"moroccan" poems
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?
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 8:18 AM UTC
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Morocco
some base camp
by a beach
in 19
70
a small bar
Miriam
sitting there
drinking her
Bacardi
and small coke
wearing that
very snug
bikini
coloured red
like her hair
of tight curls
up one end
a very old
Moroccan
was strumming
a guitar
him smoking
cannabis
happy guy
what's that stink?
Miriam
says to me
cannabis
I tell her
how'd you know?
A girlfriend
I once had
smoked the stuff
how could she?
Miriam
says to me
I don't know
she just did
I sip my
Bacardi
and smoke my
cigarette
she looks neat
in her snug
bikini
but neater
out of it.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM 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
Mamie leaned
against a sitting camel
on the beach
at base camp
outside Tangiers
fiddling with her camera
clothed
in her red two piece
bathing kit
and pink framed
sunglasses
her reddish hair
a mass of curls
looking quite fuckable
as you snapped her picture
with your camera
with the Moroccan guy
looking towards you
thinking maybe the same
holding the rope
leading to the camel
and she said
I wasn’t ready
I was trying to get
my camera set
looking at you
through her darkened lens
holding her camera
in her hands
the Moroccan guy
looking bored
wanting his pay
and to move on
well I’ve got you now
you said
something to gawk at
in my lonely hours
you could have waited
she said
the sun’ll go in a few hours
you joked
ha-ha
she replied
she paid the guy
and left him
and the camel
and walked towards you
her bare feet
left footprints
in the damp yellow sands
the camel stinks
she said
and so does he
she steadied her camera
and walked back a few paces
and said
pose yourself
and so you posed yourself
standing there
in your white tee shirt
and blue jeans
your hair windswept
your features set
in a sun blinded smile
hold it
she said
hold what?
you asked
the pose
she said crossly
just like that
and she snapped the shot
and gazed at you
through the dark lens
of her sunglasses
her small plump ****
wanting to escape
her red bathing top
and the sun still there
in the blue sky
the Moroccan guy gone off
down the beach
the camel following him behind
and you studied Mamie
as she walked back
towards base camp
with love making thoughts
in your sun baked mind.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
A rip in the door, a tip in the drawr,
Philosophy or trigonometry,
Epic failure,
Filled with pens & paper clips,
Minds to the matter,
Key opening frogs,
Toads totaling mirrors,
Mane of Moroccan Curls,
Sashaying across broad shoulders,
And smooth hips,
Laying on clouds,
Because you can't afford to breath,
On the ground,
Tree topped eye lined,
Eye lids,
Shut.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Where lonely camels roam, dunes in darkness lay
And myriads of stars glow in disarray.
Solely the morning star, lone wanderer, shines bright
And thus illuminates this dark Moroccan night.
As the gleaming eye of heaven rises in the East,
wake the weary nomad and his weary beast.
And as it reaches zenith, the heat burning the flesh,
they reach their destination: the vibrant Marrakech.
Explosion of colors, spices galore
Sold on bazaars selling infinitely more
A snake tamer plays his tunes in a trance
and the dervishes do their habitual dance.
And with every turn, every swish, every sway,
Unfolds like a dream the Moroccan day.
'Til the sun sets again in this wondrous land
To darken once more the kingdom of sand.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.
there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me. and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
—but it feels ******
g o o d .
my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...
REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling ******* held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***
“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
The white sands of Mozambique
We should go there - you and I
It doesn't have the answers that I seek
But maybe just enough to get me by
The red dunes of the Namib
Reflecting orange and yellow too
It's more lovely that you would believe
Let's be sure not to leave too soon
Here in the Moroccan city streets
They're offering me a minty tea
It goes well with sweet and toasty treats
We should stay here for a few weeks
In a while, we'll trek to Malawi
Kayak on a lake or open sea
See what animals wait over by the trees
This has been a trip that surely can't be beat
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
few new words, here.
just the punk scene-
feral, free.
and the accompanying
knowledge that
others battle the tide, too,
mouths as salty with sea water.
others
giving to become,
dancing in the trenches,
transported beyond classroom cubicles
by the music of
celestial fabrics,
of me,
of me meeting you,
of whispers from the lips of
God.
we all set up shop there,
use intermittent sunlight
to grow and sell our bluebells,
our quirky flower children.
we all capture
the poetry of moments,
all maroons
in cozy sanctuaries
rich
with the music of
intuition, of
loss of pride, and
old book smells.
How Much Time
do i need for me,
really?
i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.
i want to buy a bookstore.
i want to feel a horse between my thighs.
i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.
Simple Solutions,
i'd like you to meet
Bureaucratic Barricades.
is there real need
for the two sides
to every coin
buried in bank vaults
and sock drawers?
but vessels to be
filled.
i want to reform the public education system.
i want to become a nun.
i want to be in the darkness with you.
i want to see unicorns.
just being (t)here,
lost in idealism
and the lines on my palms.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:00 PM UTC
That time we went to Fez
and you said
it's like Biblical times
all these fecking donkeys
and camels and people
dressed like Jesus
I said to Miriam
so it was my first time
and we had to leave
the vehicle outside
the gates of the city
she said
we were sitting
at the Moroccan bar
of the camp base
sipping cokes
and had French loaf
sandwiches on plates
beside us
but it was good
I said
and that mosque
I went in was great
I had to take off
my sandals mind you
but hey the site
inside was good
I didn't go in
but that market
was out of this world
she said
she sat on a stool
beside me sipping her coke
she had a pink tee shirt
and red shorts
-I loved red-
and bare feet
I looked at the feet
recalling mouthing
her toes that night
in Malaga after
the shower
at the camp base there
and well the rest followed
I bit into the French roll sandwich
lettuce
cheese
cold lamb meat
and some kind of pickle
those women wore
those black gown things
she said
could only see their eyes
I don't think I could wear
one of those
I like to be seen
and why bother
to wear make up
or wear something skimpy
if you've got one
of those on
she said
they don't I guess
that's their religion
I said
she bit into her French roll
and was silent
she smelt
of apples and hay
and I could have licked her
but we sat and ate
and thought of the beach
and moon and stars
and ***
if not too late.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Miryam walks along the beach
in her swimming attire, some red
and flowered design, Benedict
notes, walking just behind, having
left the two Moroccan guys behind
with the camel, with whom she'd
posed while he took camera shot.
Bet they don't do that everyday, she
says, swaying her delicious backside
side to side. No, guess not, least
not by the look on their faces,
Benedict says. She laughs, does
a Monroe kind of walk and wiggle.
We came down here last night, she
says, it was quite romantic what
with the moon, stars and warm air.
She stops and turns to look at him.
Was it about here? she asks. He
gazes about him, at the sand and
tufts of grass, the sky blue and the
odd white clouds, could be, hard
to say, it being dark and all. You
found your way around all right,
she says, smiling. Well, a guy gets
to know his way around after a while,
bit like a ****** gets to know the sea,
the rough times and the smooth,
the high tides and the low, when
its best to set out and when to stay
in port. She frowns. Is that what it's
like for you guys? Just like that? No,
he says, just being philosophical, in
fact, it was a good evening, a fine
**** he says softly. Is that all? she
asks. She stands there her hands
on hips, her head to one side. No,
of course not, it's just us guys hate
to get all soft about these things,
he says. She pouts. Soft? These
things? she says. Can't you just
say it was romantic? She says, is
it hard to say that? A fine ****
Is that easier to say? It's just one
syllable instead of three, he says.
She turns and walks on through
the sand. He follows, taking in
her figure, her side to side ***
the tight red hair. OK, he says, it
was a romantic night, I loved the
whole set up, the stars, the moon,
you and me, the sand, the soft tufts
of grass, the *** the kisses, the holds.
She stops and turns and gazes at him.
It has to mean something, she says,
otherwise we waste our lives in such
pointlessness. He nods, zooms in on
her small **** her eyes, her whole features.
Sure we do, he says, you're right, it
was one fine romantic never to be
forgotten night. She smiles and walks
to him and kisses him and holds him.
He holds her, feels her, senses her lips
on his, and out of the corner of his eye,
he sees the two Moroccan guys and
camel walk away up the beach, they'll
never know this, he thinks, feeling smug,
far beyond their lives or random reach.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
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Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Come Moroccan blue,
Wrought a Tokyo twilight;
The tangled neon, Guangzhou,
Ought London fog or gloom –
Entity’d ‘ever end with me.
So when gods plays jokes
Come a second near and nigh,
I’d nearly utter, “amen,”
Atop a belly, soon and son’s first cry –
I am a father; above, eternity’d grin.
So my plane kisses pavement, tepid,
Wrought one mother waiting; and
All I’d ran from, all abandoned,
Is now the only that’d welcome.
I’d never thought to nest, and yet –
Arrived, with straw in mouth.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
You had been in Tangiers
until the early hours
of the morning
and was brought back
to base camp on the truck
as the sun was beginning to rise
over the horizon
and had then gone
to crash down
in your tent
too tired to undress
and slept through
until midday
then showered
and sat in the bar
when Mamie came
and sat beside you
and said
where’d you go last night?
I thought you
were going to walk me
down by the beach
and watch the sun rise
from the sea?
I was too tired
you said
I crashed out in my tent
she looked at her glass of coke
I could have joined you there
she whispered
and done what?
you said
slept beside me?
she shifted her buttocks
on the stool and said
well it would have been better
than sleeping in my tent
with that Scottish hen
as her brother calls her
you sipped your drink
and watched
the old Moroccan guy
in the corner
inhale on his marijuana smoke
plus I had her snoring
and moaning in her sleep
Mamie added
giving you her side on stare
yes
you said
it would have been
better than that
and she put her hand
on your thigh
and rubbed it back
and forth and said
but it didn’t happen
maybe next time
you replied
imaging it all
in your mind
right down
to the last removing
of clothes
and trying to move
in the tent’s small space
your body drained
of all strength
wanting only sleep
the Tangier *****
and belly dancers
and nightclub smoke and music
clinging on your flesh
and ringing in your ears
and she trying
to get you in
the right place
and you closing your eyes
and drifting away
like one who dies.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
The heron-billed pale cattle-birds
That feed on some foul parasite
Of the Moroccan flocks and herds
Cross the narrow Straits to light
In the rich midnight of the garden trees
Till the dawn break upon those mingled seas.
Often at evening when a boy
Would I carry to a friend--
Hoping more substantial joy
Did an older mind commend--
Not such as are in Newton's metaphor,
But actual shells of Rosses' level shore.
Greater glory in the Sun,
An evening chill upon the air,
Bid imagination run
Much on the Great Questioner;
What He can question, what if questioned I
Can with a fitting confidence reply.
1.4k
Which do you prefer, Haunted Girl-
the city street sidewalk churned
up by heel and brogue
or,
the sweet-talk waves of home?
Settle in the sand while fingers
meld and touch the palms of hands,
let the hour glass beach pass
time between our toes,
have an appetite for shallow
dives amongst wave-tip whites;
whipped up by swell’s whisk,
stare until we sing for the dead men,
fire flares of affection in the form of kisses!
use a tool to sketch our future floor plan,
comment upon the Moroccan oil hair tan,
watch that man trace the coast of France upon his wife’s thigh;
hear her cry as he reaches Cherbourg,
talk of Vienna flagship stores:
forerunner fashion you make look lace,
mention the trees and the shipwrecks,
past relationship breakups and upcoming commitments,
describe, in detail, what you hope to happen
and what happens to that hope.
Fly back home.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers
the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky
some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar
your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal
Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool
you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day
no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach
the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off
and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes
what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked
when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me
ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck
almost crushed me
she said
good while it lasted
then eh?
no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things
was I?
you know you were
don’t recall a thing
you said
thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned
o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near
she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said
she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent
the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip
can I have some
of your roll?
she asked
sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her
thanks
she said and smiled
you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh
you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things
the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds
some party
at the beach
the night before
hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day
feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin
some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink
but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
You could tell
by Mamie’s face
she was sick
of shish kebabs
in fact it seemed
that the whole Moroccan holiday
was kind of getting
to her sensibilities
from the standing
on the two brick toilets
to the shish kebab
food misadventure
let’s go walk
on the beach
she said
before I throw up
with this crap
and so you walked
with her down through
the path to the beach
the moon and stars
above in a black
patchwork sky
the sound of the sea
rushing in and out
and the voices
of the others
getting less
and less
and she said
looking up at the sky
isn’t scary that sky
why is it scary?
you asked
it’s so vast
like it goes on forever
she said
I think Pascal found
the immensity
of the night sky
disturbing
you said
Pascal?
Is he on the coach?
Is he on the tour?
she asked
no he was a mathematician
and physicist and inventor
and Christian philosopher
in the 17th century
oh right
she said
boring ****
come on let’s get
on the beach
and lay down
and stare
at the sky
and stars
and that bright moon
and then we can snuggle
up close
and we’ll see
what comes
and she pulled you
onto the beach
and the damp sand
eased itself
between your toes
and the smell of the sea
hit you
and the sounds
and the wind
from off the sea’s shoulder
and she pulled you
down on the beach
beside her
and you lay back
and looked up
and the vast sky
seemed to press down
on you both
and she laughed
and said
it kind of makes
you seem small
and insignificant
doesn’t it
she said
you felt her hand
in yours
a soft pulse
of her being
right there
like a small beeping drum
and she turned
and looked at you
and smiled
and her smile was captured
by the moon’s glow
and you said
we need to remember
this moment
this being here
this newness of being
and she laughed
and said
don’t get too deep on me
and she leaned in
close to you
and kissed you
and her tongue
entered you
and the whole sky
seemed to witness
the moment
seemed to want
to embrace the kiss
the bright humanness
in her moonlit face.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 8:42 AM UTC
leaves
arch and fall like
a river of gold sun,
what breaks
and what comes to life,
the pit of my stomach
a scaffolding of
dark fear
i kiss your lips
and your love
drowns me in
moroccan silk,
my heart caves in
my legs cave in
everything is you,
everything is
longing,
a ghost wrapped in
honey,
sweet night where
the stained red maple leaves
melt near the window.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
The Moroccan sun was hot
and the sands
of the beach
down from the base camp
were warm
beneath your feet
as Mamie and you
took a walk
looking seaward
then skyward
the sounds
from the base camp
becoming faded
background buzz
and she said
those toilets are a disgrace
two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
and after a few drinks
one stands there
swaying fearing
to fall in
yes not quite up
to the 5 star hotel standard
you said
but this is a camping trip
across half of Europe
and beyond
not some top notch
holiday in the swanky
middle class arena
but still
she moaned
trying to balance
on two bricks
is no mean trick
you sensed her hand
hold yours
her skin warm
sticking to your skin
her fingers moving
between yours
and you recalled
the night just gone
while the guy
you shared the tent with
had gone on a trip
to Fez
you and she
kissed and embraced
and did the business
while outside
you could hear
the voices
of others
as they passed by
or music played on guitars
from the guys
in the bar
up a small way
as you both lay
on your backs
staring at the blue top
of the tent
the heat of the sun
pushed through
and the bodies wet
with sweat
and she put
a hand on your belly
and rubbed
in a circular motion
as far away
you heard
the sway
and run
of the Mediterranean sea
and nearby voices
and their laughter
and gossip
as you and she
kissed
lip to hot lip.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC