"wilful" poems
Don't deflect my insecurities
Acknowledge them for they are real
Don't brush aside my inadequacies
I can't help the way I feel
Hugging myself close, searching for reassurance
Through tear-stained glass I grief strickenly see
Seemingly I've lost my tight-rope balance
Clambering up ever so desperately
May think I'm wilful
Because I often get consumed
Don't judge me unstable
Just dormant emotions exhumed
Place a palm against my chest
Between sobs, my heart beats strong
Laying my turbid mind to rest
As I whisper me the comfort that I long
Don't be afraid of me
I know I tend to get lost
Alone in my storm swept dinghy
Susceptible to the chills of frost
I can't control, I get carried away
With the dream I'm set to pursue
I can't curb or hold myself at bay
I'm weak because I haven't got a clue...
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Meet me at the place where the sunrise and sunset are joined by the prettiest clouds.
A tranquil place where times stood still for more than one eternity.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
Breath out your life, then breath it in expanding endlessly.
The mother of creation, the atomic act, the divine self, a metaphor for hunger.
A life filled with space gaps, dust, prophecies and jars.
A universal love that's born of dreams and fallen stars!
The proprio-ceptive tools that launched the ships to voyage within ourselves.
To seek out that illusive and wilful spark within our hearts and souls.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
In that tranquil place where times stood still for more than one eternity.
Meet me at the place where the sunrise and sunset are joined by the prettiest clouds.
Stretch out your limbs with Lotus hands and play the spoons for me.
Don G
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
.
We converse without words...
Just shudders and crests of bated breaths.
Tingles that resonate between echoing beats.
We speak without voice...
Just deep gazes that peer endless into bottomless eyes.
Subtle blinks that freeze the ticks of relentless hands.
We talk without sounds...
Just slight quivers between parted lips.
Holding the other captive in a gentle clasp.
We part with no farewell...
Just two wilful wisps darting on separate courses.
Knowing that paths that meander may someday converge.
.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
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Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.
Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’
She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?
Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.
‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’
She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.
The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...
© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Blister bites
Beneath the skin
Of conflict wars
In ignorance
The border die
Was fixed at six
Symmetrical
To wilful sin
Change and change
Won’t come
Without collapse
Your lips
Your breath
Come without cracks and gasps
Your eyes
Your tears
Come without dust and fear
There’s something
Amiss
With the land we’re living in
Can’t quite
Place my
Ignorance on it
I once saw a man
Blended into the night
With a tarnished can and a sign
But everyone walked on by
I once saw a child
Work to death in the sun
With a knife and a gun
Against his back
First world?
Third world?
We live in the same world . . .
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
The Magical Date
Last nite was a celebration!
And before it all begun
He held me by my hand so close
We were off to leprechaun land!
The naughty elf with his impish pranks
His sinful teases and wanton ways
His playful gestures, fractious delights
He rushed me off to his wilful fays
We found ourselves in a Keatsian bower
In 'embalmed darkness', 'mong 'white hawthorns'
It was fragrant with the jasmine veils
That covered the roof of rosy thorns
we laughed and sang old happy numbers
we talked our hearts out gleefully
After aeons of blue moon we'd finally met
A magical date it had to be!
And so when i looked up to his eyes
It held mine in a purple gaze
In a trice of a second he was off with me
Speeding through the verduous maze
Help! i cried but held on tight
Our windswept hair, our amorous plight
His fervour, vigor, force and power
Was all i felt that wondrous night
Elf or gnome, genie or sprite
A naughty brownie or the nisse vampire
Bogie, goblin, fairy, nymph
He carried me through the forests dire...
So just wen I can close my eyes
Just when i feel im missing him
He's there as he says hes there with me
Off we go into the woodlands dim
We dance a waltz, a salsa true
A foxtrot, a ballet in embrace tight
In white moonshine, in purple rain
When dewdrops catch the morning light.
And then again with every dawn
The magic wanes, the elf resigns
To mossy groves and sylvan lands
And the elfin grottos of my mind.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
Cleverly-crafted crumbs created
Are fabulously fantastic when framed for framing's function,
But accurately articulated actions
Are better for freeing feeling's function.
Now I can see your
Creative crumbs are cause for chaos.
The creator capturing caring compassionates
With each wilful, worthless word.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
*Countless imaginations intrigued,
by words pouring truth and honesty.
The beauty in a picture painted...
Only tired yet wilful eyes will get to see...
Scars of a battle surfacing.
Like dreams clouded by storms.
Willingness to face another fight.
Only deafened yet persistent ears will listen for a new melody.*
***Strings of gambles played...
Blind faith committed into hapless
deals of cards.
Looking for the win amongst a sea of losses.
Only weary yet perservering hands will find the missing shards.***
*Obstacles portrayed,
as struggles form and hope seems to crumble.
An almost misplaced determination,
tattooed in these hands.
Only apprehensive yet courageous legs will continue to trudge forward.*
***The heaviest blows...
Inflicted on the frailest bodies.
Taking the brunt of such callous words.
Only the battered yet ernest mind will prevail sheer follies.
Deep laboured breaths...
Wheezing through seemingly punctured lungs.
Seeking a steady rhythm amidst internal chaos.
Only the worn yet steadfast heart will escape unscathed from bitter tongues.***
rinnette
ryn
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
We are musical notes
Drifting as waves through the air.
Each of us has a unique rhythm,
A different beat.
We are nothing more than melodies,
Penetrating the ears of those we love.
And your melody is beautiful.
It moves me across the floor
As I dance,
Spinning and pirouetting through voids of happiness.
Your breath is the voice of a bluebird,
Your heart the gentle beating of the drums,
Your ribs the strings of a guitar
And your eyes wilful composers.
You are the song I can't stop singing.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Thunder rolled deeply on the morning as the baby boy arrived,
his father typically absent his mother she wasn't surprised.
Early days were troublesome for a single mother to provide
a home, somewhere that was safe and retain some dignity and pride.
The child grew in hardship, in his mother's eyes he saw inner pain,
he often heard his mother weeping and hang her head in shame.
They survived, and into an average youth he learned and he grew,
not so different to others because, his dad, he never knew.
Early teens, he began leaving his concerned mother home alone,
with bravado hanging around places, with kids he didn't know,
from their dark influences, tricks he learnt well, in guile he was trained,
powerless to change his ways, his mother hangs her head in shame.
Attitudes hardened, he became devious, now almost a man,
so involved he became leader of his own pointless, wilful gang.
One night attempting thievery from a store, they almost were caught,
it's not their manor, they can't avoid the local gang, so they fought,
midst fists - kicks - shouts most ran, but he was pinned against an alley wall
scared, choking, grabbed a bottle from a bin and made that bottle fall
mindlessly, again - again, smashing down on his opponent's head,
fleeing the from the scene, doesn't know the man on the ground is, dead.
his gang has gone, his escape is now blocked by shadows of a group
open arms he walked toward them he's unsure of what he should do
he's encircled, the streetlight reflects each drawn blades dull deadly flame,
and later that night, his mother hangs her head in grief and shame
Michael C Crowder
Hangs Her Head In Shame (rewrite of my 1978 song Samuel)
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:48 AM UTC
I do not think much my place upon this earth,
I am second, and you are first,
and when your voice is louder than mine
it is a familiar for me to sink and recline
into my chair, wilful to listen
to your unappealing, witted opinion
and programmed flair -
from which your talent glistens,
and has always been there.
Oh to be part of your vision.
I walk comfortable in high heeled shoes
that inscribe me a waggling soft tongue,
and when your pace is faster than mine
in brogues, and trousers that are looser,
I am simply undone,
at your ease to summon as the prime task-caster
of more tasks to come.
Your achievements are set with a slapped wet plaster.
Oh that you share a crumb.
And when you laugh, it is a big bellied echo
that chimes in my throat to strike and produce,
a small bit of fruit, just for you.
As I mimic your billow in an octave but lower,
that feels like part of the very same tune,
but my chuckle is actually a choke,
and what I could say would only provoke.
Oh you laugh much harder than me.
My almond eyes are softer than yours
and in the day you lock them only for an answer,
to some chore which requires a limited goal -
don’t get me wrong – I am no prancer,
my shoes are far too tight, and I’ve been taking the toll
of your papers, your personal sciv, your faxer.
A sniffing, weezling mole.
Oh I could dig deeper…
You **** much harder than me.
And when you *** you look in the mirror
at yourself in white unbuttoned shirt, heavy brow, so chipper
that when your sun sets it does in a vulvonic decree,
but you do not know that when I go home, I secretly scissor
in a way that would make your morning clippers shake violently.
Oh I love much harder than you,
I am better than you,
but somehow you are better than me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
The problem with phantoms, rings so clear
Like fear, they don't just go away
The more is learnt of the world, the smaller it becomes
The less of open space is felt.
The mnemonist lives in a pretty tale
And heads the way off rocky shores
For, oft a fool will come along
And wilful, bash his mind on reef.
Spill then thee, cantankerous spirit
Thy guts of ill-placed rancour
For in puny efforts to uproot
Fresh soil turned is...fresh soil turned.
The more we feed on empty words
The larger grows that aching void
Engulfing all but esurience
Engorged thus, thee will choke.
A mere gesture of goodwill
And extending act of kindness
Will conquer every wicked sentiment
And leave thee broken ... in thy own mess.
So, thy tiresome pictures on the wall, we see
Paint on, dear artist, paint on
These very merry parties, ye assemble
Will ken thy sharp and twisted ire.
Push on, weary soul, try to find thy heart
Thee seest not thy efforts fall in vain,
Fail to latch, for thy error sits too tall
In the absence of saving grace.
So caught up in thyself, art thee
Thine eye too bright upon the prize
That thou did not see thy plot at play
Thy goest yet on; breaching full redemption.
Weave thus thy tale and clothe thy mind
For, in this act, thy mind doth shut
So ill-fitting thy own garish attire
Seams must needs split eventual.
Seeketh truth and truest, thy find's a trove
But sadder yet's the day, indeed
All vouch that in thy heavy plunder
Its value now plain conferred.
Treasure trinkets, happy hoops
Whatever be thy favour's currency
When day is done and swift sea smoothes
Revered will always be...saving grace.
Star Toucher, 17 February 2013
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong, than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.
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Fooling clouds cross my view
passing hurts and pleasures,
blue on white on white on blue.
'till black has broken through.
I dreamt that it
finally died last night,
that it was truly over.
Waves of guilt and fear
to carry me away.
Until I could no longer see
that place I started from
and I no longer knew
the place I was headed to.
Now, I gather stones
for the tomb,
while with wilful eyes
study my peers.
Lips pursed tight...
they have closed their hearts,
closed up tight to my falling tears.
Yes, it is I,
it is me I cry,
feeling condemned
by the unspoken lie.
A lie to weigh heavy
on my bent back body.
Heavy as the Christ's cross,
responsible for all souls lost.
Then I stumble and I fall,
as I carry my burden upward
to Golgotha of the Skull.
If to think is to act
then burning after the crash,
the fire's orange glow
brings forth the desire to let go.
Letting go,
why does it have to be so
hard to come by.
Leaving me to feel
so hard done by.
A selfish act,
done not from class,
no more from strength
than from some weakness.
An action out of chaos
in the absence of bliss.
The Shadowland,
where grief clings
to my name
and to their person.
Asking of today
to stride with a limp,
and of yesterday
to crawl and beg.
Forgiveness
would be the task at hand.
A ticket for
some far and
distant shore,
safe passage away
from Shadowland.
Bent, but unbroken,
while the pain of its death runs deep.
Not until
hatred is spent
and words of kindness
are spoken,
will forgiveness be complete.
Only one way to forgive,
that would be completely.
Only one way to live,
that would be completely.
Anything else
misses the mark,
comes from the head
and not from the heart.
And so, it remains
that for me to be free,
I cross the threshold of forgiveness
standing ready to turn the key.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
In light go all the heartrendingly serious problems I've been writing about lately, I decided to write and enter another side of things.
A Lighthearted Poem For All We Scorpios♏️
This is a poem to cover
All we Scorpios alive or not.
In case you didn’t know,
We are a special lot.
‘Cover’ means:
Envelop and enfold, embody and embrace.
We are lovers
And the charming-est of ‘race’..
(of course I’m not impartial).
We are: fixed, we don’t change easily.
We must learn flexibility.
And mixed: Our colors brown and black,
Deep red/maroon;
Our rulers; Pluto, Mars, Uranus, Moon.
We’re born between:
Oct. 23 - Nov. 22
This poem’s for me, this poem’s for you.
We are the highest and the lowest:
So you ‘knowest’, we are:
Forceful and intuitive, passionate, magnetic.
Lovers,
We are great survivors.
BUT, we’re also jealous and possessive,
Wilful, secretive, compulsive and obsessive.
Make sure you choose the best;
Turn secrets to transparency…
Watch out for all the rest.
Believer in the mystic all/ material
One or the other/none of these
You are a sister, brother, father, mother
Therefore, take astrology with ease
And live with love, and how you please.
A Lighthearted Poem For All We Scorpios 10.31.2018
I Is Always We Is You; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
A little baby dear Daffodil
Teasing me with her fiddle
Robbing my heart, in my mind
Dancing free, an angel find!
Beneath the way, I belittled shackles
Closing near her, fingers crackles
Alas! A bee, a wilful warrior
Driven me back, a startling barrier.
"Around a month, about an aeon
Waiting for this bud to be born
Away you go, alone that way
The flower is mine, let us play."
Wush! A wind flush my foe
Swirling like a cotton fro
"The flower is mine, away you bee
Longing for the fragrance flee."
While we three, averred free
Behind the tree, the daffodil plea
"Let the wind cuddle my fragrance
And you bee, taste my joyance."
And then the beauty gone with me
Back to home, we walked in glee
Heavenly souls, leaves their virtue
In their kindness, we hold life true.
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 3:05 AM UTC
Decoupled from my conscience of subjective discernment
The necessity for personal authority over impulse
Vs an instantly gratifying road to distraction
Journey of wilful blindness
Consequential destination deferred
But upon arrival lies the choices
To decouple, To adjourn
Or to confront the demons towards which my back I have turned
Self-romanticised truths to whom before I have spoken
Yet despite a colourful history our personal promises lay broken
Under the rug
Etched into the bottom of a bottle
A chasing of tails
Ignorance long forgotten
A cycle indeed
But of downward trajectory
Gratefully, the bottom of which yet to be met by me
But somehow graced by others
With stronger character than I
A slippery slope
An exponential decent
Over which I now maintain a watchful eye
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 3:28 PM UTC
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In wingèd speed no motion shall I know.
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made,
Shall neigh—no dull flesh—in his fiery race.
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade:
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go.
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My lovers had no soul
They're ghost only I see
But can't remember names
My lovers had no pasion
They're soaked sheets at night
But distance the next day
My lovers have no heart
They're regret for calling them lovers
But knowledge of never loving them
My lovers are having no peace
They're a wilful hoax for future romance
But stuck with melancholy after ***
My lovers deserve better
They're queens without a throne
But I'm unworthy of feeding them grapes
I'm the worse type of lover
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
*H.P. Lovecraft's most famous quotes about the horror genre is that: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, T.S.Eliot I. The Burial of the Dead
As a child I was never fearful.
Not of the dark, spiders or ghosts.
In fact I was wilful.
Hard hearted, cold.
I liked that about me, it was a barrier to the outside world.
I was the loner, the malcontent, the strange spooky one.
I loved it more as a teen, embraced the Gothic, elevated the bizarre.
I smoked, it was cool, I drank, it was cool, I was nihilistic, it was cool.
Popular meant conforming, how that repulsed me.
Why? Because conformity meant no individuality, no soul.
My Grandmother said once "be careful what you read, it becomes you"
Yeah right, look I'm Pennywise the clown!
But she was right in a way.
I became repulsed by myself.
I had no compassion.
No true love to call my own.
I was alone with my fear, my fear of loneliness. Irony.
I had no true identity, I hid in horror, then became horrified.
I didn't know what was coming, where I was going, who I was.
I was afraid. Truly afraid for the first time.
Afraid of my shadow, of not knowing, of returning to the grave.
Fear is a loathsome creature, devouring love and hope.
Yet, know this, we are born to die, the clock runs down, no appeals.
So fill up on love, fill up on warmth, for Hell maybe hot, but alone,
it's cold*.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
the brazen forest field, spry
brink-filled with wilful daisies
that illumined the blackened sky
their drooping petals speaking lazy.
petaled swirling galaxies
of the lover's moon craze thoughts,
that sweetly sang of their fantasies
to the marauding midnight astronauts.
dancing with the fallen stars surrounding,
souls tied together, Garden of Eden found
gyrating golden grey light abounding
their feet chained to the grassy ground.
paradise found and freedom lost,
infatuation was not worth the cost.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
We set off nice and slow, I was nervous, uncertain.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew what I was doing,
I had ridden before, but nothing like this.
She was so beautiful, the best I’d ever had,
Trembling beneath me I knew she could move.
She responded delightfully to my delicate touch.
With accomplished skill I flicked HER gears,
Feeling her pull a little as we truly got underway.
Negotiating the first deceptive bend,
She gave a little shimmy, a sensitive wiggle,
Forcing a tightening from me, till I gathered her up.
Assuredly taking full control once more.
Hands gripping her firmly, slowly twisting the throttle.
She bucks; growls pleasurably, we are as one.
Revelling in wilful abandonment;
Gliding in unison, so enjoyable.
Cornering sweetly, high exhilaration,
missing NOT a single beat,
Accelerating at speeds-illegal,
Too soon, too soon,
Our destination arrives.
Catching my breath I tease the brakes and relax.
Tension flowing from me; while she: she purrs like a wild cat.
I know we made good time as I gently apply the clutch,
Easing her down through the gears, she gives a little SHuDDER.
I dismount, sighing, smiling, a playful slap, yes,
Acknowledging mutual appreciation,
Already anticipating another ride,
And believe me,
It was a ride.
©Paul Chafer 2014
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC