~
Here is an assertion
and showiness
in the expanse
of white skin – from her
high forehead,
down her graceful neck,
shoulders, and arms.
Although the black
of her dress is bold,
it is also deep, recessive,
and mysterious.

He stalks her
as one does a deer,
his palette composed of
lead white, rose madder,
vermilion, viridian,
and bone black.
A dash of light rose
over the former
gloomy background,
you see, and
the élancée figure
shows to much
greater advantage.

Her body boldly
faces forward while
her head is turned in profile.
A profile of both
assertion and retreat.
The table provides support,
and echoes her
curves and stance.
One strap of her gown
has fallen down
her right shoulder,
suggesting the possibility
of further revelation;
one more struggle
and the lady will be free.

Everything converges to
imply a distant sexuality
under the professional
control of the sitter,
rather than offered for
the viewer's delectation.
Her untamed wilderness
remains unseen.
~

Toss a coin in an old well
  for a wish to have a maiden so fair,
into the abyss I succumb and dwell
  to take back my love, my lost pair.

How long I have searched for you,
  in cities of different lights,
only to find out that if love is true
   it will come to you in sparkly eyes.

She's an alarm clock to my sleepy soul,
   the lullaby to my wakeful heart,
a lover who stands her ground to
  watch you grow,
and a woman that loves all your pieces of art.

Mahal,
One more chance

I tried to write a poem for the moon.
I searched the earth for
words worth wooing you.
I made some pretty phrases for your face and your phases,
and thought I’d said it all.
But I’ve said nothing, because
Earth words won’t work.
I’ve just made a pile of noise from stupid earthling dirt.
I sent the pile into space, fueled by foolish grins, and waited (with pride!) for tides to bring you in.
My words were just quiet, colored dust against your atmosphere.
My grins and smiles can’t carry those dusty piles of
Noise into the wind
hard or far enough to make you near.
So I must DO.
To make a journey to the moon, I’ve got to makes some moves
instead of barking at your light.
I’ll start with exercise,
building thighs and biceps to
climb the skies
between
you and I.
Keeping shoulders wide so if
You light my planet up
I’ll keep you up at night.
Then I’ll scan by hand your every surface, where rough meets smooth, where your smooth keeps on going,
and where your toughs meet your trues.
I won’t leave it to my luck to have
my love
reach the moon.
I’ll learn how soft and where to land.
I’ll learn how strong you are and when
I need to have plan.
When to take my helmet off
when you need me
to be a man.
So, as moons do, if you get blue
I’ll have found and know and own
the fastest way
to get myself to you.
Next I’ll find out every
stone that broke
your heart,
every rock that smashed your sides
(starting with my pride) and make them pay for not watching their orbits.
I’ll clear the way and make the oceans do three quarters worth of work.
they keep the rhythm while you dance around the Earth.
If the sun
falls behind your time,
I’ll fire that ball of fire,
float around and put up flyers,
and find another star to make you shine.
Now, If I ever prove to be a
man who got the moon
I’ll still fill my pockets with dusty piles
Of favorite words
From Earth
every time I visit you.
And when I know I’m close
-it’s when my smile beams in your beams-
I’ll ignite those words I’ve gathered and shower you with comets upon comets of compliments.
Over time, in walking your valleys,
Napping in and mapping your grooves,
throwing comets at your craters, and
Staring at you
Through the roof;
One day those marks start shifting into the words I made sure to do.
At midnights and sometimes noons
They’ll see me from the Earth
Sifting out your smile, glowing in your dunes.
Written on your face in shiny piles,
“This Man Is Over The Moon.”

Mother knows best,

but I've put
this ink
on my skin as
a reminder
that I am
not the
child who
died in that
House.
I was forced
to build a
place where
I belong,
and now that
I've Finally
created a place...

you want me back.

But I am
not the
child who
died in that
house.
I am a
woman
now,

Mother.

The litmus test for loneliness, is the approaching dark
and the clawing hand
that pulls you closer to your resignation to become engulfed in it.
An empty café
bustling only with,

The screaming thoughts that stack up in your mind like poker chips. The same expression frozen stiff makes you fake a smile
when least appropriate.
A jester at the funeral,

Human touch just strikes you as unusual because an open hand is like
subtle subterfuge, syphoning your soul for personal use.
Emotional exposure erodes a stone demeanor.
Loneliness is like an open road with no street signs pointing home.

A spoon scoops out ribbons
Of entrails and intestines
From the tender lining
Of my soft belly.

My mind is murky waters
Muddled thoughts
Mindless wandering.

Heat invades my skin
A tainted blush of fever.

Once every full moon.

I wonder if
He loves me.

Even though
His eyes linger
On my *******,
Not my
heart.