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 Apr 2017 Tony Luxton
Sjr1000
"It's a frozen morning "
said the earth to the sun

"Please rain"
said the ground to the clouds

"You're going to die"
said the spider to the fly

"Goodbye"
said the woman
to the sleeping guy

"Don't go"
said the guy to the setting sun

"Come home "
said the house
now all alone

"Let's try, one more time "
said the message on her phone

"Our time has come
Our time has gone "
said the four wheels
on the gravel road

"One more log of mother madrone"
said the woodstove to the cold, cold, room.
How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
Unicorn sprinkles,
Daffodils jam,
A little star's twinkle
And some dragon ham.

Some emerald clovers,
A pint of fairy dust,
A handful of stover
And some canned gust.

Teardrops of a Selkie,
Well shaken, not stirred,
The horseshoe of a kelpie,
Late Iron Age sherds.

Some fizzy witchcraft,
One bottle or two,
And maybe a draught
Of love potion too.
Someone challenged me to add my shopping list in here and to have it called a poem. I think they had no idea what they were asking of me, so... here is my shopping list. Enjoy!
 Mar 2017 Tony Luxton
Anna Jones
It will do its best to hurt you, twist your emotions, break you financially, mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. It wants you to suffer. To break you before it can 'make' you. Snared between its gnarly teeth it has no remorse. Until the very end, it will bite in and grind, chewing on your patience until every day is simply the same and you beg for mercy. Recalling memories like postage stamps to a bygone era, days fold themselves away into neat envelopes, ready to be relived both now and never.  

Those who are sensitive know the score. That life is a game that sometimes they don't feel like playing. At times you win, at times you lose. The thrill of the ride is in the journey; that first rush of life that flows through your veins and down the drain. After that, routine is a mundane affair that will **** you if it gets the chance. By keeping you breathing.  

A victim to circumstance, you find yourself trying to take control where there is none. Frustration sunsets kick in and scream for resistance. But still, the routine. Average life, average dreams. Mr and Mrs Grey only become free to express themselves sexually as every other form of creativity is strictly banned. Colour an illusion, playing with love. There is shyness. Uncertainty where there should be knowing. TV drama. Break-ups. Celebrity divorce. Iraq. Iran. Paid for wars. ****** and delirious children. Emaciated women. Sexuality, a given. Robots on stage. Narcissism all the rage. Fear in fashion. Outrage but no action. We parade our pain online. Wax and wane. Reliving youth, former glory. And all the time we wonder where it ends. Begging for another story.
I guess this is more prose than pure poetry. Anyway, it is something that slipped through my consciousness this morning.
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