Under the high tide
Of raindrops
And dewdrops
In the darkness
Of the forest
A twig
To the light
Is crying

Repentant in the muddy waters
Circuitry of crystal exposure and
sandy bottom
Becoming one with Cotton Indian Creek
The olive cool link longing for an ocean
to call her own
River Birch mother what human frailty
thou hast borne witness of
Terrapin brothers what do you patiently
wait for
Collage of cirrus sky warning , Gibbous Moon
address
A Blue Heron to share my loneliness* ...

Concoctions of morning Blackstrap Molasses , Apple blossom honey
Afternoon Sugar Cane treat Sundays
Catfish feeder pond thrills
Stirring Bobwhite Quail wood line hideaways
Plentiful , native green grass runways
Kerosene lanterns , john boats o'er -
Black Crappie midnight waters
A thousand new songs rippled the moonlight -
causeways
Lakes melting into night
The warm , thick air of first light
Mockingbird chirrup , Killdeer call
August morning star convocations of -
Crape Myrtle with butterfly epiphanies

<>

Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forget.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all, cold,
know them all, hot.

I speak Woman.

Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.

There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!

I speak Woman.

There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.  
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days,
vacations, no school, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?

You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you ugly and wrong.

Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice.

In any summer,,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice at all.

Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Au naturel,
Naturellement, à la française.

Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.

It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.

The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...

Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...

All these say:

Write us poetry in our very own tongue of
Woman.

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall

The crayola musical colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses...
How can
Tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?

Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.

Just as Byron wrote:

"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"

Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.

Well,
Enough.

My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my
Fluency.

Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing  the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.

But
Never forget
how to say in the language of Woman, this:

Without you,
I am nothing,
With you,
I am more than everything.

Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.

My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.


August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017

lying on my back on the porch under a fairy tale night sky
a three-quarter moon peaked and wove
through a filigree lace of lingering white
lighting the backdrop canvas of dark infinity
with a daylight blue
I started counting the stars
like my hopes they were
and got to infinity and
lost count of
the ones I counted twice
and it did not matter anymore

I witnessed a carousel of twinkling lights
Songs of nature filled the clear August night
Wet grass cooled each step
Two stars fell from the midnight Heaven , I made two wishes for Mary Ellen* .....

One small moment
can be so infinite,
in vibrations grand
as I watch the universe
                burst forth and expand
I sit upon the desert's ground
feeling the abundance
                     of Life, abound
How it envelopes me
          and takes me in
as I become one
with the cosmos,
           stars exploding within
It swallows me whole
into vastness so sacred
for we are all enfolded
across ancient
        frames of time
our condition vulnerable,  
                 souls naked
looking out into this
diamond-flecked magnitude
in crystalline,
                   sublime
For inside that far away,
milky density
of celestial spheres
we are part of the now
part of the here
        and, as the firmament      
continues to move
my starry-eyed soul
        begins to groove
******* state
from meteor's flash
tranjectory arcs
in a second's bright dash
A miracle of
cosmic magic unfolds
before our very eyes---
a gift to behold,
            a spiritual prize      
and as we hold our breath
from meteorite to star
I think about this
concept of far
ponder upon the waves of space
                                     and time:
an axis of fine-woven threads
                                that binds
and know that under
these spark-induced skies
our journeys fuse
             our hearts,
                   our eyes
Our spirits the
reflection of comets' haze
our dance of
shooting stars,
             ablaze