I reach across the table to touch your hand.

Fine hands, long slender fingers, pale pink and soft...

so soft...

I long to feel your hand silently caress my cheek.

I hunger for the softness that hides a secret sexuality.

You are secret.

You keep yourself refined to a pitch.

I want to know that pitch; can your hands take me there?

I want to know every part of you, I know there is more

hidden softness.

Softness between the folds of your plump round *******.

Softness of the skin between your legs and buttocks.

I look into your soft brown eyes and see your hunger.

Are you just too soft for me to go deeper?

The agony I feel...

The frustration of intense longing.

Let me in, please. The velvet softness of your hands

makes me insane for you.

I will go mad for the softness,

You take your hands back and fold them.

You are wise to your treasure and making me wait

increases the excitement.

The pleasure I will someday feel inside you.

I felt like the foolish American

My  translator book in hand

The streets are charming in Paris

A Britain I hunger for lamb

I saw a bright colored Bistro

Umbrellas over white tables

people eating and laughing

probably telling rescae French tales

i cannot speak much French

My little cheat did not come with me

She had other things to do

Like doing other professors or two

So, I sat down quietly and waited

A waiter came up to me

All I could say was, La moule en folie

He blinked and smiled and beckoned

me to follow. We went into a narrow alley

then up winding stairs. He knocked.

A woman’s husky voice said, “come in.”

She was lying on a bed fully naked

and pink as a salmon. The waiter

held out his hand. “Monsieur,la moule en folie.”

I've wandered far all alone

just to find my way

back home.

Twenty-five years in a cell

of my own

is too long a time for

anyone to atone.

I grieve over the life that

passed me by...

It hurts like hell;

a sty in the eye.

I hunger after rainbows

on dingy walls

then pick up my pack

to go no where at all.

My eyes are tired

from lack of sleep;

no gentle hand to

comfort me.

Where can I go if

not back home?

The jokes on me

where ere I go

I'll be alone...

Ferryman, ferryman don't come for me,

the children sing freely

in the bright sunlight.

When gathered together on a dark

stormy night...

they pull covers over heads

to stay out of sight.



He takes the coins

from the eyes of the dead.

His payment for the travels

he plans ahead.

When payment is made

he guides his guests

to make their final hopeless quest.

He beckons with a gruesome smile

and they board his craft with little guile.

The river is swift...the river is long...

He ferries them right along until he

crosses  the river when he blows his horn.

He looks around and all are gone.



It is said on dark lonely nights,

the Ferryman is out to fright.

Who dares to board his ferry boat

are the dead who have lost all hope.

When innocent children hear his horn

they run like hell to beat his harm.

He took her child...

Where would the child be?

Spirits of the island wept for thee.

This is no mortal business, I declare.

The child is lost, stolen by human care;

the devil’s lot.

Mourn not!

The child still sings out, Mother find me!

Shake off thy slumber and beware…

lest you miss the spirits who will take you there.

Perhaps, a cavern beneath the sea…

your child will wait for thee…

So, free the spell that hangs like doom

upon the island lost to you…

an open conspiracy took your life’s breath away.

Let open sails take you where you’ll find yourself

and child too.

Mercy may have faults but nature is often kind;

your suffering will end in time.

Old Charlie was a winning

the gambling game that night.

He was in a frenzy glorious with

sheer delight.

He'd swig another jigger of his

favorite ***,

then laugh his head off, he was really

on a run.

He'd met a tiny man before this

gambling match

who promised all the gold just

for a lighted match.

Charlie lite the little man's cigar

and the little man blew

smoke on Charlie's wrinkled cards.

"Now, you accepted the deal," the

little man said.

"I'll be back to collect my investment,

you have to pay the debt."

Charlie just shook his head

and sat with his pals with flashing cards

of death.

The clock struck twelve and Charlie

had beaten all the rest.. One begged

for mercy, for his kids but Charlie

only growled. "I won the gold fair

and square, out with you to bed."

Charlie sat with all his gold and the

*** went to is head.

The door opened into Charlie's room

and entered a shadowed shape.

A voice from Hades growled with

lust and Charlie nearly fainted.

"Time to pay what I invested in thee."

the voice was hot and fierce.

Charlie's fright sent his heart

a quiver and he fell towards

the hearth.

"Get up you fool, you'll be charred later

now I want my debt, no later."

"Here's  all the gold." Charlie whimpered.

The dark One only laughed. "Ti's not the

gold we bargained for it is another matter."

In the morning the pile of gold shone

brightly on the table.

All that remained of Charlie was a

*** glass and a shadow,

Image by UW Digital Collections via Flickr/ Ivan Novikoff was my ballet teacher for twelve years when I was very young. Kathleen Colby/view photo on my profile facebook




Gypsies dance while the world spins on and on…

Pacing a beach in Africa a lion yearns for freedom and fun.

This old beast has known the wilds and never spun to happy tides.

The girls have thoughts of glory in their heads; no lion tales do they dread.

The lion just wants to dance, his old legs wobble when he tries to prance.

The girls let their scarfs fly high, the wind whips them as it should into the sky.

A perfume hits the lion’s nose; he lays down dead, he is very old.

The girls dance on without a thought.

A dead lion in Africa should have been taught that ballet

dancing is for the very young when you get old you are done.