"emboldened" poems
...seeing purse dressed, flowery-folds,
knows the pleasure, -heaven holds.
Standing proud, -cocksure his breast,
exhausted her, laugh-ter, -nothing left.
Weakly submissive, exhilarated now pressed,
emboldened by she, guardedly bereft...
No strawberry, cakes, honey, grape,
you know what's coming;
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
In the evenings
the deer would emerge
from the edge of the woods
stepping over the tumbledown stones
of walls left untended-
they'd leave tracks through the snow
in a wandering line that led to the last apple tree
in the field by Orchard Street.
I remember that now,
staring at this antler I've found
in the clearing between the cactus
and sun bleached stones.
The lines of the antler
flow into the fractures of my palm-
two thousand miles from snow,
and two thousand miles from
the blue evening glow
of a shivering world
glazed over by twilight…
And the deer-
magnificent, pawing the snow
searching for apples that had fallen below-
emboldened by the frozen sweetness of autumn.
They were graceful even in flight-
when cars with chains
jingling and crunching the ice
rounded the corner
down Orchard Street.
Today I've tracked over two thousand miles
in my own wandering line-
the lines of the antler
flow through the tangles and hollows of time.
Sometimes I stand in a clearing,
sometimes hidden by trees,
sometimes I scratch below the surface,
and I run- but, less gracefully...
There are walls I've left untended
and some I've crafted too well-
it is through forgotten tumbledown walls
that memories come-
I thank grace
it was into this clearing they fell.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
I think Poetry found me very early,
From somewhere in mama's womb.
Hooked to her umbilical cord firmly.
I heard something like a tiny bomb.
It was the sound of the talking drum,
Heralding the arrival of another grio.
So with gratitude, I said thanks mom,
And to the world, I said a very big hello.
Of course, I used the language of babies,
I cried and breathed in my very first air.
This was my first sight of the ladies
They smiled as they washed my hair.
My very first poem was a sad prayer.
It was written when I was very hungry
I was hopeless, I had only one dollar,
And no real prospect of ever making it.
So I took out my old used notepad,
UnfortunateIy, I had no pen to write with.
I wrote with a charcoal found in the yard,
And I wrote many long lines on my wall.
I wrote everything I had to tell God
Sadly, I couldn't write them all.
I cried in anguish to the Lord,
Asking If He had forgotten me.
Of Course, I got no immediate answer,
But years later my answer came.
It came in the form of a letter.
Addressed to me, ten years later
It came later but it felt better,
Instantly my struggle was all over!
The first love letter I wrote was poetry,
It was childish, unstructured and ugly.
It was written to a girl, she was pretty,
She read it and smiled, I wasn't so lucky.
Crushed, yet I pretended to be strong
I walked away but ran all the way home.
I cried in anguish and wrote a love song.
The lines were very sad, I felt all alone.
But I knew it was my first real rejection.
So I tried writing again, this time to me.
I was very focused, I was on a mission.
Finally, it finished and I wrote my name.
Unfortunately, the answer was the same,
There and then I knew I had no game,
So I reconciled and just took the blame.
Fast forward,and many years later,
I found the subject of my love letter.
I wrote a note to her on messenger.
I was optimistic because I wrote better.
I was emboldened by my poetic power.
Once again,the reply came to me later,
This time it was a resounding yes!
It felt so wonderful, thanks to poetry
And the universe I didn't make a mess.
#IvanBrooksPoetry©
7/22/2018
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
You may call me a Snowflake,
But I will not melt.
You may call me a Snowflake,
But we will blanket the ground
You may call me a Snowflake
But my fist will remain
In the air, emboldened
And Inflamed
You may call me a Snowflake,
But my chapped lips will Breathe
Warm Winter air
You may call me a Snowflake,
But remember
you are nothing but an old tin can
Rusting away in the cold of
Our Snowflake sand
for we are everywhere you will stand
You may call me a Snowflake,
Cause I will be back again
And again and again
Waiting here on the ground
For you to come join me
under this blanket
And be a friend.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
~~~
for our children and their children
~~~
the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,
I love you
to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity
no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
we could ever write...
~~~
July 26 2015
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Where did it start but by one little cry,
one mother's love, one day she will die
Trees grace the land, the water at peace
Visually astounding, pleasant at ease
The lake was open for summer time fun
Camp Crystal Lake where it begun
A boy and his mother greeted each soul,
welcome my friends enjoy it all.
The torment started, it lasted all season,
they beheaded his mother for all the wrong reasons
Emboldened with fury, deep in the lake
drowned by cowards, feeling no shame
Each year they returned, hearing stories of the camp
the man in the mask, machete in hand
Not believing the myth, what shadows do lurk
no hearts will be pounding, only their blood will spurt
Pre-marital *** upstairs in the cabin
rolling blunts on couch, look out, he's coming
Naked in the shower, Alice did fall,
ice pick in hand, no scream or no crawl
Squeezing your eyes out or smashing your face
Ask all of the counselors at Camp Crystal Lake
One hundred and fifty more victims will fall
This is my place, you are not welcome at all
Mother, I love you, through all of the pain
Hide behind my mask, my machete does reign.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Things unspeakable,
like a river meandering,
surge in my soul,
calls out to me,
inspires my mind with
intriguing force.
Afflatus of the cosmic
impressed with love
enough to be true
caressed my whole
being with power
to dare to do
the impossible.
This impression of
what is inside
my being cannot
be fathomed.
The beauty of the
spirit engulfed
my soul.
Nurtured by grace
and infinite power,
emboldened by
the influence
of love divine to
heal the afflicted.
And now I possessed
the dynamic incredible
unction to influence
and affect my world.
All these are possible
because of grace.
More grace has
been given to excel.
Be thankful and receive it.
Rejoice and be grateful for
the glorious treasures available.
When grace speaks
qualifications dies.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
the Hail Mary transgression:
falling in love with me when it crosses over the line
*guilty of the same, so even when I condemn the errant woman,
with an ice block from a Northeastern pond of no soft forgiveness,
which is still and yet, the only cutoff ending appropriate
but you woman, deserve to learn that
emboldened fantasy that crosses broken bold lines,
is a jagged rot that doesn’t cure the dreamy unreality of
the-cannot-be,
it’s pouring hot water on scalding burns entrenched
guess time to share that your fantasy is the
number one commandment
that this boy also violates routinely so he has a phd of experience,
and the burn proofs when he thot he too could be,
Cervantes, the knight errant, lover of the impossible woman
I, guilty as charged by “The Duke,” am an idealist and bad poet,
so many poet-women here I secret cherish at levels that are nonsensical, absurd, ludicrous
and hold the fantastical fantasty of them dear,
so close and so near, so mine
wrote them each love poems, and they know it,
now, here, in my confessional booth,
my priestly punishment always the same,
ten thousand Hail Mary’s,
but I cheat the cohen priest,
and just write another poem,*
this one is about the line that never can could will be
crossed, hail mary!
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
His flabbered jowls were hung aghast
Beneath his slobbered liver lips
His bulbous eyes were overcast
By burly brows of stewardship
An overbearing egotist
He stood apart from infidels
Compassion dealt with belt and fist
Disdainful with no parallels
And there upon his lofty dais
In garments fit to drape a throne
He glared with bulbous eyes ablaze
Upon a ragged danger zone
A misbegotten anarchist
Audacious with his sweet implore
To strike a flaming catalyst
Emboldened by his quest for more
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:36 AM UTC
Dressed in black, dark eyes amused
She strolls into a room
With the specialised tread
Of a femme fatale,
Tossing her streaming hair in arrogant joy.
Her perfect body
Contains the calm and unexpected force
Of the sea, shifting in a moment between
Reason and fury.
She graces the men with sure-footed Arabic,
Stark, sibilant, passionate words
Laughing like a poem.
A Moroccan beauty,
Guedra dancing in the sun,
From the desert coloured mosque of Casablanca
Punctured by the worship Of 70,000 songs,
To the unremitting souks of Marrakesh,
Her complexity
Emboldened by the courage
Of poets.
She has a silence in her intellect
Such as few have,
Unusual evidence of a soul
In a world of franchises,
Her past imaginings deeper and wider
Than that of her peers,
Dancing to fast Gharnati rhythms,
Beneath imagined Andulusian sunsets
And glowing skies.
An effervescent scintillating gasp of fervent
Desert air, beating across her limbs
Moving gently towards silence.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
1:12:25 9:20am nyc
Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended
feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly
all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty
so,
***Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being***?
Jan 12, 2025
Jan 12, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC
Is poetry the last bastion of the scarred mass of humanity lost to the subtle truth that words are signs from the divine that we are all one and nothing, because if so then I must hope that mine are worth the lasting
If what is both false and true heard by no one but the mute passed trembling from his unused lips sealed with venom by a scarlet kiss and gassed silently on by occultist grips narrowly worth the waiting
Then and only then will we learn both the where and when as the spirit goes on laughing
Falling further farther down clutching tightly golden crowns mimicking Gods with emboldened sounds riveting emotion flicker round
Theater is what we’re asking
Days upon days without any end the trigger lingers shoot again imprisoned here by our own command lost in thought not acting
What will it be our own device to save us suffering from the pain and strife the mortal coil lust and vice perpetually worth the asking
The snake he calls with warm lit clouds and the sun is ever shining
Uproot the tree out of sodden ground the branches broken crash and pound
litter ridden strewn across the burial mound the eagle cries in distance
Sparrow flies upon the wing angels make joy and forever sing our ears in whispers but never bring consistently the frequency to our brains
My foot falls but once upon the wither winds softly like a child carrying me to the end
the bridge between the forest creek meandering mends uplifting me from sorrow.
So long until tomorrow.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
As a child I was told to take shelter in a storm.
"Wait for danger to pass, where it's safe and it's warm."
Was the plea sent down wet steps and the outmatched door
To chase my staccato strides.
I'd lose it, if I could help it,
In puddle waves and wind-whipped tides
Over rocky shores and steep divides
Then stroll down the lane with thunderstorms n' hurricanes.
While the sky cracked with tension and the red oaks strained,
I never felt small nor ever afraid,
Of the forceful rumbles their limbs obeyed,
I felt alive n' emboldened by every squall
Raised higher and higher by the climatic cure-all
Until I could meet it face to face n' eye to eye
And hold its gaze, as though it were mine,
Until the blackened-beaten town and the next day's fight
Seemed bold but inviting, a blinding light.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 11:03 AM UTC
In the distance a Bright Blue eye blinks with greed at the enticing tickle, of a seemingly fickle, wisp of eclectic lightning.
Torn out of actuality, the sky's emboldened hue, makes way for this wistful energy of new.
As the bolt of light, not really caring, rips the sky of Blue, like a Blood-red Herring, dives viciously, however not maliciously, into--
Transition now your mind to a darkness not unkind. Where silence is a splendor and your entire being is a sensor. Where gravity takes rest and gasping lungs aren't always best; a blanket of muffled harmonies vibrating soundlessly inside your bones, flesh and arteries--
FLASH*
... Like a birth, like a death-- like the pause between your breaths-- for a moment, just for an echo of a glimpse of a moment, the flash of silver blue, that out of darkness quickly grew, pierced-- with exacting delicacy-- the bottom of this darkened sea, then disappeared instantly...
Flash-flash {{Glow}}
Flash-flash {{Glow}}
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
... Where the bolt did land-- on the sea-floor sand-- a beating rock, electric blue from the shock..
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
And in that instant, new life was made...
While on the surface nothingness reigned...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
{{...Glow-glow...}} fa d e...
It's a cosmic dance, disguised as chance--
Or lucky breaks that breed romance--
And to move along its endless song, without blind views of right or wrong,
Is to truly feel with unbiased zeal
The uniting pulse of the Universe.
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 1:16 AM UTC
this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status
no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions
a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence
sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion
a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,
and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...
offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other
tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch
PostScript
my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth
7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five. nml
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
Consuming devastation
as if it's life-giving bread
Flesh, a merciless master
Ineffectual thoughts sway my head
With each indulgence
the captor becomes more emboldened
Betraying the true master
to whom I'm beholden
Surrender comes easier
with each new concession
Just one more link
in the chain of spiritual recession
Slaking every desire
as the senses grow cold
While the battle rages
between body and soul
One will be nurtured
the other put under thumb
Sin is spiritual Novocain
just making me numb
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
Unburied
tomorrow
from Christian metanarratives
the mid-winter solstice.
December 21;
the shortest day
over the longest night.
Two lovers
are by the Channel
divided
to different beds
to tongue tastes
to timed beats
to unfamiliar scents
as Yuletide days
burn twelfths to gray ash;
their bodies
are sea
cleaved.
Come!
cross the water
and release
with lively touch
tresses thick
and winter's dew,
unctuous upon the crag,
the timely solar orb
to stir the frozen ground
on our rocky shelves
and chopped bowels.
On 25th,
Christ's star is risen:
the king's light dispersed
in lengthening days
in opened flesh
in loosening chords untied
in sinews gnawed through
in desire's wanting hotly flayed!
60 seconds were daily added,
to when
in the 100 Year Gallery,
love to know,
would in solstice
ultimately lay.
For now as then,
our emboldened play
in days delayed
has been
love's lacerating torment!
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 12:05 AM UTC
At the top of the world
my inferno swells
consuming
the masquerade
of my blood heart
once, founded upon red mountain
I lost myself
in billows of black,
my sordid hands
slipped
through the sands of time-
a pyramid of translucent rage
within
my whimsical mind
pathed an oblivion
spiraling
down
to the depths of the sea.
There my soul awaits
slain,
encapsulated by
ice and a curse-
forever, he writhes trapped
in shards
of tormented black
glass
they cut
cut
cut
his frosted wings dead
eaten alive
by
living sea bed
yet
the shadow of his touch
still
crystalizes
my fear.
Then alone
we atone
so emboldened
his & my
****** & pulse
wrapped in rebirth
we rise
to blinding lights
longing
to taste
world's end-
before our
blank
utopia
begins
with song
in C-minor.
Ayo Alé
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 1:30 AM UTC
I seek your sounds in the crickets of the woods
and I hear . . .
I look for your eyes in the call behind the sky tier
and I see . . .
I yearn so for the mystery clip of your being
and I receive . . .
I miss you so.
And the spaces between us
Oh, they . . . g a p e . . . so wide.
Saudade.
I can touch the air swirls around the timelessness of you
Can you feel the tingle as those lines are emboldened by shortening time stretches?
Approaching you . . . approaching only you . . . rare moments dawn when we just don't look.
Saudade, saudade . . .
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
~For Lila and the others~
there exists
a subset of us,
those who
for whatever reason
do not write,
but “just” repost
other’s work
Above see the word
Just
emboldened
for this selfless task
is justice inherent
For this act of bringing others
to our over constrained attention is an
action of justice,
or more profoundly
doing away with
injustice of
our human limitations
We could spend days entire
pursuing the works of others,
but life and the extraordinary demands
of writing anew, when the spirit is upon us,
are oft unable to spot, isolate, and
highlight
capture
the best of the rest,
and bless those
who reorient our eyes
away from our own bounded rivulets,
to the tried and truly, away from
habitual familial familiar good stuff,
but bring us revelations of gems,
caught within the mass maskings of missives that grows hourly, exponentially to
out attention,
to reorient
our attention,
to their filtered selections
Let us say in unison then
a blessing of gratitude
to The Reposters:
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, to give thanks to those who enable others, to reach us this season
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 2:42 PM UTC
*Each ripple at her shore perfect , every panfish feeding just below the surface held with upmost respect ..
A repository of turbulent waters awarded peace , a placid impoundment delivering solace to all it's fortunate recipients ..
Canadian Geese are quite familiar with her charms , bullfrogs and killdeer speak of her beauty with Summer songs ..
The calls of numerous songbirds fill the Springtime air , Largemouth Bass crash at the top of the water , breaking the afternoon silence ..
Georgia Pines shade her Northern front , blackberry thickets just beyond the Western shore , Blue Herons quietly forage in the shallow waters , she is the emboldened mother of countless natural wonders* ...
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
"Her other name must be Peace"'
Doubted it was writ large too, on that face,
Yarns of tranquility waved her dress
In it's tight drapes her shape does express
More than expected within that gentle grace.
For a moment he held the reigns, took stock,
Deeply inhaled the scent of musk, she exudes
Sensed a turbulence, an effect opposite, yet sweet
"Need to initiate a change, a bend in the flow, quick
Amble to her and shake hands"his other murmured
"Otherwise you wouldn't forgive yourself,for the lapse
Letting slip a rare glowing moment, from your hand"
Alter ego's prompt, was carried out with such ardor,
She briskly met him halfway and gracefully asked:
"We sure met before once, didn't we some time?"
"Certainly, but in some other life time, it was"he says
She smiles as if his was a seductive move, she liked it.
But these waves that reach him has an intense warmth
"Will you give me a hug?" emboldened he ventures further
She did more than what he could expect, tight was the embrace.
Yes, that's right, appearances are deceptive,pleasant surprise!
One needs to expect the unexpected,make serendipity work.
It was too fast, he couldn't see what really was happening,
She perhaps leads him to a timeless space , he imagined
That volcano camouflaged as a green island of tranquility!
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
Two hearts encased,
chased by a full moon overlooking the black and lucid night.
Like a bright contrasting white light spotlight on things to be.
Mine to yours and yours to me.
Two hearts into one,
the one moon spills a mana spell akin to an infinite, everlasting spoken rune over the ages.
Our stories into one,
Our hearts bond,
timeless...unsung,
It’s skips progressive stages,
beyond words on pages,
in this quiet moment past the reach of the Sun.
The fullest moon,
the furthest reach,
high in the sky contrasting the black lack of light,
night’s version of high noon.
Emboldened to fold into and hold onto you so often,
bending,
blending,
transcending so tight even our souls share light.
Eyes shut, sealed from light,
we feel and grasp and clasp and clinch at every body-inch,
sparking darkest days into brightest nights...
then, all over again, I see you, I pull you close,
and so it begins again this morning or this day or this night.
PART 2
The **** salty taste of your waist encases a place in my brain forever.
You depart...we’re apart...
Miss you fiercely,
love you deeply,
to hold you near,
feel my fears leave me,
if only I could just see thee.
My next morning starts anew with more thoughts of you and how completely I see thee as part of the whole sum of who I suddenly aspire to be.
With every rolling tumble and sweet embrace,
with every chanced glance to give chase,
with every coy kissing peck on my neck,
with every wept tear of joy
with every breath or soulful laugh you employ,
I beseech you,
Mate to my soul,
woman to this man,
girl to this boy,
my heart,
my love,
my trust are yours to have,
to hold,
to embold...
laid bare to infirm or destroy.
By R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2017
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC