This night I shall dream
of your bedazzling Puple hair and Lion-eyes.
Wrapped in the echoes of your eyes-music,
I long to sip from your peachful lips.
In my dreams, I soar on your plush pinkness --
skimming vast continents with hands and lips.
The depths of all the oceans of the universe
shall never separate our entwined bodies.
Brilliant as enthralling lust,
the seas greet us from afar.
In the twilight we feast on chocolate-covered
strawberries and tender lovehearts  
Adorned in white silk, we pluck
our raining love chimes from our thighs.
I press the heart that you wear around your neck
against my hands so that our hearts melt into one.
You will always be my little Aphrodite,
the Lion of my own eyes of love.

Waves flow, writing gushes,
scattering rhyme like fine mist
lines of regret rescind into the sea
while verses of love crest and fall
like the heaving of young *******
temptations crash upon rocks
daring to be undressed by your eyes
one should be careful not to get dragged
into the underbelly of this ocean
where sirens sing their enchanted songs
and pirates wait upon shorelines for your loot
there is no escape now that you've been ****** in

Beneath the blue breaths
of winter, death gratefully welcomes
the young, scattering sonnets
white with innocence, hollow rhymes.
They speak of lost love upon the seas,
fair maidens and twilight moments,
verse upon verse of nothingness,
thrills they will never know,
never feel nor see; O, these romantics!
Your works are cocooned for eternity;
Death has come too soon for you.

How could she have known
my obsession for Gothic novels?
She couldn't have known that years later
a cacoethes would emerge,
that hundreds would be spent
trying to get them back to me.
One lapse of judgement led
to a lifetime of irresistible urges...
There's another sale on eBay -
I cannot resist this deep desire any longer.

I pass her daily,
she's just like me,
but not me.
She is dark, a ghostly shell,
some alter ego
deliberately mimicking me;
Or is this my own dark soul,
the darkened wretched me?
There she goes again.
but this time she notices me in the passing.
Will she ponder the same questions as I?

While sitting in a booth, an hour before work, I try to write poetry. But the click, click, click of the cash register distracts the musings jammed into my already clustered brain. And as I try to spill words onto this page, a you child spills her soda, the tawny liquid cascades the patterns of her too-tight T-shirt and falls to the floor ~~ the floor I will mop and mop over again, as sticky footprints retrace the night's events. And the man, a cigar dangling from the sepia corner of his tightly clinched mouth, growls the angered growl of a wounded bear, bearing all to me and the child who hides behind her mother's saffron sundress. And in the child's shame, she raises two, too-large coca cola eyes to meet mine, and then lowers them as a tear trails the shadows of her sanguine face.

You, the sculptor,
shaped our lives, molded
us, your offsprings, into the model
of your desired likeness.
You created masterpieces
with the elder and younger;
they so like the perfect David,
but you are no Michelangelo,
and i, the nucleus of this family,
am not a piece of clay.
i defy your wheel, knife,
the kiln that fires your bloodline.
i take to the kiln my own David,
misshappen like a Picasso,
surreal to you.

I work with knots,
loosen ends from ends,
careful not to snag
or break fragile cords,
intricate tangles of silken affairs.
But the ends unravel
as I release tension,
and I find myself knotting the ends again.
Over and over, I bind and unbind,
until the cycle lashes out
like a madwoman in desperate straits.
I want to write the wrongs, right them,
straighten them into one long, lengthy rope,
then try my luck again.
Find strands that won't untwine;
create the perfect notaffair.

I lay upon cold steel, blinding lights loom
above my head. I hear my brain
confirm 'minor surgery' and then you
enter the room, scalpel in hand, aimed
at my chest. Not there! my mind screams,
then I feel the burn of ripped flesh;
a repugnant stench fills the room, a familiar smell,
the sickening, salty odor of blood.
Bones and cartilage moan as the scalpel shreds
with swift precision, one target in mind:
a fist-sized beating *****. Extraction.
I raise my head from frosted steel
in time to see your deed: ****** fingers,
clinched into claws, dive into the open cavity,
gouge holes into either side and wrench
the tiny ***** from its cave.
You hold it high above your head, a trophy;
crimson drips down your arm, soaks
a white sleeve like spilt wine on lace; you open
a glass jar, formaldehyde mixes with drops of blood
as the ***** plunges into your solution

As snow does to a fire, lull them asleep among the foliage;
between the oleander beautiful as snow;
like dragonflies threading! he sings and the woods sing!

In the wine of daylight the willows shiver:
- its coolness on my feet, the star has wept rose-colour.
The wolves howl back with great conquering black eyes.
- from violet forests: where the stars are sleeping.

The black gallows moan, on the calm black water
embroidered with black moss and the horizon rushes
and the murmuring waters came snowing;

I no longer feel myself; I have seen maelstroms eternal,
of the sea star-infused and the yellow-blue awakenings
the scented twilight, of silver waves.

There's no room for a butterfly
in this half-wacked world he's created.
He even ***** the color out
Of rainbows after rain, destroying
Both foliage and flower;
Now nothing sacred has a place to land.
He just wants to keep this butterfly
pinned on display, to study it, deny it freedom.
But when it escapes, (and it will)
it will find beauty again
far away from his captive world.

Fast, hot windows quickly love a small, small flower.
Walk loudly like a cold light.
Ooh, love!
The light runs like a dry rain.
Workers work!

Whales rise like sunny clouds...
Life, courage, and endurance,
Sail quietly like a rainy sun.

You’ve slapped me emotionally
Beaten me to a pulp; twisted
Your words until I dropped
From exhaustion; degraded.
You may as well have taken a knife
And ripped my heart out, left
It bleeding … You spoke
Of reconciliation, begged
For forgiveness, but I know
It was all about karmic revenge.

A year ago I left you for her
Loved and lived freely
For six whole months,
But you couldn’t even last
A month with the wild child
You chose to take to our bed.
You claim you feared her…
With her black arts, she cursed you,
Left so much negative energy
Surrounding you… will you
Ever recover? Will we?

Midnight, quiet
woods except the buzz
of dew drop insects
your kisses taste
of fresh honeydew melon
your delicate neck curves
into my shoulder, soft curls
caress your young face

Hidden by foliage
we make sweet innocent love
our hands barely touch
one another, tantalizing
soft fingertips explore
valleys, hills and streams
Our breathing becomes heavy
sighs release between kisses

And just at that moment of release,
a hawk screeches by, covers up our secret.

There is no physical body here
Only emotional bandages:
Layer upon layer added
With each critical cut of your tongue.
Your fits of anger now linger
On the outside, barely visible.

I remember the first bandage,
The beggar in me pleaded for you to stop -
O, the panic that swelled from deep within.
And your need to be right added
Suffocating layers over the years.

The slashing of critical words
Didn’t damage my physical body,
No one could see my pain,
But those slashes have left scars
Deep wounds that may never heal.

Now you’ve made your own critical error:
I take this razor blade, plunge
It deep within my chest, remove
My heart and smash it
Into your damnable face.

I cover my self-inflicted wound, turn
And walk away, just as you made me: heartless.

Trusting you was my first mistake;
being naive enough to believe
you would change was my last.
You shredded my heart
right in front of her;
No one messures up to your standards.

You are savage in your skill:
Find a woman, begin to slowly mold
her into your ideal -
large *******, tiny waist -
she should be prepared for a lifetime
of your rules and righteousness,
your drunken condescending words
until her heart slowly dies
just like mine did.

I am rhyme, you are rhythm,
I pen ivory, you dance ebony
and together, we share
our own classical-hip-hop world.

People still gape
When they see us together
The stark difference of our skin
Yet in nature, we mesh perfectly together.

I am ivory, creamy white chocolate
You are ebony, dark hardened chocolate
Melted together, our offsprings
Become butterscotch and milk chocolate

What beauty the world beholds in children.

This is not a death camp for bards,
but a river which flows
sometimes freely, sometimes stagnated,
words linger for days
until something knocks them loose.

Gushing verses pour forth
to gain and lose meaning, design,
even precious rhymes held dear.
Because in poetry therapy,
there is no rhyme or reason,
just open the dams and let it all out.

Whose melancholy love
slumbers in your serene arms?
She is darkness incarnate,
and you've become corrupted by fate.
Her savage fingers linger
on your blood soaked chest.
You merely thought...
what great ***** ***!
You poor fool...
She is beyond your reasoning,
unexplainable, but you are hooked.
By morning, she will be gone,
leaving you wanting more.
Addiction for her
will become a self-driven sword.

I awaken this morning with you lingering
on the verge of my tongue, not your salty -
sweet sweat, but the unswallowable mention
of your name. I want desperately to consume
the mmmm's that flowed from my lips just
moments before the alarm jolts me to reality.
Try as I might, the aaaaahhhhh's won't digest either,
Nor the taaa taaa taaa's. I gasp.

It always starts this way when you are gone:
I curl into your invisible muscular arms, wrap legs
around firm nothingness and pretend that you are here.
I bury my face into your scent-laden pillow and inhale deeply.
The memory of our ******* is as implanted on ebony sheets
as it is in the cavernous walls of my mind. Your hands don't cease
to caress thighs and calves, nor your lips to flick ***** *******
just because you are away. This is how enmeshed we are.

Vaguely lit by the summer moon,
lull them asleep among the foliage;
her sweet madness: the devil's paladins
lie in wait for more than a thousand years.

In the wine of daylight, they slip amorously.
- A nest of mad kisses, the beads of their love.
They have murmured their ballad - the paladins dance,
sighing around her, women and flowers beneath them.

Smile of beautiful lips, a small rustle of wings -
it is the nymph! Her great veil rises;
such mounting of my soul in love’s will;

As I float down, bearing shadow-flowers with them,
I never endured more triumphant clamourings -
gleams of the daylight:
dawns are heartbreaking, devoured by vermin.

As I open the door to leave,
I glance up and down the street
until I spot you, your black silhouette
contrasted by the light post , watching me.
You’ve been there every night for weeks,
always just as I am leaving for work,
the graveyard shift at the diner.
And you follow me, from across the street
the entire four blocks from home to work
and then, you disappear until morning.

My co-workers amuse themselves over this.
Some say you are a stalker, others say you
are a secret admirer but too shy to say “hello”,
one claims that you are merely a figment
of my imagination; they laugh and chuckle
while I nervously work my shift, wondering
Will he come in tonight or will I just see him
when the dawn breaks?  And sure enough,
just as the sun begins to peek over the rooftops,
there you are, across the street, all in white now,
sitting on a park bench, watching and waiting.

she thinks I am not listening,
her breath upon my neck,
so she pitches me 'zines:
ALLURE, allure me?

she lures me to beaches:
soft amber sand
settles in valleys
between toes and heels;
tanned images dance;
a lounging goddess shimmers ~
ebony strands weave lace,
pattern after pattern,
into a creamy satin gown;
sapphire laps flames
from her eyes to mine,
mesmerized.

the caption reads:
only the finest *** comes from Puerto Rico.

Hands busily stitch patterns in and out,
five sets on each side of a long board.
I, with the youngest hands, watch and listen
with intent to the elder women of my family.

Janie now has her last child; no boys to carry
the family line on to the next generation.
Tom, like his father's father before him,
has survived his first year of the Marines.
Ginny has divorced again, the third time,
with the fourth child for Aunt Gladys to raise.

Their hands, experienced in fine stitchery,
never skip a line, lightly sketched upon satin.
Their eyes rarely know what their hands do.
Like instincts of childbirthing, these women know
when to say this square has had all its stitches,
and then move on the next one.

Their lives are like that, moving in and out,
slowly building one link to another,
holding their children to them with fine thread.

The Path up and down is one and the same.
~Heraclitus~*

Through dusty books,
pages as brittle as peanut candy,
I search for wisdom
among the Greeks;
question the meaning of life.

On distant shelves,
among cobwebs and boewevils,
fiery sagas shadow
the lives of lustful Gods,
tribulations of mortals
and destructions of nations
once as powerful as the Gods
they worshiped.

I diligently catalogue:
fill page after page
with lore and legend,
trace paths of ancient ones ~
their bones telling tales~
until I realize nothing has changed.

I too spin tales,
yarn of sagas rich as the Greeks,
worship Gods and muses,
like my own broken-spirited muse,
a Simberg angel.

Someday, I will join weavers of old,
and searchers of knowledge
will dust away webs of my tales
and realize that I am but one,
and yet, the same.

He opens the drawer to the desk his father once owned,
that antiqued monolith from a man he never knew,
and removes a sealed, crusted envelope, his father's name
neatly penned in his mother's refined script.
He carefully slides the yellowed letter from the envelope,
unfolds it, and lays it upon the desk. As he smoothes
wrinkles from it, he reads the contents slowly, savors
the words like he once savored his mother's homemade fudge,
allowing the prose to seep into his mind
like the mellifluous melting of chocolate down his throat.
As his mother's words resound through his mind,
he recalls the austere diction of her voice,
the matter-of-fact, demanding pitch that he, as a child,
cringed in corners, hands over his ears to drown out the harshness.

The words he now reads upon faded gold sheets,
the tone of one in love, an air of magnetism and dignity,
are not words the mother he knew would convey.
And he ponders the man who left her,
why he never opened the letter from his wife,
if his coldness froze the flames of this woman
leaving her as frigid in life as she was in love.
And he wonders of the man knew a son was left behind
to pick up the icicles which fell from his mother's eyes
each time she gazed upon the photo of her husband.

He folds the letter and places it back inside the envelope,
lays it on top of a stack of his mother's mementos,
and as though to return passion to his own life,
tosses the entire contents into a waste basket, ignites
the icy memories of his family's past and watches
as flames rise, consumes, and turns them to ash.

They gather on porches, in backyards filled
with the scent of lighter fluid and blood burning
on hot coals, smoke rises above swimming pools
and six-foot high fences, screams of innocence
ring through the streets, and blue grass wails
among old men's jokes and old wives' tales.

They gather for God and country in sailor suits,
dressed-blues and army-greens, the symbol
of freedom bellows from a Dogwood tree;
while bikers wear Old Glory on leather jackets
or tattooed across their shoulders, and beer
flows from cooler to hand to fist.

And they say this is what it's all about:
to live and die for the right to swear and drink,
be merry and dance in the streets, to praise
America and Democracy, while on the next block
a ****** is *****, a merchant is shot and a ******
jumps from a bridge in an attempt to fly.

Strangers,
encircled by a halo of smoke,
stems of nerves ablaze with habit.
I, lungs long filled,
focus on a fledgling:
shaky fingers lift
a stem to parched lips.
The puff, the cough,
the giddy laughter as she holds
smoke captive,
rolls it about in her mouth
only to exhale an opaque cloud.
The nerve-wrecked veteran:
sienna-stained fingers carelessly fling
ashes into an empty soda can.
One stem, two, three...
all burnt to the ****
with just enough fervor
to light the next: chains of valor.
The play-actor: superslims
puffed without purpose.
Tiny manicured fingers hide
the notstem, the habit,
the voidless desire.
The weakling: no will
to purchase the pack,
cowers with her borrowed stem, knows
her next must always be her last,
hopes tomorrow will bring deliverance.
And I, having lived their trials,
accept these strangers,
friends of a common crave.
I set afire my courage
and wave my flag of sweet rebellion:
Satisfied.

For Gertrude Stein

that vast land
a wanderer's dream
to wonder
to ponder
in awe
a~mazed

like spiderwebs
lineages of pearls
falling
cascading

a land of invisble boundries
boudaries unlimited
ideas limitless
exploring
branching

like a woman's thoughts
tree branches
no time no space
the melting of Dali's clocks

a land of no beginnings
no middle
endless
images endless

like the vortex
spiraling inward
downward
voidless

I
cannot remember
how friendly conversations
evolved into loving embraces.
It must have been the oriental
spice of your perfume,
exotic meshed with ******,
or the lullaby rhythm of your voice,
soft soaring syllables,
that lured me to you.
Or,perhaps it was our time,
past lovers long passed.
Nightly, I lay cradled
against your S-shaped curves,
******* touching *******,
intertwined into
oneness.

My friend tells me that each morning
she awakens with suicide and coffee
on her mind, then she has a smoke.
I want to tell her how my mind
entirely bypasses the coffee -
how suicide is the first thought,
second thought, all day and night thought.
I want to tell her that if I must stay,
a simple razor blade will do...
criss-crossing over old scars, gashes
just deep enough to bleed out the pain,
or awaken the senses and escape numbness.
I want to see my blood trickling down, down, down
my thighs or arms like red rivers creating their own pathway
through my white valleys of flesh.
But instead, I sit silently, coffee in hand,
swallowing her pain as I stifle my own.

I close my eyes and I am transported
to a rainforest during a deluge
where the steam rises and turns
everything misty and magical,
and in the distance, tribal drums
beat in cadence to the rain.
When reality draws me back to the now,
there is a chill to the February rain
and the tribal beat is merely the dancing
of rain upon an old rusted paint can.

watching lightening
rip through the tenebrous sky,
anger-filled thunder scorns
the midnight hour.
We only came here to watch...
to breathe in cool night air.

I couldn't distinguish the shock
of your touch
from the wave of currents striking
the window of this sundance
crossing the blackened sky.

A feather-touch:
my lips, your lips, ours;
soft, seductive shivers.
Touches so electric,
we were unaware
of the youth-filled
dodge gunning
towards the embankment...
teen kisses, too innocent.

(They see our mirror image.)

In excited jolts,
like those of lightening raging
through the mountains,
we seek refuge
to thrill-seek
the precarious union
we are.

There's no sound so beautiful
as falling icicles from branches
after a sleeting.
There will be no cracking
of branches or crying
of trees this winter's night.

Back bent, she scrubs the last soiled shirt on the board
her mother used when she was a child. She rises, stretches
the shirt before her wearied eyes, knowing there are stains
that never fade away, and pins it aside the others on the line.
As she pours the pan of defiled water onto the snow-capped
ground, she suddenly, as for the first time, observes her hands:
their redness, rawness, their winter-weather-beaten
lines and valleys, like blood on the desert. And she remembers
a time when white satin gloves covered those hands, briefly,
the day she vowed to live with a man, in sickness, for health
had nothing to do with her marriage. She replaced the gloves
for washboards and soiled laundry of blood-soaked shirts
from wounds of a war never won, drenched from the stump
where an arm should hold her, but never can. As she hangs
board and pan on the hook by the door, she recalls
her wedding day, just hours before he, her dutiful husband,
was to dash off in heroics into a battle where dignity remained
on the field among dead soldiers and shattered lives...
where months later shame returned to her half-dead, half-man.

Sitting in that bar, with you,
two single ladies on the prowl,
we fell for the same guy,
a ****, long-haired Adonis
and we flirted with him shamelessly
until finally you turned to me and whispered
shall we take him home with us?
And so we did...

In moonshadows, we undressed him
together, and then I undressed you,
watched those two lovely ******* descend
from their cage, watched your eyes widen
with lust and amazement, the shudder
of your thighs as I slipped your ******* down
and knelt before you to press my lips
against your soft mound, lapping at your nectar.

When the soft ******* sigh released from your lips,
I turned to the Adonis and offered you to him,
watched as he lifted you in his strong arms
and lowered you onto his throbbing ****.
You beckoned for me to join you
and I couldn't resist your charm.
As he gently laid you down on the couch,
your legs spread into the air,
his body slamming into you, I ****** gently
on your ripe perked *******.
When his body shuddered into ******
and he withdrew, I slid down to the floor
pressed my lips against your netherlips
and drank of your sweet nectar mingled with his.

I plant seeds,
roses, and petunias, all laced with bitterweed,
cast out fertilizer
and await the rain.

Poetry grows,
but only the bitterweed thrives;
its thick steams consume the garden,
prevent the aroma of scented memories ~
rosy days filled
with fond remembrance of you.

I **** through strangling stalks
to free the roses and petunias,
to allow them to weave
their own paths through the garden,
but i cannot grasp
the thick tangled roots of bitterweed.

We stumbled up the stairs, two drunken fools ~
too high and loose of care, to my tiny apartment.
You fumbled with the keys and I stood, laughing
as you dropped them, not once, but three times
before you finally got the door opened.

Once inside, you pulled out your bowl
and I hurried into the kitchen to get beer.
Upon returning, Nascar screeched from the tv screen
as I tripped over your hiking boots, falling into your lap,
beer sloshing about us and herb scattering about.

You began tickling me in that cousinly way
we always played in our youth. You knew
each spot to make me twist and turn, scream and yelp.
But neither of us expected the kiss.

Lips searching, tongues darting, teeth nibbling ~
I ripped at your tank top, pulling it over your head
and buried my head in your chest, stroking
strong muscles, ******* your *******.

You grabbed my *******, kneading them fiercely,
your fingers twisting and tugging at my *******,
as you bit into the side of my neck. Moans
escaped us as you pulled me down onto the couch.

I gazed up into the mirrors of your eyes,
so like mine, searching your face for a sign:
Should we? Can we? Will anyone else find out
our secret taboo? Your lips erased the questions.

As a child, I drowned fireflies
in the river because I envisioned
them setting ablaze the forest like arsonists.
I thought if I strained my ears,
I could hear them sizzle.. like bacon on a grill
as they flopped about in the water.
But they kicked their legs, belly-up
in the cascades of currents; leaves,
their only life rafts, pulled them further down stream
their beacons flashed a silent SOS.
When their glow softened to a dull ochre,
I gathered the ones closest to shore,
tied strings about their tiny bodies,
and as though they were hanged men,
I sacrificed them to the trees.

One summer, I overheard
that Sadie's baby drowned in the river
while she ****** a married man
on the river's bank. I imagined
the baby's tiny body: arms flapping
like firefly wings as he gulped
water into his mouth; his immature lungs
expanding as he cried a silent alarm;
and his too-large blue eyes staring blankly
into the world of trout and bass below.
Alms to Nature.

Now, floating down stream, inner thoughts
bobbing, arms extended, I pay homage to the river:
O sacred deity.
I inhale and plunge backwards,
further into the cool recesses of its currents.
As bubbles rise, my breath escapes; my lungs panic.
Desperate Child.. Self-Sacrificing...
Yet the currents lift me; I surface unclaimed.

I close my eyes to hear the rain, not wishing to see.
I want to know what it feels like to BE rain;
To know the sensation of falling
Without care of direction or landing,
To be fluid. To be a part of  each splash,
One of multitudes of drops reaching the same puddle.
To spread out with the other droplets
And become something greater than myself.

Troubled teen-ramblings
rustle in the palms of your hands.

Your anger shatters crystal:
the polished window
to the world you will never know;
forever limited
to the opaque vision
of stolen childhood dreams.

You can't understand
how my season balances
between fruit-punch parties
and beer-keg gigs,
or why I feel the need
to sling phrases of inky tar
into whitecap puffs of smoke,
and then lock them away from you.

Your invasion
peels away leaves:
secret playgrounds,
stolen kisses, innocent
trials of my teen life.

My random reflections, severed,
bleed on broken glass.

Like eggshells,
you wait
for someone
to crack
you open.
Yolks ooze
from severed crevices
to the pavement
I tread,
this time without glue.

You troublesome *****, always away,
just when I need you the most,
off to Hawaii on holiday.

You bask in the sun, glorious day!
native *** you sip with a host;
you troublesome *****, always away.

All the pressure! My Life's in a fray.
Your note arrives through the post:
off to Hawaii on holiday.

I search in my mind, words just wont stay.
You're what? They're giving a toast!
You troublesome ***** always away.

Do you think it's a joke, a game we play?
You get to leave; you always boast:
I'm off to Hawaii on holiday!

O muse, it's the end, no more disarray!
Next time the pig won't be the roast.
You troublesome *****, always away,
off to Hawaii on holiday.

There he stands
my own Messiah
at the mic, telling people
about silence...

I often wonder how someone
with such calm and soft-spokenness
can bellow out phrases
that shake me to my very foundation.

His raw, animalistic passion
for his art attracts me to him
his voice rising and falling
in some primal dance of a culture long ago.

His words take me on my own personal journey
back through the pathways I have taken
back to the days of Buddha, Gaia, Joseph Smith's Jesus,
and my earliest childhood memories
of Mary Magdalene washing her Messiah's feet with her hair.

Like Mary, I stand in the awe-struck crowd
soaking in every dew-dripping word
of my Messiah and wait....
patiently....
silently.....

Like the sun's rising,
I just assumed that you
would always be there.
Three states and 1000 miles
separate me from you
your laughter
your quirky ways...

I remember how
we could be in the same room
never speaking and yet
know exactly what the other
was thinking...
It would be THAT look
and then we would explode
into laughter from the sheer
amusement of it all...

I want to go back...
back to the moment we said goodbye
and hold on to it, eternally
hold on to you
didn't you see the "save me"
in my eyes, the pleading
in my voice as I said goodbye?

why did I let him take me from you?

You speak to me
in teasing whispers
awaken me from slumber
to fill my head with goddess lore

not now, I say
I want to sleep
but you continue~
you breathe trails
of angel-wing dust~
over and over and over
‘til I submit,
take pen to paper
and relate these tales you tell me

I whirl in your images
stumble along phrases
****** only halfwords
‘til you whisper,
leave the pen and come with me

We travel on clouds
to far away times, to ancient cities
when the gods reigned free,
visit Gaia and Athena,
my goddesses, you say,
now mine
and we laugh like faeries
swirling on moss-covered branches.

And in the end,
I return to my pen and paper
(pallet of my art)
in hopes of painting the pictures
of the poetry you muse me.

I tremble
in the shadow
of your fist's silhouette.
Your drunken-stenched breath
grips my nostrils
as your hand clutches my neck.
I gag. You strike;
the first blow erases
my vision, blood trails
the path of your hand
to my ******* - gullible preys.
You strip away my clothing,
seams loosening in duress,
exposing more than flesh.
My useless limbs, bound
as you force-feed
your will. . .
I've forgotten how to scream.

That brief moment with you,
was more than I could have hoped for.
To feel your touch, to see your smile,
to dance in the glitter of your eyes -
I will remember that day together, always.
But now, I must let you go, off to chase
the one who makes you happy.
You've found your wings, sweet spirit
and though I wanted to soar with you,
I am not free to do so.
O the sadness of clipped wings,
forever grounded, tamed, a caged bird.
Do not mistake these tears I shed
as regret or loss, but joy...
Joy that you've taken flight, left behind
the old worn-out past and found
a new beginning.