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Her hand grazed my knee first;
black nail polished fingers
filled with golden rings and solitude

Her hand slid up past my knee next,
A chilling whisper of a husky voice,
"I'm bisexual, whatever, who cares?"
A tone so sleek, so ****,
Uncaring and unrelenting

Her hand moved inward this time,
her warm breath pressed to my neck,
questions of sexuality and culture
in her ******* rasp and
I melted that way, I ******* melted that day

A level booming below,
A band of drummers,
Drumming of ambition and heartbreak,
A base-dropping attitude from Athens

She leaned in first, her smoky green eyes
******* mine and I looked up,
with a feeling of hot temperance on my tongue,
She kissed me,
sweet and bold and the evening was full
of firsts because she grabbed me,
so fast and forward and
dimmed the mood and began her journey
into transcendental fluidity

We swayed to the beat of casuality,
a beat unfamiliar in my world of seriousness,
and she grabbed my hand and pulled her lips
closer, closer
and whispered "I'll get us a taxi"

Beautiful women make my heart flutter,
and beautiful women with smoky green eyes
and blonde dreadlocks make my speech stutter
but I followed her into the abyss of wonder
holding her hand onto the grassy concrete,
our breath white and our spirits hazy

The taxi home reminded me of New York streets,
and it made me forget of Oxford priorities and
senseless irony and she kissed me twice,
her **** fingers searching for answers
in the 2:30am moonlight

She kissed me in the elevator,
A familiar scent of the haunted ancients and
her sly character left me breathless, an
adventurous eighteen-year-old searching for
wisdom and a twenty-something searching for
a definition, we collided

Her dorm, lined with yellow lights and
colorful elephants, a comforting essence of
security and warmth

She grabbed my waist and
turned me around,
I lost my breath in her
seductive sway,
She kissed me hard and pushed me fast,
onto her pillows of a cool fragrance

She screamed once and I screamed twice,
A fantastic pain muffled by the sound
of old heat lamps

"You'll forget this," I said
"Please," she said, "I'm practically sober."

We continued for hours, her spirit quick,
unceasing,
persistent
She smiled exquisitely,
with slanted eyes, she licked her lips

We slept soundlessly,
Her hand where it started, above my knee
and below my waist,
Black nail polished fingers held
my hand until morning,
a soft kiss on the shoulder blade
and I awoke to the chirping of morning

And I left with a sense of softness,
not accomplishment and
I'll see the smoky-eyed,
yellow-dread girl once more,
And I hope it's when I don't know
what
for
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
I walk outside,as I open the door I get a slap in the face,not a mean slap,but more a gentle slap from a playful lover you've been away from for a short while.
I smile because I've missed that cold rush on my skin,I breathe deep into my lungs the painfully cold air and feel so alive.
I open my icy blue eyes and look out,past the white church steeple to the snow covered mountains,so tranquil and serene,wishing I could be there,as a person wishes to see an old friend.
then as if it were mere seconds since I entered the cold embrace of my winter love,she blows gently in my hair as if to say,please go inside now and get warm so you can come back to me soon.
reluctantly I listen,brush away the cold and go inside,where it's always too warm.
At least I can always walk back outside........to see her again
Love and life confuse me
Ive been trying to find the answers
Dangling on the edge of inner security
But thoughts take over like a cancer
And love blinds us, can't you see?
In time, with treatment, it does get better
Until then I will stop with the inquiry.
It gets better
 Dec 2014 Graced Lightning
han
the desk was filled with empty coffee cups
they were almost as empty as his promises
the light on your desk was brighter than the light that led you down your path to misery
it seemed dark but you knew exactly where you were headed
you try to forget by drowning yourself in alcohol but your lungs are already filled with the smell of his breath after  he kissed you goodnight
you stay up late because you know you'll dream of the way he used to hold you and tell you he loved you
but when you're awake you can't help to fantasize about the way he used to look at you
and when someone brushes next to you in the hallway you think about how his hands used to hold your hips and the feel of his weight on top of you
you find yourself convinced of your own lies and the things you make up in your head seem more real than the things you actually felt and smelled and saw
you don't know if you hate him or love him for hurting you
because maybe he made you a better person but why would you break the heart of someone you love
though i'm not sure if breaking my heart is worse than telling me you love me when maybe you didn't at all
Roses are red, violets are blue
My bones are broken, my skin black and blue
Why do you keep beating me on the head with that shoe
You tore out my eyes, intestines and testicles too
Let me bleed for a while, then made a *** of stew

You’re so dam crazy, it’s too late for me, if only I knew
How you like to perform lobotomies, after you sniff glue
The last one oozed brain mater, which you began to chew
It seems that Quentin Terintino has nothing on you
Some things so scary I can’t mention, they are very taboo

Beware all you naive boys, she’s the devil in a tou tou
She’ll **** on you more than what can be found at a Zoo
Her lies filled my head, stretching it till it popped and blew
Wait! Or was it the explosive poisons she put in my shampoo
 Dec 2014 Graced Lightning
N
Open books with black covers containing stories never good enough to be read, words never long enough to contain the fragment of a thought. Maybe that's why I turn to putting my own in the complexity of poems, maybe that's why I'm never satisfied because I can never say what I mean. Sometimes I don't think you know what I mean, so if you haven't been able to read the between the lines; I miss you. I've been looking for so many ways to say it but none of them have been enough to make you come back. The thing about poetry is its never enough to make you feel the way I do. It'll never make you realize that ink seeps out of my pens with the purpose to make you feel something; but it never does. The thing about poetry is that you need to be empty to write it and that's why I learnt how to after you left. The shut door opened a new one which was the will to write about all the broken pieces of myself. The thing about poetry is it requires to see life through the eyes of things unspoken. Little do most know that mirrors and picture frames can speak novels of things forgotten which is me to you. The thing about poetry, is that I'm running out of things to say. I'm running out of words to spray on city walls, or carve in the wood of dying trees. The thing about poetry is that this isn't it. This is the goodbye, good luck. I have nothing more to bleed out for you, my mind is turning to dust. This is the last "I love you" I have left to write about, this is extended hands with empty palms.
This is the apology. It's me trying to feel something more than what I do, and as hard as I try to get there, I can swear that in nights of deafening silence I can still hear the sky screaming out your name.
Idk how I feel about this one
Awaiting the storm
Forming on distant shores.
Preparing myself for
The oceans tidal swell.
Opening my heart
To the rawest of elements.
I ride the anticipation
Of the coming waves.
Conquering the building
Fear as the water leaps high.
A great solid wall
Unfurling its rippling energy.
Through the tube,
Board skimming, skipping.
Flirting with danger,
Risking everything,
Inside a living
Hollow cocoon of
Thundering power.
Controlled fear beats
Inside my pumping heart,
Driving my adrenaline
Through to spiritual fulfilment.
On exiting the beast,
It rolls onward to its death.
Through its existence
We both lived, sharing
A unique oneness.
Children of nature within
A union of creation, so special,
It takes the breath away.
Savouring my exhilaration,  
I see another wave being born,
And prepare to surf again.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
in it's entirety, this poem is deeper than just a day surfing. It is about love and life, various aspects of love and life. If you only see surfing - it is also about the surfing experience, but also, how the surfing experience relates to love and life - return another time for a reread.
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