really was
to write a poem that might parade a buzz.
I thank you moderators and big brass
for sticking yours so fully up my ***!

Gypsy by birth, with a wildness inside,
she was crowned queen, by her birthright.
"By laws of the tribe," she didn't abide,
under moonlit skies, dancing at midnight.

There's a wild spark, inside her dark eyes.
Named after her mother, a free "Spirit,"
in the darkness of the night, a wolf cries--
by her dance, cheered by public-spirit.

A glow can be seen, by little fireflies,
as all standby and watch in enchantment.
A true gypsy queen with all that implies,
all in this night, filled with entertainment.

Flames by the fire, crackling wood sounds--
Men watch with glee, as her beauty astounds.

© Debbie Altiparmakis, All rights reserved.