...words,  at times,      f
                                       a                    
                                   l
                               l

                          in   a    

                        c
                      r
                        o
                             o
                                  k
                                e
                            d
                                  row...


when gathering thoughts
when establishing a message
when trying to put words
in their right places
...they sometimes end up
............in   w e i r d    spaces

..................r h y t h m    
is messed...it's neither a poem nor a hymn
.....falling backward
..........it sounds   a
                                    w
                                k
                                     w a r d

......everything else doesn't     j i b e ...
...........time is not ripe....
the poem's moment...is yet to arrive...


        Sally

Copyright November  5, 2017              
rrab

Lay back, relax my love
as I softly caress your mind
let me fill your life with peace
leave all past stress behind.

Let your soul soar with mine
gaze deep into my eyes
feel my love surround you
as we float the moonlit skies.

Filling every night with pleasure
enveloped in pure loving bliss
stopping the flow of time
together suspended in honeyed kiss.

Interwoven as one
uniting together, one beautiful light
now and forever a single thread
casting beauty through the night.
~

And like moments
were words
I made a wish
to the stars…

And now

Soon I will hold you close
envelop your heart
kiss your loving soul
and when the words
become so real
that we cannot stand
the electric energy
that flows...

Those moments
will be ours.. alone
with each other...

And again and again
we will meet
after dark
as the moon
yawns in awakening
and the only
light to be seen
embraces us
in a sparkling soft shade
of silver blue.

In that secret place
we will always meet
where the clouds greet
the swaying trees
sprinkling moonlight
in the shadows
as your touch
lingers on my skin
a radiant heat
melding slowly
with the
tingling warmth
your love
blankets me in.

High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They're gone...
It calms
empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
hover
over the asphalt road.

Where...
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.  
No, no
NOT THAT!
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.

What She Look Like?
  
…Like one
tenderly hushing
water in her lap
Elemental peace
No place to go
No more to be
…Like the ocean
in the background
of a photo on a warm spring day
belying
rage
and the random possible
thrash--

out!

at all guilty ******* in her path
Toss in the next sentient soul
who should happen to pass
within range
who should have seen
who should have known
what a storm could do….

Moody in the aftermath
and sorrier than rain
With the tide in retreat
grumbling excuses
Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot
Waiting for night to sleep it off

to heal the rifts
cleanse the shame

Rising
yellow, bright— and

“What the hell happened, here?!”

____


Her hair
a winter’s tragedy of trees
upside down—
No wait— the wind has put her right
to ragged random branches
swaying, wet with intermittent hues
of dark and silver
caught in collar, flying inelegant and free
at the shoulders of the levee
tossed and softening shyly
sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree
All perspective changes…

if you watch a while—

She’ll raise her eyes
into the sunset
to catch an eagle
entering
flight

…and then you might…

___

She looks like—
a pudgy robin
querying grass
mud soaked
that hides the fire of her breast
tugging at a worm
more than half her length
“I will feed them, **** you!
Give it up, you son of a snake!”
_____

...Don’t miss her hour of music though
for anything
Encroaching darkness
from the rooftops
she listens to the hearts she breaks

Remember this in winter
she can give but she will take
it out on February
when you’re longing
for her