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Dec 2015 · 409
~ You Lied! ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
You lied?
Tender, mercy filled words schemed
to revamp long lost confidences.
Uttered to spawn epic trust.

For you could NEVER do
as others have!

YOU LIED!
The SWEARING of,
"I could NEVER do"...
is EXACTLY what you did.

You lied?
YOU LIED!
Nuff Said!

GOODBYE!  


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 2015 · 441
~ A Child's Guidance ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
One child...
wrapped in grandmother's quilt.
Protected from the night's raw chill...
sits on a grassy knoll
and lifts innocent eyes to the stars.
Dreaming the visions of a child
not yet plagued by life's unjust ordeals.

Dreams of play, dreams of peace...
reverie lacking all vilification
for seeds of hatred
have not yet been taught.

-Longing for this child's innocence.-

I sit beside her...
my gaze focused on the same faint points
of a somber twilight.
She attempts to fill my mind with her
visions of inner dreams,of peace.

But alas, I am much older;
although I fight the seeds of hatred
sown long ago...
rooted phantoms castigate my soul.

-Longing for this child's purity of love.-

My dreams are reality,
nightmares assaulting all senses.

Exploding buildings...
Falling forms of people
forced to choose death from flame or hard concrete.
Smelling the stench of burnt decaying flesh.
As vultures feed upon our nation.

Hearing the screams of innocence
trapped in the rubble awaiting their
slow horrific death...
Alone!

Tasting an acid thirst, a desire for revenge
devours any sense of justice within me.

Feeling anguish for children
who have lost parents or loved ones.
My outcry sees seeds of hatred planted,
and taking root in new and fertile souls.

-Longing for this child's peaceful dreams.-


She removes a warm hand from beneath the quilt.
Without hesitation, she reaches out to me.
Too young to know why...
movement born from instinct...
sensing my need for comfort.

-Hope becomes rooted, sown by one pure child.-

Now I see... all of her dreams reside in my hands.
My part of this tenuous bargain called humanity.
To build a chance for this one special child,
our possible future.

Without a sound we return our thoughtful gaze
into the night's darkness as clouds begin to clear.
The star's faint glow is minute, a soft web of light
embracing this child's innocent trust.

Once again I can dream her dreams.
We remain, two silent souls searching
the celestial pathways for others who hope as we --

*-To discover a child's pure desire to heal.-
9-11-2001
Dec 2015 · 786
Flower Child's Dream
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
War...
Just illusion, a monstrous nightmare vanquished
with a ray of orange sunshine upon the tongue.
Mellowed with God's own gracious herb;
fiery gilded hairs of Acapulco Gold.

Bob, our coarse prophet of peace's dream,
his sallow voice arrived on autumn's dry wind.
Janis sang with sad, painful screams,
lilting ballads of fated, melancholy sin.

Flower children swaying,
moving to a blaring din.
******, naked bodies entwined.
Massing round a roaring flame
projecting the awesome power of love.
Childish hopes, banishing the nightmare of war
to naught but a bard's sorrowful tale.

How might you spill your brother's blood?
Reclined together, ****** by the shore,
watching pink and purple penguins
as they frolic in a rolling sea of split pea soup.
Diving within the shifting colors for treasures of ham.

"Make love, not war!
   Make love, not war!
     Make love, not war!"


We were but children, playing with grand theory.
Alas, lucidity comes with old age...so-called wisdom.
Our dream was lost to history's dusty files
as warmongers dined within ivory towers.

To think...
such a simple design could end the horror.
One mass of chanting, ****** teens,
color blind, hands embraced as one,
man, woman and child.

Just illusion...
a drug induced fantasy of a dream.

And "The Nightmare" regained
it's baneful power.

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 2015 · 686
Book of Happy Memories
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
I.
A gift from my Grandmother,
given when I was only twelve.
Just a plain spiral notebook,
and inscribed on the inside cover
in her own delicate hand...

"Look every day for one happy thing...
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
That's OK,
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."


Well... I tried
but my life was so dark,
miserable and all alone.
After two months,
only three entries were shown.

The book was put on my shelf and soon forgotten.

II.
Six years later...
my first fate filled night.
Friends tried in vain to fill me with hope,
but I knew...and I was certain!
The battle was over, could NEVER be won;
better life be undone.

New razors sharp, shiny glow
bathtub filled to let my blood flow.
Just one final thing,
the note pointing blame.

So I went to my shelf
for something to write.
Still there, covered with dust,
that blasted book.

Supreme irony to write a suicide note
from the pages of this cursed thing.
Happy memories
numbered as only three.

A mistake I made
or perhaps my salvation.
I read the first entry
penciled in lead already fading.

"Wendy R. came to my table at lunch today.
I showed her my limerick about the ant
squished by an ele-phant.
She laughed, said it was funny.
She touched my hand softly
and I think she wanted to kiss me.
It made me feel good, so I'm writing it here."


Tears flowed, anger flooded away.
Just one joyful memory simple and pure.
Razors were tossed, bathtub water drained
I survived just one more day
then one more again,
and the next...
and the next ...

So much joy in life I might have missed.

III.
Many years later...
Such simple pleasure from life
I might never have known.

My lover had been taken... unjust!
Not just any but, "That One Lover," the only one.
That half of my soul, the spoils of my joy
won by the sharing of tears and of years.

With one simple wave, a mere gesture of his hand
God ripped her from me with taunting words of grace.
He laughed at my stupidity, my simple blind faith
as he flipped me "The Holy Bird," and spat in my face.

By now, in my wizened older years,
I was hardened to pain.
This time it was ANGER,
virulent ****-filled Rage!

Knowing no relief
till vengeance's own fury is released
and again I was SURE,
of death... absolutely no FEAR!

As the headlights rushed toward
me it seemed so **** clear
I needed to see God directly,
to laugh at his cursed embrace.

And though the cost be eternal damnation,
I'd gladly pay it thrice
for that one simple chance
to spit back at his self-righteous face.

I know it was not real but I swear,
in that split second of time
in the blur of the lights,
my Grandmother, framed by the haze

one hand a shaking finger
of mirthful admonishment
the other holding
that blessed ****** book!

Brakes slammed...
Tires screech...
Car spins...

Semi-truck's horn receding
from my lost soul.
I had survived yet again
but still all alone

I returned slowly home.

I was afraid to open it
for I knew what it held.
Most of it memories of Bonnie,
the times of us.

Joys turned to haunting memories
Nightmares of dreams un-won, forever lost.

But Grandma knew just what I would need
on the cold winter nights that my heart would bleed.
So I took a deep breath and I opened it first
to a dog eared page visited often, my favorite verse.

Just a couple of lines written with a quick, jerky script.

"Today I first held my son,
such joy...such wonder-
(I CAME SO CLOSE TO MISSING THIS!)
My own simple words cannot express
What I am feeling this moment,
But I knew I had to try -
I'm attempting to write it now."


And at the bottom
of the otherwise barren page
two small fading stains.
The salt of tears shed
on that one exquisite night.
And to those two, were now added more.

I cried...
And I cried...
A flood of tortured relief
and slowly new life dawned, I began to see.

The pain of love's leaving
would always remain,
but with pause, with passing,
would fade to quiet refrain.

Time soothes all wounds in such sublime divine ways.
But my memories of her... the "Best of the Best."
All written right here in this very precious book.
With incredible consummate detail.

The first time she touched me,
the tender tingle it caused.
She first said, "I Love You,"
beneath our special tree.
Our first kiss, the passion it arose.

Our first night together...
a beginning to melding desires,
our bodies first cloaked as lovers-
ahhh four fully filled pages there.

All the intimate telling,
the touching games.
We giggled, we played
we roared with rapture's blessings
till dawn found us exhausted,
fulfilled at last,
still embraced as lovers do,
peacefully fast asleep.

All recorded right here,
safe from the ravages of time.
Why should I so terribly fear;
memory's taunting lull?

I fell right there to the floor on my knees.
I thanked my lover
for being there, though still far away.
I thanked my Grandmother,
her foresight of when I would bleed.
And I thanked God!
Begged his forgiveness, blessedly received.
I survived yet another day.
And the next day yet.
The next... And the next.

IV.
Till I find myself here today
reflecting on his simple plan,
a new book before me,
design so simple yet grand.

Hard-bound leather,
acid free pages of yet ****** paper,
intended to stand firmly
against times wrenching torment.

And on the inside cover with indelible ink
in my own passionate, hand guided script.
Those same simple instructions faded from time
yet engraved clearly, and firmly in my mind.

"Look every day for one happy thing;
write it down here.
This is not a diary, no sad thoughts allowed.
No fanciful wandering, no dark dreary doubts.
When it happens, (and it shall),
you find nothing to write...
that's OK.
just look again the next day...
and the next day...
and the next..."


I close the cover,
I lean back, warm and content.
Jimmy is coming at three,
he is so much like me.

Shy, turned inward,
unsure, yet so full of light.
This "Book of Happy Memories,"
yet to be, is for he.

Today he turned twelve.

It's for the dark lonely nights,
his shorn young heart bleeds,
as my Grandson's soul
cries out...

For it's own healing need.


©  S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Written for a very dear friend dealing with difficult issues.
The present time cannot possibly foresee accurately, a future time.
Ending life denies all possibility.
Dec 2015 · 462
~ Embrace ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
Embrace me...
With words of love;
weave them through my being.
On a dark night's passing,
they are balms to my battered soul.

Embrace me...
With a lover's delicate touch.
Mysterious...
Forbidden...
Desired..
For it calms my quaking flesh.

Embrace me...
As your rapture's own.
A warm summer rain,
mixing with passion's droplets.
It washes all other cares away.

Embrace me...
Simply hold me tight.
Through the passing day,
into the dreary night.

Embrace me...
Love's first tender play.

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 2015 · 783
~ A Fisherman's Loss ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
Passion upon a rocky stream...
youthful expectation of a dueling fray.
Slip-bobber swirls within random eddies
induced from a bottle of Southern Comfort
tossed with wayward abandon.

Time passes...hopeful dream dies.

Enticed by a liaison with greener grass.
She swims with lazy nonchalance,
in shallow recesses naked to my sight.
Dining upon her own chosen array.
Casting off the feast I hold before her.

Something fishy going on here!


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 2015 · 1.9k
~ Willing Submission ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
You willingly enter my domain...
my chamber of decadent delights.
Your submission and fate sealed
with your own hands as you
tighten the necklace of servitude
around your delicate throat.

The lash is kissed with my love for you.
Its harsh caress your sweet desire.
Ropes bind your kneeling form.
Restricting even your rising passion.
For your pleasure is mine to allow...
or to deny.

Trust to me your mind and your flesh.
Follow my lead...
as I train you to walk the swords sharp edge.
Balancing between a path of pain or certain ecstasy.

Freely given, I take all that you offer
returning everything which you seek.

©S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 2015 · 816
~ Ascending Night ~
Avalon's Respite Dec 2015
Ravaging dank night
rapes last rays of light.
Silver stream of ribbon moon
casting shadows of fear and doom.

Grasping firm to hope's faint call.
Await dawn's lifting of night's cruel shawl.
Reveals "My Love's", anticipating gaze.
First kiss embracing boundless days.

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 436
~ One Man's Belief ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I:
Did he know,
gazing within
the first morning’s
reflection of the mirror?

The world was ruled with rapacious greed.
Could he...a simple carpenter’s son hold reign?
Rivaling concepts of malice and hate
with only a vision of righteousness.

What might have been if faith had turned
that one lonely night, praying in the garden?
All we now treasure and know
not lost... simply never learned.

But his belief held fast.
Even as the nails pierced his waiting wrists,
and the breath was filched from offered breast.
His tendered flesh drained of life's essence.

And the world’s foundation shook
from this one man’s belief.
“Most cherished of all ‘The Father’s’ gifts, is Love".
"Love even your enemy...your own butchers.”

Perhaps he knew from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not.

II:
Did he know, gazing within
the morning’s first reflection of the mirror?

This man condemned God‘s chosen few.
****** them with imperfect ideals of superiority.
Hegemonies, spawned from purely selfish desire.
Built upon altars of blackened bone,
stained with the purified  blood of unnamed martyrs.

Animating his belief with the potency of his voice
and the putrid breath from chambers of death.
His dream blossomed from a nightmare‘s blackened shade.
Millions died as millions more bewailed their loss.

And the world turned once again.
Its very bedrock forever tarnished red.
For this one man’s beliefs were embraced
within vows thought sacred by the masses.

Never again quite the same.
Just one man’s pronouncement of a claimed truth.
“All the problems of the world lie at the feet of the Jews.
Destroy them and all life’s trials will be resolved.”

Perhaps he knew from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not.

III:
Should I know, gazing within
the first morning’s reflection of the mirror?

Our world cries for one man’s envisioning truth.
We search to understand the differences,
and to find the similarities amongst us,
before a tired Earth exhales one final breath.

An angel of mercy, hope, and salvation.
Or a demon seeking power,
returning only horror and death.

Fate beckons with a satirical, crooking finger
as the seeking ignorant masses swarm to hopeful honey.

Whose voice will it be rising from the wilderness?
Will it usher in a bright dawning, new day?
Or bring upon us tomorrows
which we wish would never be?
Will it be you, or will it be I?

Perhaps I should know from the mirror’s silent stare.
But I think not...

Fate shrouds Destiny within a dark veil...
blinding clear vision.
All that remains is Belief,
a clouded hope for possibilities.

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 540
~ War’s Casualty ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Guilt endures a weighty shroud
     first aggression taints our deed
          self-righteousness stains our trail.

I saw you today...
flickering image across a flat screen.
One hand clutching a precious doll,
worn ragged from trust’s tight embrace.
It wears the tears from your half lidded eyes.

Camera pans left revealing the crime...
a ****** stump where an innocent hand
once held a child’s inquisitive fingers.

I wonder what I would say
if ever forced to face you,
exposing my great shame.

Perhaps I would repeat the spin from our
doctors of the twisted and profaned word.
They preen with vain pride,

“So few are as you".

Just a casualty of a righteous war...
As if the crippling of even one
guiltless child was not one child too many.

                 one child too many
                 one child too many

          *Guilt endures a weighty shroud
      first aggression taints our deed
self-righteousness stains our trail.


©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 275
Haiku
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Should not be titled.
Pictures in their purest form.
No title needed
LOL as a self proclaimed poet.... I get to break my own rules.
Nov 2015 · 425
~ Glory & Salvation ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I am a soldier and a soldier's son.
Glory is held in the form of my gun.
A cross of predestination
my only hope for salvation.

Our battle is righteous
or so we are told.
Trained deadly prowess
paid with holy, black gold.


And now...
dying in this hole...
one final irony I behold.


My spirit soars home to see
a thousand tombstones,
draped with my nation's colors.
On each rest a single white flower.

Glory and Salvation?
Ain't that the way it goes?
Paid with final completion;
just one wiltin' rose.  


©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 629
~ The Cynic's Truth ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Love perches upon the narrowest
branch of the tallest willow,
whispering an alluring dream.
Swaying away from longing arms
in a dance intended to sear forever,
visions within a teased mind.

Reality strikes ruthlessly
I stand here on impotent earth,
as the dream hides -- rooted in hard dirt.
But with reality comes a strange peace of mind.
No longer fearing love’s mocking truth,
I am freed to embrace its callous cynicism.

Making truth whatever I will it to be.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Strange, that of all  my posted writing this is the poem that trends. Strange because most of my writing takes social commentary as its basis. Love poetry is such a worn topic, I generally stay  away from it since it is so difficult to find a unique or new perspective. This piece was whipped out literally as a first draft in 5 minutes at a time of extreme anguish, and when I was ****** way beyond even my normal limits. I have always viewed it as one of my more mundane pieces. But thanks for the interest.
Nov 2015 · 620
~ Poet's Curse ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
The keyboard stares silently.
Fingers rest motionless
awaiting the profound revelation
worthy of their grand coordination.

My mind's eye searches-
comes up empty and lacking.
"The Poet's Curse."
Worthless mundane thoughts,
nothing to touch the soul
to shed a single tear,
nor lift a tattered heart to glory.

A scene from, "Naked Lunch"...
A beaten, decrepit, typewriter
that talks, sharing its dark secrets.
Exuding a white slimy paste,
opening doorways to psychedelic journeys.
Freeing thought to drift without direction
through otherwise closed portals,
attaining free forms yet undreamed...

Could I be so lucky?

Alas...this is reality.
Frustration ends this session in failure,
blame is easy to place.
This cursed typewriter stares back,
not a blessed sound.

Perhaps I should have kept my day job.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 638
~ Inspiration ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Pomegranate seeds
inhaled deeply
into brainy matter
sprouting intrepid visions.


Apathy...
Viridity...
Perfidity...
Profundity...


Possibilities surround
my awaiting gaze.
Weaving, dancing, enhancing;
pen falls from astonished grasp.

Inspiration so easily gained
assures revelation's similar loss.
Dammed drug cursed memory,
it fades with return to reality.  


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 403
Haiku
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Roots grip weary stone.
Precipice calls, thundering.
Life's dogmatic strife.  

©  S.Loeding
Nov 2015 · 407
~ The Beast ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I know your name,
see your face,
feel your bane,
ravenous beast.

Putrid teeth invade my flesh
my beauty ripped away,
forever I am left ugly.

****!  


©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 553
~ Indelicate Prose ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
****...**

Slice of indelicate prose...
a vile, and ****** rose...
so crude, even rude.

Tis better to say....

Passions fiery release
sacrificed to Aphrodite's priests.
Lust's bouquet blooms,
scent of rapture's perfume.

I enjoy enticing you
with such flowery words.

But just this one time
might I end without rhyme?
Nor ****** airs
concealed with witty flare.

Tonight...
Maybe...
Possibly...

Can we just ****?


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 837
~ Poison Apple ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Soot blackened fruit of economic glory,
the rolling steel contraption of sacred convenience
propelled from graveyards of putrefied fuel.
Flatulent streams of gaseous, stinking voidance
naught but a cockroach could ever hope to breath.


"A Buck eighty-three per gallon!
**** son, I remember when
Five dollars filled my twenty-gallon tank!
Corporate *******, gouging the sainted American soul!
How dare they abuse the Holy, Consuming Masses so!


That's not the righteous American Way."


Plucked from a tree
nurtured from a poisoned pool,
the maître de serves us with sumptuous flair
the glistening metal fruit of demanding fools
basted in Gaia's own sweet, dark blood.
With greedy flourish we consume and selfishly devour
till the piper appears demanding just payment.

Then we scamper towards the door
pointing greasy, crooked fingers,
as we scurry away with ne'er a simple gratuity.
The entire world pays for our
selfish deeds
and petty needs
for ivory seeds.
A corporate corrigendum stricken from the ledger
with a well-placed bomb, or two, or three.


"Five dollars!
Crap, that's what those haughty Europeans pay!
But I'm a proud American!
I'll yell, I'll scream, and maybe whine just a bit!
I may even e-mail that **** crooked fool in Congress.
I have rights proclaimed by God's own gift of dominion.
I am preserving what's just, only right!


The glorious American Way."


"A chicken in every ***", was once the dream of all but a few.
Now greedy spoiled children; we thoughtlessly proclaim,
"Two cars in each garage is just, and rightly due."
****** all ****** beauty that crosses our path
partial redemption lies in one simple truth.
Not all the world has yet to gain, “Our Precious Way”.
For if so, the pitiful scraps of beauty that still remain
would quickly be consumed in ******, hosted by fattened fools.


"Over ten dollars a gallon!
That's a blasted crime!
**** Politicians
their hands are bloodied black!
Twenty hours of work per week
just to fill my trusty Cadillac!


Consumption is The American Way"


Even a naked primitive, scavenging the forest floor
instructs his children better then we.
"When death's own serpent
lies coiled 'neath a beautiful fruited tree,
ignore the tempting orbs
for their price must and will be paid."

Alas, for us it may be too late.
We lay trapped within a corporate circle of death,
our children inherit a scarred and barren earth.
Will they thank us or curse our very graves,
Or even remember what once was, "Our Way?"


"OK kids, it's time for bed.
Yes little Susie, tonight's story was true
whispered from Grandfather's own lips.
Once long ago, in a glorious lost day
when fuel cost just ten dollars per unit.
Just think of that, one tenth of what it cost today.
Now go to sleep, and tighten those masks.
Oxygen cost money too, nearly five bucks per litre.
Those **** politicians, we should have learned
when we had a choice and air was still free;
memories from a faded time of make believe.


The good old, American Way."

© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I awaken, shrouded by darkness and suffocating walls,
reaching for you before dreams may recall reality.
You are gone, nothing but the ghost of a sullied desire,
an echo of what once was devours my tattered soul.

So much I took for granted,
now, with great sadness I regret.


The familiar feel of you is always near, calling...
tempting me with promising lies of new faithfulness.
Memories of the calming essence upon the depths
of my very being, as I inhaled your intoxicating scent.
A corrupting tang lingers, as my lips recall the caress
of your fiery, slim form, which still, I so desire.

I cast you aside, longing for a more virtuous path.
I willingly **** myself to purgatory's questionable grace,
denying this eternal craving to beg your swift return.
For your heated embrace foretells a perilous and certain doom.

Sleeplessness reigns, I long for that which has been forsaken.
I gaze upon your empty, crumpled husk upon my ***** floor.
I tossed you there callously, a reminder of your true nature,
poisoned honey sweetening a lover's final meal.

Tobacco’s curse leaves nothing of value
only a dying, crying need for hope and redemption.


© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 713
~ Peter & Wendy ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Peter was my hero, and Wendy my first fanciful lust.
We fought villainous pirates and bloodthirsty injuns,
and when danger came near as a dark scary night
we'd grasp just one happy thought and fly away
to a brighter new day, dreamed just for us.

Such a wondrous thing, the gift of flight.
Free, unrestrained... racing the laughing crows.
It seemed so simple I just had to try,
strange how the impossible, is so attainable
within the mind of a child of five.

I turn the old phonograph way up loud,
climb upon the hassock, (added height for takeoff)
I closed my eyes intense on my one happy thought
and singing the refrain to inspire me...

"You can fly, You can fly, You can fly."

I leap...
And for barely an instant in time I really do feel the sky.
Then gravity's reality crashes me hard to the floor.
Just in time to hear them laughing,
my evil older brothers watching at the door.
They had a great time with their haughty jest
I still hear of it today, but that's OK.

We were just kids and they lacked understanding.
For I was in training; practice for a not too distant date.
Honing my inner mind to create the improbable,
even the impossible, making it all seem real.

Today the refrain is no longer needed,
nor the hassock upon which to stand.
With old age comes a far grander experience.

Leaving all trials and tribulations upon the ground
I sit back, close my eyes, silence the world around.
Reaching out with sure confidence for the sky
with that child of five's, unrestrained inner eye.

Thanks to Peter and Wendy and my early lust
those heckling crows are left far behind
in vapor trails of my receding dust.

"I can fly, I can fly
I really can fly!"



© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 794
~ Epsilon Astray ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
(an almost lipogram)

It is missing!
Just as a lost paramour
or a forlorn suitor of a now hollow past,
causing a lack of all glamour.

My lass’s familiar touch hiding
astray in murky clouds of a dulling rainbow,
my writing turns to a wan pallid world
as I scour my mind to supplant this loss.

Assailing yon dragon with quill in hand
I spurn my awaiting angst,
stalking as Orion’s own conspirator
disavowing all doubts of my own ability.

Sallying forth I do not tarry.
Words assault a wall of lofty doubts
born of naught but a foolish phobia.
Scaling mighty ramparts,
my anima’s flight attacks a radiant moon.

Until, with a final onslaught
my thoughts find laconic catharsis.
As twilight’s shroud is found approaching,
with a concluding flourish of a now
worn writing tool,
my lost lass of misty pasts...

returns.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
I do enjoy playing with my words. This task was set by a mentor of mine. It sounded simple but I swear I used every thesaurus available on the net to complete it.
Nov 2015 · 1.1k
~ Sundae Delight ~
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
Cause of such a weighty plight
yet worthy of each new bulge.
Prepping is most of the simple delight
to a confection so rarely indulged.

Thank God for "Sammy's Gym & Sauna!

Sweet Belgium chocolate, melted and
cooled to fingers delicate touch.
Spooned in a slow perfect dribble,
covering in a shroud of flowing sweetness
the perfectly rounded mound, centered upon my dish.
Hardening...encasing within my final sumptuous goal.

Fresh whipping cream, beaten to
frothy clouds of mouth watering heaven.
Newly roasted pistachios, shaved coconut,
and the final crowning glory.
Candied cherries adorning
the mounded delectable height.
Not one, not two, but a few.

Still not nearly enough
my conscience won't be bothered.
Gluttonous greed must be snuffed.
With self-dedicated glee
I make me another.

A couple more hours in the sauna tomorrow.

One final decoration...
for presentation's sake.
A newly budded rose
centered for my eye to behold.

My pleasure mostly done
I am ready to partake.
Mouth salivating,
taste buds anticipating,
I reach for my spoon.
Just as...


Warming flesh...
Streams flow the valley of your breast...
Cherry cascading down a descending
river of melting cream...
A rolling boulder of passion's anticipation.
Tickling and enticing heated flesh.
It's cantering end at the pooling pit of your navel.



My spoon is tossed away.
With luxurious sublimity
I dine from your hallowed plate.
My pleasure is most certainly won.

Yours, my tasty,
"Sunday Morning Delight"...
not nearly done, only just begun.  

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 673
Meager Ol' Me
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I am but a meager man
a mere weaver of words.

My writing cloaks insidious intent
to hide from reality’s fearful eyes;
deceiving with facetious transgression.
My just reward for such sullied repute-
shades drawn tight lest my rueful deeds be known

I remain hidden from a cruel world
behind callus words of my own fancy.

Verbose ranting of cryptic escapades
I grease my fist to ram down your gullet,
withdrawing the emotion I desire.
Recherché locution; gossamer strands
of melodies to soothe your tattered soul

*While my own inner depths
Echo emptiness and raging solitude.


Descanting rhythm to shroud what I am
only fools believe the self-proclaimed bard;
for I will conceal what is pertinent.
Illuminating only the mundane
with flamboyancy of ordered disdain

I am exactly what I am; all I may ever be;
a reputed poet of ill repute-


just meager ol me.

©  S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Nov 2015 · 1.1k
I Once Read a Poem
Avalon's Respite Nov 2015
I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.

"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."

Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.

Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.

This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.

But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.

Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.

Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.

"I LOVE YOU"!

© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Written for my Son and new Daughter on the occasion of their marriage.

— The End —