"sonya" poems
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Gunga peas calypso
Madly
in my cooking ***
gradually I pour canned coconut milk
into the swirling flavors
of cilantro, garlic and onions
Staring into the rich brown
stew
I can see my Mother grating
coconut meat and hand squeezing
the milk like teats from a cow
(Too much work for me)
creating a traditional coconut rice and peas
dish
She was raised on a farm in St. Elizabeth,
Jamaica
early hours, rugged, hard labor were natural
for the family which included nine siblings
Pauline was a kind big hearted Soul
with ample soft *****
perfect for children
to lay their heads upon
and skin that always seemed
to smell of curry
Burnt sienna Indian complexion
wavy black river hair
and colorful patois accent
painted a portrait
cavorting over the dandy, rolling
goat hooved hills of
Jamaican village peasantry
The Moravian church of England formed
beliefs woven inextricably through
the fabric of her simplistic
innocent existence
our Mom instilled a love of
God in us that was pure and hearty
"Sonya stop your daydreaming"
my Mother's clarion voice interrupts
my avid reverie
"Bumba!" I cry aloud
"I haven't had bammy in eons"
Quickly my fingers Google
Another tasty native recipe
chock full of memories
and cassava root
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
David flew into my bedroom
light blue eyes flashing excitement
"Sonya ki," he gushed
"We are now the proud parents
of a newborn baby pineapple!"
For two years David fathered
and diligently nurtured the
pineapple cutting from
the Yoga ashram
Cooing, lullabying,
coaxing, fertilizing
I threw on my sandals
and dashed into the
bucolic nursery
There peeking up at us
it's amber pink body
swaddled in spiky
leaves
was our own little
darling pineapple
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Om Sai Ram Dear Family
Excellent news! Thank You Swamiji. "108 Bhakti Kisses" Poetry book has been added to the Brevard Central Library collection in Florida. Paste the url below:
http://discover.mylibraryworld.com/#section=resource&resourceid;=449915711¤tIndex=0&view;=allCopiesDetailsTab
Sai Blessings,
Sonya Ki Tomlinson
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Sonya was reading
some Kierkegaard book
I was reading Dostoevsky
both laying on the bed
in a cheap hotel in Paris
the window was open
street sounds outside
traffic
people
snatches of conversations
want to go out
for a coffee?
I asked
if you're paying
she said
I paid last time
she turned a page
you're the male
you're supposed to pay
she said
I put down the book
and looked up
at the ceiling
I thought this was equal time
for women
woman's rights and all that?
what's that got to do with it?
equal paying of bills
I said
she sighed
and put down her book
you always
have to make arguments
always have to see things
so **** black and white
she said
do you want coffee or not?
I said
she turned over
and away from me
her backside
just about cover
by her tight skirt
why do women
have to sulk
when things
don't go their way?
who said
they're not going my way?
your **** says so
what's the matter
with my ****
it isn't so pretty
as your face
she turned back to me
and gazed at me
it's always either or
with you isn't it?
she said
you've been reading
too much Kierkegaard
I said
you want *** again?
I looked at her lips
her *******
her eyes blue
as washed out blue can be
sure if it's on offer
well it won't be
if you keep on
with this equal thing
she said
you like ***
she frowned
yes of course
well I do too
so that's equal
so what's the problem?
she lay back down
on the bed
I’ll have black coffee
and I’ll pay
she said
but you get the food
I smiled
OK if that's
what you want
can we go see
some art afterwards?
sure
I said
she kissed me
and I kissed her
and coffee was forgotten
as we decided
to rock
the cheap old bed.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
Some dame sang
on the old
radio
a Verdi
aria
Sonya lay
on the bed
reading Kant
I showered
listening
to Verdi
filtering
through to me
through water
gushing down
how Sonya
could read Kant
after ***
I wondered
washing down
young Percy
my pecker
then Sonya
sang along
the Verdi
aria
I hummed some
Sinatra
melody
to contrast
the Verdi
recalling
entering
Sonya's fruit
in the bed
while Mozart's
aria
vibrated
in my head.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Sonya spoke
of Kierkegaard.
I sat enthralled,
not by the Danish philosopher
or his philosophy,
but by her,
the way she sat
outside the Parisian café,
her long blonde hair,
her blues eyes
like deep fires,
awaking
my ****** desires,
the way she waved
her slim hand.
She was eating
her second croissant.
I liked the way
she licked
her fingers after,
each one
at least twice,
as if they
were small penises
waiting in turn
to be done,
one by one.
She sipped her coffee,
licked her lips.
I studied
her small ****
firm and tight,
waiting to be touched
or ******
She spoke
of Kierkgeaard's books,
of the leap of faith.
I thought of her
secret garden
waiting to be dug
and ******
I sipped coffee,
held it on my tongue,
around my mouth,
savouring it all,
the taste,
the warmth,
the slight bitterness,
sweetness,
each in turn.
She spoke of
Fear and Trembling,
Either/Or,
The Sickness Unto Death,
and other books
he'd written,
that Kierkegaard guy,
while I sat there,
drinking her all in,
hair,
eyes,
**** and hands
and fingers
licking and *******
while sat dreaming
of bed and her
and digging
and *******
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
We had been
to the Impressionist gallery
in Paris
been to the Tower
seen the views
had coffees
and seen street artists
and Sonya was wanting
to see an American film
at a cinema with sub-titles
I’m not keen
I said
why not?
I can see it
once back in the UK
without having to read script
on the screen
at the same time
watch the action
anyway seeing Clint Eastwood
speaking French
is off putting
she pulled a face
and went sat down
on a seat of some café
and I sat next to her
you always have to spoil things
she said
reading the menu
it's in French
she said
we're in France
so how am I to know
what to order?
point at it
and ask what it is
she looked at me
with her icy-blue eyes
she tossed back hair
from her face
I went with you
to the art gallery
she said
to see all those boring Impressionists
but you can't go with me
to see Clint
a waiter came up to us
and she asked him
if we could
have two coffees with cream
he nodded and smiled at her
and went off
he's ****
I didn't notice
had lovely eyes
dark and deep
he's a waiter and French
I said
I can imagine him
beside me in bed
breathing on me
with his breath
oniony and garlicky
she tapped my hand
jealous is what you are
she said
I don't want him
you do
I said
I didn't say I wanted him
I said I could
imagine him in my bed
she muttered
she looked around her
at the other tables
I looked at her profile
the curve of neck
the run of her jawline
her ear visible
through her blonde hair
momentarily
I felt like a vampire
wanting to sink
my teeth
into the soft flesh
of her neck
and **** her sexily
she looked back at me
you owe me
she said
having to go
to that boring art place
ok
I said
what do you want?
I want to see the film
with Clint Eastwood
ok
I said
thinking of the bed
and her
and do what I could
if she would.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
Sonya
that Parisian street
is still there
no doubt
although whether
that cheap hotel
is still there
is another
question
but we were there
back then
the double
old bed
the bidet
the sink greasy
and the toilet
well less said
the better
but Paris
was good
and we walked
its streets
and ate and drank
in its restaurants
and cafés
and saw
the art galleries
and rode the metro
sometimes for free
avoiding
the ticket collector
and the room
and that bed
and us lying there
the window open
the street sounds
and the smell
of the City
and I
with my Dostoevsky book
and you saying
can't you read
something
more cheerful?
and you lying there
with your blonde hair
spread on the pillow
on the bed
and you talking
of Kierkegaard
and Either Or
or something
about a leap
of faith
and you puking
into the bidet
after the cheap wine
and I reading
and saying
serves you right
but sorted you
later that night
and how we love
the early morning
feel of Paris
the opening
of the window
and wow
there we were
in the city
where Hemingway stayed
and Ezra Pound
and Henry Miller
and others
worth their salt
and we kissing
and embracing
and making
the long love
with moon and stars
and the night sky
up above.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Sonya liked the Eiffel Tower,
the art galleries,
the Arc de Triomphe.
We met in a café
in a back street of Paris,
coffee, small cream cakes,
she smoking
her French cigarettes.
You have regrets?
She asked.
Most of us do,
I said.
When my father died
I regret things
I didn't say to him,
she said,
always the regrets,
and when Mother go
and leave,
I thought it was
because of me,
I regret not trying
to find her
when I was older,
she added.
I sipped the coffee,
taking in her blonde
pulled-back-in-a-tight-pony-tail hair,
her red lips,
opening and closing with words.
Regrets are useless things,
I said,
you can do nothing with them,
they change nothing,
don't make one
feel better, only worse.
She looked at me,
her steely blue eyes
sharp as blades.
One cannot choose
to regret or not,
it is there, like scar,
one cannot push out,
she said.
I regret having regrets,
I said,
if I counted up all my regrets
and could turn them
into coins I’d be a rich guy.
She inhaled on her cigarette;
her fingers were browning
where she held
the cigarette so often.
I regret my first boyfriend,
she said,
he wanted *** all the time,
like animal, always
the wanting *** *** ***
I looked at the waitress
passing by the table,
tight black dress,
white apron
tight about her waist,
nice legs.
Yes, that can be a problem
I guess,
I said,
awkward on dates;
when or do you
get down to ***
on the second date
or third or not at all?
She sipped her coffee,
looked at me,
blue eyes to sink in.
Not have ***
she said,
until both are ready,
until both agree
time is right.
I noted the waitress
pass by again.
Nice behind,
I thought.
Regrets,
Sonya said,
always there,
like sin,
once it bite into soul
hard to get out.
Yes, I guess so,
I said,
I've been in
the confessional more times
than a *****
drops her draws.
She flushed, looked away.
I put a hand
to my lips;
the things(regretted),
I thought,
I say.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes
on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked
Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred
the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long
life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard
to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such
you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together
her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)
that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it
was the pox
stuck his *****
in some whore's hole
she stopped to serve
a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter
wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint
up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her
laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates
one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers
afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted
the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy
her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over
her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served
the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory
you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take
the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply
what you thinking about?
she asked
how well you serve
the customers
you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours
in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes
that is why
I am here
to serve
she said
but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
( I am Happy to announce the publication of my new poetry book: 108 Bhakti Kisses, The Ecstatic Poetry of a Modern Day Gopi by Sonya Ki Tomlinson available on Amazon
http://amzn.com/0984787216)
Happy and Holy Holidays
108 bhakti kisses
Courting Your adoring feet
108 Names of God
adorn the temple gates
where I kneel close to
Your precious Feet
108 Crystal mala beads
poised like stars passing
one by one over my fingers
tiny bridges across
an immense and luminous expanse
Infinite frontier
The Soul returning to its Source
offspring of Light
I look to the Heavens
my sustenance
thunderheads, distant mist
solitary black cameo shape
of a bird soaring swiftly
vanishes into
ballooning, billowing
blue wilderness of Your eyes
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
Sonya was in a mood
because it was raining
and we were in Paris
the hotel room
looked out
on the Parisian streets
wet and shiny
people passing by
she at the window moody
I on the bed
reading Dostoevsky
we should be out there
she said
well go out there
I said
it's wet
my hair will look terrible
why does it rain
while we're here
on holiday?
maybe the rain didn't know
we were on holiday
funny
she said sulkily
I glanced over at her
standing there
by the open window
arms folded
her red shorts
and pink top
long legs
we can go out
once it stops
I want to go out now
she turned
and stared at me
how can you read a book
at a time like this?
and a Russian book too
it's about a guy
who murders
a couple of women
I said
and I’m supposed to care?
she looked at the streets again
hissing at the rain
the book takes you
right there
makes you feel
like you witnessed
the murders
like some snoop
**** the rain
she said
when I read
Solzhenitsyn's book
about a day
in a labour camp
in Russian's cold
and snow and such
I felt I was actually there
I said
she leaned out the window
and put one
of her hands out
think it's stopping
I felt I knew
the main character
in the novel
like an old friend
I want to go out now
she said
I closed the book
and sat
on the side of the bed
she came away
from the window
arms still folded
eyes blue and stern
and hair fixed
into a blonde
pony tail
we had good ***
the night before
but that's
another tale.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
the jhoola is damp from
evening rains
still I enjoy swinging under
misty twilight skies
the moon beaming a toothless grin
Funny how it all feels so real
solid, permanent
I’ll always be Sonya ki
in this familiar body,
surroundings and place
I gaze at puddles
of silvery water glistening
over the garden beds
visions from the past float to the
surface
not too long ago I was living in
Arkansas, and before that the big apple
childhood memories of my mother’s
comforting voice and soft lap
eclipses the other images morphing
into a cascade of ever changing
ephemeral moments in time
If nothing stays the same then
what is it that resounds through
the hills and valleys of my being
like an eternal echo
That fixed point where the sun never rises nor sets
Splendor enthroned within
Immortal witness
Beloved
“Consciousness is neither inward turned nor outward turned nor both
It is not undifferentiated, it is beyond cognition and non cognition.
Not experienced by the senses nor known by comparison or inference,
incomprehensible, unthinkable and indescribable,
pure consciousness, the real Self, the cessation of all phenomena,
tranquil, all-blissful, one without a second,
this fourth state (Turiya ), the Atma (Real Self)
(Eternal Witness)
is to be realized”
~Mandukya Upanishad
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
What’s a lovely girl like you doing in a dump like this.
I own it.
That course i took is working well.
Was that the diplomatic course.
It was, have you been on it.
Have i asked you any stupid questions.
Not yet, but give it time.
Ask me another question.
What’s your name.
Sonya.
You’re kidding, did your parents not like you.
Did you actually attend that course.
Well i sort of started the online application, but this **** site popped up and i got distracted.
Did anything else pop up.
That’s quite witty, Sonya.
It wasn’t meant to be. I was meaning, did any religious sites pop up.
Well they do say God works in mysterious ways. So i’m thinking he came through as ***** Bertha from Berlin.
Are you a bit rusty chatting up women.
Well i have just come out of a long term relationship.
Sorry to hear that, how long were you together.
A week.
Wish i hadn’t asked now. Was that a full week.
Well a week is a week.
Not necessarily, it might have been Saturday, Sunday.
I suppose so.
So was it.
No, it was Wednesday, Saturday.
So technically it was four days.
If you want to be pedantic about it.
What about your relationship before that.
Eight days.
What’s your longest relationship.
Three weeks.
That must have seemed like a marriage to you.
Actually my wife died tragically.
I’m really sorry, that was insensitive of me.
Only kidding Sonya, she ran off with the window cleaner. The windows have never recovered.
My God, you’re a train wreck.
You want to be on that train, don’t you Sonya.
I do, i actually want to go out with you. Why the hell do i want to go out with you.
Well Sonya, if you don’t go out with me. Then one fine day you’ll marry this boring guy, and i’ll be at the back of your mind.
But in my mind, I’ve already dumped you.
Not necessarily Sonya, this could be a match made in heaven.
It won't be, I’ve already known you five minutes, and already you’re doing my head in.
Well that is a sort of a relationship, is it not.
I suppose so. I don’t even know your name.
It’s Paul.
Paul, did your parents not like you.
Do you see what you did there, Sonya.
*** i’ve become you, how the hell did that happen.
I’m not sure Sonya, maybe we shouldn’t go out together.
No we must, it’s like i need to go out with you for my sanity’s sake.
Okay Sonya, pick you up at eight tomorrow night...
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
Sonya likes
Paris streets
dark cafés
black coffees
cigarettes
those French ones
she likes nights
with wet streets
like oil slicks
those artists
selling cheap
second hand
Picassos
or such like
but mostly
she likes ***
between sheets
in back street
hotel rooms
with windows
with shutters
listening
to a cheap
transistor
radio
some French dame
singing of
a lost love
as she feels
Benedict
kiss each inch
of her flesh
his warm lips
and wet tongue
slide along
her soft groove
the outline
shadowy
of his ****
rise and fall
as they ride
the wild waves
of hot ***
between sheets
Sonya loves
Paris streets.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Sonya posed
by the Eiffel Tower
I had my box
Brownie Cresta camera
I took a photo or two
trying to get her in focus
bring in the Tower
behind her
she smiled
and put her hands
on her hips
as dames do
her blonde hair
was bunched
behind her
in a ponytail
her face looked drawn
afterwards we went
for a coffee
at some bar
down by the Seine
and she sat there
with one leg
over the other
the foot dangling
I sat opposite
********* through
the French money
looking at the notes
you should read
Kierkegaard
she said
leave Nietzsche
to the Germans
I prefer Nietzsche
he's more realistic
I said
Kierkegaard
is more religious
and more positive
she said
the waiter came
and we ordered our coffees
and he went off
Kierkegaard
is Danish like me
she said
not so good looking though
I said
and he's been dead
sometime
she lit up a cigarette
and offered me one
I took and lit up
and inhaled
there's something
about Paris
I like
the atmosphere
the way these people
just live here
all this history
all the art
I said
as I exhaled smoke
cultural capital
of the world
she said
I listened
as she went on
about this artist
and that
and who did what
and when
as she spoke
the waiter returned
with our coffees
and went off again
I sipped mine
remembering her
coming out
of the bath
the night before
like some Venus
all stark and bare
shaking her head
letting loose
the water
from her long
blonde hair.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
The lucky red Chinese lanterns filled the restaurant atmosphere
with a happy glow. David and I had just concluded
our meal and set about opening our fortune cookies.
David’s read: “Some extra bucks are floating your way”
“I like that!“ he exclaimed, his face lighting up like the
lucky lanterns swaying from the ceiling.
I opened mine: “From the heart you draw true happiness.”
“I like that even better,” quipped David. I agreed contemplating
on how true wealth is not measured by the amount of
green paper or gold bullion we can cram into our pockets
but by the nature and vast reservoir of love stored
up in our hearts. For it is love that brings the bliss of
self knowledge and makes clear our purpose and path of service.
Of course, the green stuff is necessary for a balanced,
optimum life but it should not become the be all
or end all of our lives.
Sathya Sai Baba says: “Wealth does not accompany one
when he leaves the world. Wealth is necessary only for
meeting one’s essential needs.Too much wealth is
an embarrassment like an over-sized shoe.
Too little of it is likely to be painful like a tight-fitting shoe.
So, it is desirable to have only that amount of wealth
that is adequate for one’s basic needs. You should
try to promote the wealth of good conduct, strive to earn
the eternal wealth of the wisdom of the Spirit.
Happiness is union with God."
Lots of Prema,
sonya ki
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
I wash down
in the small
white shower
off the small
hotel room
in Paris
Sonya sits
on the bed
just waiting
for her turn
to shower
off the ***
juices there
on her flesh
we'd just made
she's thinking
of the art
that we'd seen
the Monets
the Van Goghs
I'm thinking
of the small
street cafe
where we ate
and sipped wine
and that fine
good looking
slim waitress
with an ***
to die for
and dark eyes
to drink from
like small cups
Sonya sings
with some dame
singing from
the large black
radio
on the side
some Mozart
aria
the waitress
in my mind
washes down
my wet skin
hurry up
Sonya calls
as she sings
come Benny
open up
let me in.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
The real woman who loves the green woman of life is the unit of white light that the great body of the three corpses large head, large and warm, warm night loves the head of the body of the head instead of the United States, the son of the blood of the women of New York. The acid of the redhead is yellow and the appetite of the earth is the queen of cold gold. The power of the power of free life. Eli's Shadow is a person unknown by Joey Christ in the Brown Morning; The story of the birth of Igor Dammad, son of Amor, is the story of children. English Sky's 'R' Ussian ***** A beautiful body beauty, The goddess Devi; The beauty of the hand lost the life of the Goddess IV IVN, the beauty of the beauty, of the wife, the children, the children who walk, walk in beautiful landscapes of the beautiful nature of another Christian nature. The Tennis game of the distant parade is on the first day of the first day of the movement of the fat tongue that can reproduce an image of the brain citing intense feelings of intensive care and quotations of dark suits. Eyes of eyes; The eyes of the club are hidden from the pink zone of Hera, the original dance of the sand beach corridor. Sodoma dressed in toxic birth. Thin white, white couscous flies this message, the ******* the color of the dead fried Chinese monster started. To confuse breast cancer, the police returned the sticks that are experienced mothers. I love **** hair while I talk live with the cover of Ivanka, who is in a booth a lover. The talented foot of the country offers beautiful girls with female ******* military fame, zero green, this order of liberation. To use the magic range of light, I want to prevent the crystal crystals from increasing the heat, the cancer belt, the oven and the Jewish underwear. He said that after China and the expression the daughter of fingerprints, in the air most of the life of the Australian mother's many rulers is a good life for love. Generally, like life, **** is the quality of the prayer of the green trees, which will talk about the negative aspects of the river. Burke plays an important role. The client Torres Mundle and the world name: "Copa de piezas", which serves Greek products in English (in North Korea).
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 12:59 AM UTC
Boy! quills were flying this morning. I guess
both David and I woke up on the wrong side of the bed
We were both fussing at each other. We had planned an
early morning trip to the beach and had not had our
liberating cup of morning coffee.
After a while we became more aware and worked on
being sweeter to each other.
As we headed to Coconut Point Beach in Melbourne, Fl, past
the Sandy shoes Hotel,
I thought about what my sister said last night
as I gave her a deep foot massage.
"We, as divine beings are creating everything.
Our experiences are a manifestation of our
thoughts, feelings and actions.
Even scientists are realizing
that there really isn’t anything out there.
It is all a projection of consciousness.
An impermanent motion picture that we get
caught up in and accept as real."
David and I held hands as we walked
along the magnificent shoreline,
gentle waves threw phosphorescent kisses over our feet,
pelicans glided through the gorgeous blue skies.
David stooped to pick up some unusual shells scattered across the
beach. “Look, Sonya… pukalani shells, you don’t see these too often
they have natural holes at the top. Hawaiians make necklaces
out of these of shells.
I smiled gathering more shells, turning towards the ocean,
the warm amber sun reached out to hug us.
"Yes", I said to David, “We are like golden spiders
creating a web of happiness or sadness.
It’s all up to us. We just have to remember.”
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
Sonya talks
endlessly
her Danish
stark beauty
saves her from
boring me
to no end
the Wagner
opera
in London
had gone well
a good meal
and fine *****
then back home
to her place
a ****** of
Delius
then it's bed
lying there
after ***
she talking
of the art
of being
what we make
of ourselves
from our birth
to our graves
I'm thinking
of the dame
singing loud
in Wagner's
Das Rheingold
how her *******
stole the show
as they say
the show's not
over till
the fat dame
sings her last
ending note
then Sonya
talks no more
and we lay
down in bed
to make love
with Wagner's
opera
going round
in my head.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
I read to him
from Kierkegaard
he read Dostoevsky.
We lay on the bed
in our Parisian room
in that cheap hotel.
We had the narrow window
open to the evening
smells and sounds.
We are going out later
for a meal and drinks
soak in the atmosphere
the art
the lives
the history.
We made love
some hour ago
still there
that after glow.
We played
our *** games
that ****** foreplay.
I close
the Kierkegaard book
Benny shuts
the Dostoevsky
with a smile.
Best get ready
I say
into something cool.
He nods at me
and lies there
eyeing me
as I undress
piece by piece.
I go into
the shower.
I guess he's
listening
to the water run
imaging me
in his mind
having his
own inner fun.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC
Sonya stood
on the narrow balcony
of the hotel room in Paris
I lay on the bed
reading Celan poems
she was in her underwear
and bra
smoking
a French cigarette
most of the great artists
lived here
at one time or other
she said
I looked over at her
her blonde hair
touched her haunches
her tight ****
smiled at me
most yes
I guess so
I said
can we go
to an art gallery today?
she said
I love the Impressionists
this is the place
to see them
guess so
I returned to the book
where are we breakfasting?
where you like
she exhaled
that little café
on the corner is good
she suggested
you like the waiter
the guy with the Proust moustache
nonsense
it's the coffee
the cake he provides
she said
she gazed back at me
aren't you going to wash
and dress?
I nodded
after you
you're quicker
she said
she was right
ok
so I got up
and went into the bathroom
and washed
and brushed my teeth
and came out
she was on the bed
looking at the book
of poems
how do you
make sense of this?
she asked
open minded
and getting the vibe
she put the book down
and went in the bathroom
I dressed
lit a cigarette
and stood
by the window
looking down
into the Parisian street
below
I love Paris
I mused
love all this
and blew
a passing French girl
a palm blown kiss.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
Sonya said
that cafe
in that street
in Paris
where we sat
last evening
were playing
Charles Trenet's
song La Mer
I recalled
the waitress
with the cute
swaying ***
reminds me
of my youth
Sonya said
my father
sang to me
on his lap
I kissed her
abdomen
soft wet lips
on warm skin
on Sonya
not on that
French waitress
then lower
on her fig
which we named
the bed creaked
in our room
in that cheap
hotel room
as she sang
La Mer soft
in my ear
as I moved
my *****
into gear.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC