Don’t lose the grip of my hand dear, keep it secure amidst the warmth so blissful yet pure, for it was sculpted to be interlaced with yours.
And teach me the phrases which settle amongst your eyes, dilate with each touch of mine.
And let my soul flow with your restful breath, for it dances along the whistles of your beating heart.
And you whisper notes of melody in my ears,  it may unravel the softness within me, I fear.
The kisses lay flat on my skin, gently brushing away the flaws of my existence yet the tenderness rushes through my woven veins.
Don’t look too deep into my eyes, dear, they might settle for the vows quiet yet quite fierce.
My love, I fear, the smile might cause the pathways to shine, blinding me in assuring light.

Tes cheveux de braise,
Peu semblables à ceux des autres marseillaises ;
Et tes beaux yeux !
Ah... Plus prêts de moi, je les veux !

Et ton parfum exotique,
Dans le creux où se réfugie
Ta croix catholique ;
Dans ma tête, tout s'assagit !

Ton corps aphroditien,
Enfant bénie du feu,
Si tu le veux, je suis tiens...
– Muse ! Tu fais des envieux.

Tu es précieuse
Comme une nébuleuse.
Sous le soleil à peine chaud,
Oublie tes maux...

Partage moi ton lyrisme,
Qui m'inspire,
Comme ta belle voix de lyre :
"Quel érotisme !"

A poet never a poem
How cruel the world is.
To love with words not spoken,
Yet never to be kissed.

A muse how sweet it is to be
to hold a poet’s heart,
to be alive in words not just three,
but exist in the art.

He writes poetry
sometimes three an hour
he's brilliant!
With metaphors
that bite
leaving no meat
on the bone.
A punch
straight to the chin
with his topics
and in your face
peacock strut.
You could
live and die to his
work.

I use to be his muse
back and forth
we'd send blood
red ink
with the scent of
love,
*** and
longing.
The eyes
which followed
our romance
would gush over
the blaze
beauty
and adoration
laced in each write.

I'd read the ones
blessed for me.
As time
turned to smoke
which hit the
midnight hour.

Then one day
all of it
stopped.
The flowers
went into the grave
our love
turned to
cigarette ash
which flew
straight
off the cherry.
It burned
the tattoos off my body
and he wrote me
one last write.
It was about how he
didn't mourn us.
I
was but a pebble
left on a dock
that he dropped
while walking
away from the empty
wine bottle and
dead June bugs.

He
had
moved on.
While I stayed
writing.
Each one collected dried up dust
left closed and unread by him.
As he lifted skirts and fell in love
or got too drunk and ran off with a
foreigner.
My tears soaked pages
and he wrote them poetry....
It killed parts of me
and some are still dying.

Months now, we're back together.
Only took a plane ticket,
night clubs
and fancy dinners
with white cloth napkins.
There I asked to be his again.

He doesn't write to me
like he use to.
At  gunpoint alone
will he pick up the phone
and type
me a quickie.
He tells me,
that he can't Bukowski it up
for me,
as he did for the others.
Their writes were ****, raw
emotional
and love soaked.

Is it wrong for me
to want what they had?
what I use to have?
I surely don't know
and any god of your choosing
hasn't answered me
but one other poet did.
He replied poets can be selfish.
I believe he was speaking about me.

The crickets are chirping
and I finished my cigarette
not holding my breath
for my own
Bukowski poem.

What is success worth,
If it leads me to solitude’s embrace?
What is the purpose of words,
If my muse fades with every breath,
A fleeting ghost I can never grasp?
Was I destined to bleed ink,
To spill my soul on blank pages,
Only to wonder if this agony is the reason I exist?
What does God ask of me,
To pour my essence into a world that doesn't see?
I no longer yearn for a muse
Who leaves me empty,
But for a fire to consume me,
A love that will burn my poetry to the ground,
Where sorrow finds no home,
And my ink is no longer a sacrifice.

She is the Summer Roses exquisite sway
Their romantic sighs
and sweet tender laughter
She is the Beauty of the Tender rain
And Fine Wine moonlight
She is My Midnights star
Within the Vineyard skies of my love
and our Sweet loves kindred candles
She is a Luminous goddess
of our Loves Rose Gold moon
She gives of her love,
She gives of her Beauty,
Like the Moonlight And Evening rain

Her Beauty is Naked as The Summers
Moonlight and Poets melodious love
And sweet loving emotion
And devotion to Her exquisite beauty
That is like the sweetest rain
For their Loves unique honey flowers

Every midnight
is their sacred sweet loves sanctuary,
Sweet and deeply within the romance
Of their Souls
They are Spiritually married,
And their rings and prize
Is the dear rose bouquets
Of their transcendent love
and deep affections,
Cool as Shore waves, warm and tender
As Bonfires and exquisite
as the Moonlit Waterfalls

Within the vineyards of their love
They entwine like the Sublime vines
In the Honey breeze,
As Spiritual lovers their love
Gives moonlight to the rain and flowers
Romance is the dance they gift the lovers
And their Loves Melodies,
poems, and songs give birth to stars
Of fine champagne
Rainbows of fine love vibrancies,
And flowers of exquisite fine petals

Their love pours with the moonlight
Within pretty souls they comfort
With the dear caresses
of their love and songs,
They drink of its Fine wine

Poet and Rose Goddess and muse
They Soothe one another and others
With the sacred gift of their sweet love
Exquisite and Casual as the Evening rain
With the jazz waltz of Moonlight
They sweetly kiss and compassionately
Caress all
the weary and exquisite flowers
Swaying in the diamond stillness
And
Dreaming in the Midnight rain

Reynaldo Casison