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How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
My soul spices for unending love
To build an orb of adoring cove
Where magical wands stops time
Making our soul in body to elope
In a fountain of water *****
There we found an undying breath

Martin Ijir
I came back to the poem with more ideas,
Trying to wake up the unsuspecting reader
To walk with them though my stories
I didn’t want them to think I was rapping
nor was I singing the blues

Poetry is no longer frightening
Like a sudden force of lightening;
Awakening your senses to the art
From the start: to the fuzzy end

I dared you not to walked away from this piece
However, I beg of you to read this piece with ease
Today, I wish that the little birds on my window
Will sing to me, but instead the cold morning breeze
kept them away:
An exciting dimension of their songs makes my day
Comes alive:

In my lucid dream last night, I saw beach goers
Watching the tides go in and out:
way down the harbor road
Their soak their feet in a stream
of warm running water

So I took a seat and I joined the relaxing crowd
Dreams are scarier, more than poetry.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out
of the heart of darkness comes the light. ~Jean Giraudoux


I came back to this poem with a sense of knowing, that a

*Poet can survive everything but a misprint Oscar -Wilder
Walking in dry sands
Time without rain to quench thirst
Hope one drop of love
All poetry,
Well it took hold of me
I mean all this poetry
It really grips the soul of me
To read all of this poetry
Well it would take me centuries
Sitting silent on endless balconies
Questioning the whats and whos and hows of me
Lying still on sturdy bows of trees
Reading through perfectly posed symphonies
Twenty six letters making all this poetry
Oh how they take ahold of me
And all of you, authors of this poetry
So distant and naive
Unknowingly knowing me
Unknowingly holding me
We don't write poetry.
It happens.
It hits you in the face and
demands to be.

Its pieces bombard like pebbles
thrown by zealous winds.
It wakes you at two a.m.
frantic to be free.

Like soul longing for body
it floats about
filled with anguish
and yearning.

The world is a poem.
Walking among its words,
often unaware,
we breathe the empty spaces.

We are all scribes,
sometimes setting down
a verse or two.

But...

we don't write poetry.

It happens.
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