Morning’s first scent
bathes an arousing room 

with musty fragrance
of spoiled passion.


Clothing forms little
mountains of disarray
on faded carpet.
Burned out cigarette butts
snake gray in the ashtray 

while tepid water
with a hint of scotch
wiggles in the glasses
on the end table. 

Bodies stir with memories
of unwelcomed
interruptions. Unspent fluids
still surge in naked *****. 


Her eyes feast on stubble
sharp enough to chafe her neck.
Memories of the previous evening’s
unfulfilled promise incite tightening
between her legs. She smiles,
snuggles into the crook
of his summer-tanned arm.
No phone calls, or knocks on the door
will deter her passion this morning.

Softness surrounds her eyes

accentuating a look of wisdom.

Contentment tempers her voice.

A voice that flows to greet one 


like a mellow brook 


sparkling in the sunrise.

Her words traced to paper

speak of a true heart

that pumps compassion.

Her poetic refrains spill forth

like lava flowing on a rock.

Yet her steps are gentle on the earth

as though each journey is

a walking meditation.

Observing is an obsession

that ignites each draft she writes.

What if she changed? What if

she lived with the boldness

of her writing and the zest of her poems,

would her words become tempered

and her rhymes fall hollow on the page?

Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.

Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.  

Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.

His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.  
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.

She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.

Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.

Poems about women,
spills of passion
flow from anger,
burst from love,
fill libraries,
find homes in billfolds,
back pockets,
or bulletin boards.

Counting poems
composed about women,
for women,
by women
becomes one futile task
for this list is endless.
Reams of new works
billow forth
from crazed minds of men
hourly,
daily.

Small wonder
for this gentle ***
is incomprehensible,
enticing, enchanting.
Fill pages with thoughts of her
and dreams that dampen cotton sheets
Ease all tension,
write tonight.

She feels no confusion
in her glance toward his eyes.
Eyes deep blue
as a mountain lake.
She senses comfort
across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.

Now feels so warm,
soft on the mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
fills her heart.
Now feels
like the first time
again.

She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book
unaware of his charismatic aura
She fashioned him an enigma
Her showy courtship ended in drama
He remained blind to the effort she took
She fashioned him an enigma
who strolled through life a closed book.

Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love
He continued his mysterious way
Many masks he kept in play.
Her ardor she could not betray
nor stop praying to God above
Many masks he kept in play
heedless of her passionate love

Trapeze rhymes with breeze
It ends there, tis' not a breeze,
To fly a trapeze