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.

musing on pondering,

cogitating on ruminating,

postulating on speculating,

considering multiple theories,

deeming the discrepancies deniable

positing the petty presumptions,

theorizing multiple condsiderations,

apraising the mediations,

digesting the deliberations,

allowing for freefall meditation,

envisioning the expectations,

presuming the pontifications,

anticipating the asumptions,

comprehending the conclusion,

accrediting the rationalizations,

concluding the comprehesion,

spinning synaptic wheels,

hypothesizing the conjecture,

recollecting of the reminiscence,

adumbrating the prognostigcation,

concocting of the subliminate,

masticating on the cereberal machinations,

of the ocillations, in the agitatation,
apparent,
in an insomniac's maniacal brain,

reckoning not,
on the simple summation,
of the night's wayward,
mental arbitratration,


there is... just too much time,
to think....

and far too little time to write....

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.

goodnight .... old girl,
goodnight, to you,
you quiet house,
you blessed home.

are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself,
your hidden recessed places
are you sighing in relief
as we settle safe in our beds.

your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your teak
and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,
the drumming of our feet,
the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping,
about your frame?

or is it best when we leave you,
silent and alone to contemplate,
in the sun and wind on a work day? my lord, the secrets you must keep, the lifes, that you have held close behind these old walls.

you must groan and cry,
with the weight of some memories, yet, others cause you to smile and sigh in near-miss relief.
you have stood strong and sturdy,
for almost one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded,
with the growth of family,
from farmers cottage, to three bed,
with study
and nannexe out the back.

you have been
all but knocked down,
rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.
you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts,
to shift you, from your place
upon the cliffshead.

you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.
and now,
just before i sleep,
i want to thank you old girl,
for the way, you keep us all safe.

"and who might you be?"
he asked in a voice
hahdah than a newenglandbed

"just a fellow poet who was read
your poems in fifth grade
and fell in love with words"

"a )poet(?  why of all most the amazing
things on earth would you
want to do that?"

"it never was a want"

banana driven
to drive one bananas
backseat driver
lodged on one's back
insipid thief
taking bite sized pieces
of one's soul
leaving you feeling less
than whole..
confused about one's role
grinding, prancing,
either way can't stop dancing
riddle-raddled fiddle-faddled
muddle minded ....
listening,
to it's whispering....
takes a terrible toll.

whispering words not yet created
humming all forgotten lines
the unborn, the unfinished
cradled in loving arms
the arms that hug the sleepless
and hold off desperate pursuers
apropos of nothing, comes unbidden
as you work, as you drive, as you sleep
at the worst times possible
nothing handy to scribble down
dictation of the gods
whispered in words not yet created