Sweet Lady Luck, I've a favor to ask,
It's a large one I fear, and no easy task;
That is, to build me a woman, without yet a name,
That the past couldn't break and the future can't tame.
Bless her with laughter and a spirit of strength,
A compassionate will and patience in length;
The grace of a dancer perfecting an art,
And a love for the living placed deep in her heart.
Make her a woman who's proud to be free
To ride on the wings of her own destiny;
Gorgeous brown eyes with a sparkle in each,
And a softness of touch from a delicate reach.
Long raven tresses falling softly like rain
Upon such slender shoulders that have never known pain;
Grant her serenity and sanity in thought
To accept what she's given and enjoy what she's got.
Create her with an innocence only an infant could claim,
And a smile that has never and will never know shame;
Temper her with wisdom of the aging of years
Hidden deep in her eyes within a whisper of tears.
Soft tender lips 'neath an aqualine nose
With the faint scent of dew-drops from a fairy-tale rose;
A crystalline laughter that sounds as it seems,
Like rogue shafts of sunlight through forests of dreams.
Send her with a smile of genuine love,
That blesses with a happiness sent from above;
Create all the curiosity and mischief of youth
With a strong sense of respect for the beauty of truth.
Grace her with wit and humor and charm
To keep her in health and to keep her from harm;
Give her the courage to go after her dreams,
And knowledge to know that all is not as it seems.
Cause in her mercy to forget and forgive,
To help both herself and others to live;
Teach her compassion and kindness in measure,
And teach her to live life from pleasure to pleasure.
Give her a soul filled with a passionate fire
That burns with the strength of a lover's desire;
Make her so beautiful and humble and sweet
That emporers and kings shall fall at her feet.
Bathe her in softness, a silken caress
Of whispers and sighs in abundant excess;
Make her these things, make her each one and more,
A product of beauty, magic, wisdom, and lore.
Sweet Lady, please hear me as I lie here alone,
Wishing for daydreams and pleasures unknown;
Grant me this wish -- each night it's the same,
Grant me this woman-- and give her a name.
Have you ever wondered...
why we seek halucinaton?
Or hallucination, for that matter.
We try to harness thoughts
yet we dillude them with our fantasies.
Or perhaps we dilute them.
Or elude them. Or become deluded.
Where our views and fantasy are the only reality
And poetry is fantasy and views
But what is the nature of poetry
what thought is poetry to convey
We think in language
the quality of our thoughts
can only be as good as the quality
Abstraction in poetic image is effective
when the message can still be conveyed
with set lines of communication
with spelling - the perfect fix.
I cannot reach the black you throw me
with your fireball hands and eyes,
glowing with mists in the moon,
whispers of death and the departed
screams of children scraped off
cemetary stones ruins of the
past undetectable sighs of
feelings floating through the
night of my mind
where all is lost
and I cannot find
my way out.
A letter arrived
Marked: "attention required."
It said my poetic license
To the Department of Literary Vehicles
I went to undate it.
The lines were long;
I waited and waited.
When I finally got to the window
There was a test.
I reposed to compose
And give it my best.
But the man informed me
That I had flunked.
He said what I wrote
Was just a bunch of junk.
I asked "Who are you
To say I didn't pass?
You couldn't recognize a good poem
If it bit you on the ass!"
"That may be so," he said,
"But I recognize the pathetic--
Which yours is, of course,
It is certainly not poetic.
What you wrote isn't poetry;
What you wrote isn't rap.
Think what might happen
If a child heard that crap.
That's why there is a license
That you must renew.
This protects the public
From poets like you."
I ranted and raved;
I threw such a fit,
They decided to give me
A Learner's Permit.
But this wasn't good;
This was not cool.
To get my license back
I had to go to school,
Or compose my poetry
With the supervision and help
Of a licensed poet
Who must be seated to my left.
"I refure!" I said;
"What you're doing is a crime!
I'll give up my license
And never again rhyme."
But temptation was everywhere,
Like the man with the bucket,
Who said he really was
From the town of Nantucket.
He was a dude
Who was crude and shrewd.
His name was McGruder;
He drove a scooter;
He was a tutor
For a New Orleans man
Who was a water meter reader,
And a Walla Walla woman
Who made humming bird feeders.
He was teaching them both
How to play tic-tac-toe
And where to find Waldo.
Everywhere I went
The roses were red;
The violets were blue;
Then came an old woman
Who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children
She didn't know what to do.
And she was here to say
There was another one on the way.
I told the old woman
"What the heck?
More children will add
To your welfare check.
And before you even dare
To think about abortion
Move into a Nike
And they might give you a shoe endorsement."
She thanked me so kind.
I said "I'm sorry about the rhyme.
If you won't call the poetry police
I promise to desist and cease."
I was truly sorry
For what I did,
And concerned I couldn't trust a woman
Who had so many kids.
Then I saw a baby
In a tree top.
I picked up my cell phone
And called a cop--
Who arrested the parents,
Without any maybe's.
That is not a proper place
To keep a baby.
And I wanted to write a poem
That would make parents see
That they should not put
Their babies in trees;
But without license
I didn't dare do,
Or the cops would come
And arrest me too.
It was more than I could stand;
I was depressed and subdued.
I wanted my poetic license
To be renewed.
Everything was poetic;
It made me want to weep.
I thought I'd feel better
If I got a little sleep.
Within a few minutes
The dreams started rolling past.
There was a pickup truck carrying a donkey;
You could say it was hauling ass.
It stopped to pick me up,
Right out of the blue;
So I guess you could say
That it was hauling two.
To the airport is where they took me,
But I was afraid to get on and go;
"We love to show that it flies"
Was the airline's motto.
I had to get away,
So I hailed a taxi as I ran.
The driver had a pick;
He was a guitar man.
And everytime he stopped he did a little pickin';
While Louise Mandrell was ridin' shotgun;
They were singing songs about dead chickens
And having a lot of fun.
They dropped me off at a mall,
And I thought I'd browse a while,
When I met a man who was lookin'
For his missing inner child.
He said he had to find the kid,
That he was pretty much all alone
Ever since his inner child
Ran away from home.
I said "What you got to do
To deal with all that guilt
Is to put your inner child's picture
On cartons of milk.
He said this was a good idea,
Then he thanked me from the heart,
And I walked on down the mall to see
Some designer auto parts.
Oscar de la Renta was sellin'
A line of ball joints.
And Calvin Klein was hawkin'
Designer plugs and points.
Gloria Vanderbilt was showing off
Her designer manifolds.
And you could see that Ralph Lauren was really proud
Of his fuel pumps made of gold.
And I was sure that designer auto parts
Would become the passion;
And I couldn't wait for my car to breakdown
So I could fix it in high fashion.
Then I dreamed I passes a doctor's office
And they were handing out alco-derm patches.
And people were stickin' them on their skin,
They were puttin''em on in batches.
It seems they were alcoholics
Giving up their bottles of gin,
So they could pass a breath test
While gettin' loaded through their skin.
Ain't technology wonderful?
That's what I was thinkin'.
Sure was a good way
To stop yourself from drinkin'.
I walked on down to a sporting goods store
And they tried to sell me some shoes.
They said they would make my joggin'
So effortless and smooth.
I said "No thanks, I tried joggin',
But had to stop it;
The cigarettes kept fallin'
Out of my pocket."
I said "A better way
Is to eat a lot of junk food;
Then you will jog
Every time you move."
They said "You are what you eat."
I said "Yea, that's what I've heard;"
And I walked on down the mall
Eatin' a box of Nerds.
I saw two men arguin';
They was givin' each other fits.
One turned to the other and said
"I don't give a *#&~^#!"
And I thought to myself that if he did
"Give a *#&~^#,"
I didn't think that anyone
Would want it.
The Salvation Army
Would not want this kind of ware.
The United Way would not consider
*#&~^# to be a fair share.
Would think this gift great.
No church would want *#&~^#
In their collection plate.
But I guess if one should offer
To show this kind of care,
We could remind them of how their gift
Would affect the quality of the air--
And direct them to a toilet,
And in a tone quite curt,
Tell them to sit on this
And give until it hurts.
"Go <*^##*^> yourself!" the other man said,
As they continued to disagree.
I walked away quickly,
That was something I didn't want to see.
Then I met a woman named Ruth;
She was a sayer of sooth.
She said it would be uncouth
To say sooth that wasn't truth.
But she had some sooth to say,
So I best get out of her way.
She said "I've been sick, and I've been well.
Surviving both, I'm here to tell
That one thing is perfectly clear
It is better to be well for one day
Than to be sick for ten years."
Then she said "whether you travel
Near of far,
Everywhere you go,
There you are.
And wherever it is
That you might be,
Everywhere you look
There is something to see."
I didn't have proof that Ruth's sooth was truth,
But since I didn't have to pay her,
I was willin' to accept that sooth
Was in the mind of the sayer.
Then she asked if I'd like to hear more;
She said she had a lot left.
I didn't want to hurt her feelings,
So I told her I was deaf.
Then I saw two politicians,
Much to my surprise,
Their pants were on fire
And they had needles in their eyes.
They were debatin'
Which things we should be hatin'.
I couldn't decide which one should win,
Or which pile to step in.
So I decided to caste my vote
For the one who loved God the most.
But it seemed they both loved him a bunch,
So I voted for the one who bought me lunch.
I walked on down the mall
To do some window shoppin'.
That was really rockin'.
But I misunderstood
What the ad was tellin'.
It wasn't knockers,
But Dockers they were sellin'.
Then I went into a tattoo parlor
And had myself tattooed
With all the numbers
From one to ninety-two.
And when I left that parlor
The people did announce
That I was a person
On whom they could count.
Then I went to a toy store
I bought a Born Again Barbie,
The doll who talks in tongues.
And every time I pulled her string
Her babblin' did abound.
I didn't know what she was sayin',
But she sounded like James Brown
Then I dreamed I went home;
There was a woman waterin' my grass.
I asked "Don't you realize
That will make it grow fast?"
She said "Yes;"
She did know.
She was doin' it
So I'd have to mow.
I called her a bad name
That rhymes with mow,
And told her she had to go.
And as she walked away, I could see
That my lawn was still drenched,
So I order my dog
To sic the wench.
But it seems my dog
Was not in the mood.
He don't sic nothing
That's not eatin' his food.
Damn that dog!
If he had more viciousness
I'd never be visited
By Jehovah's Witnesses.
But up walked two;
They were twins,
On a campaign
To get rid of sin.
They said by God they had been sent
To tell me I should repent,
What they said was probably true;
They had biblical names, these two;
They were the Testament brothers,
Old and New.
I told them I was like God,
In my own little way;
Because I don't do anything
On the sabbath day.
But unlike God,
Who took sabbath as a breather,
I don't do much
On the other days either.
On some grammatical cleansing frenzy,
With words so bardly,
But hardly Bob Marley.
They admitted they shot the participle dangler,
But they did not shoot the metaphor mixer.
It seemed the dangler
Was always teasin'
With subjects and verbs
That didn't agree,
And being an infinite dim-wit
Infinitives he would split.
This is why
He deserved to die;
But the metaphor mixer,
He accidently got dead--
A run-on sentence hit him in the head.
But tonight, if they had their way,
They were going to make pay
The people who add "okay"
To what they say.
And it was understood--
They were out for blood!
They asked me if I knew why these people
Ask if it's "okay"
Everything they say.
Do they need our approval
To know if they should ask penitence
Before they dare
Start their next sentence?
Or were they taught
That in conversational art
"Okay" should be used
As an audible punctuation mark?
They wondered if
The "okays" were still there
When they bowed their heads
And made to God a prayer?
"And now I lay me down to sleep; okay?
I pray the lord my soul to keep; okay?
If I should did before I wake; okay?
I pray the lord my soul to take; okay?"
And they wondered if they'd conclude each line
Of their poem on Valentine's Day
With the usual question
Asking if it's okay?
"Roses are red; okay?
Violets are blue; okay?
I think you're okay.
Do you think I'm okay too?"
And I was sure they wasn't playin'
When one of them started sayin'
That after they kill those who do the okayin',
Then they'd be slayin'
The people who end each sentence with "you know what I'm sayin'!"
I could see that there was going to be murder in mass,
And I knew I had to get away fast.
And did I ask if this was okay?
I was afraid to go back to sleep;
I was afraid to stay awake.
Giving up my poetic license
Was a big mistake!
Anyone could plainly see
That my life was terrible;
And if I couldn't write poetry
It might become unbearable.
Writin' those lines that rhyme
Was my way of passin' time.
But then I started wonderin' why
I pass so much time
Makin' up stupid
Things that rhyme?
Maybe I spend too much time alone,
Or maybe I have a Rhymin' Jones.
One might easily agree
This activity is pathetic;
But I can't help it,
It must be genetic.
But if I rest
And medicate my condition,
My Rhymin' Jones
Might go into remission.
And I could be
A recovering poet;
Join Versifiers Anonymous
And to meetings goethe.
In a twelve step program
I could deal with this affliction;
And maybe I could end
This rhyming addiction!
"Hi, my name is Diogenes Bob;
I am a poet most caring."
Thanks for not sharing."
I decided to go a lookin',
Hoping I could find
A meaning for life
That didn't rhyme.
So I climbed a mountain in Tibet;
It rained all day, I was soaking wet.
But I endured the rain and the terrible strife
To ask a holy lama the meaning of life
When I reached the peak, I asked the holy man
To tell me life's meaning as best he can.
He replied that life's meaning, true,
Was "do wa diddy diddy dum diddy do."
I said "That isn't true,
I can't accept it, I won't."
He said "How about
Do wa diddy diddy dum diddy don't?"
I couldn't understand
A single word that he said.
I guess he was talkin'
Over my head.
So I went to see the governor
To see if he'd help me out.
He is a great statesman,
With intellect and clout.
But they told me he was too busy,
And as they walked me to the door,
I could hear the governor sayin'
"Give me all your fours."
I went home and turned on the TV
To watch a talk show.
They were discussin' things
They said I needed to know.
A man said that on judgment day
So many would be left out in the cold,
Because the appendix was the place
That God put the soul.
And I thought that I was lucky
To be turned into that station.
It was a valuable contribution
To my education.
But I still have my appendix,
Wisdom teeth, tonsils and gall bladder,
But without my poetic license,
This doesn't seem to matter.
Without my poetic license,
Life, I didn't like it.
I picked up my phone
And called a telephone psychic.
The psychic said his name was
He said he knew my future,
My present and my past.
He said I was a man
Who had a telephone.
And could afford $4 a minute
Without taking out a loan.
He said I was good at breathing,
Good at sleeping too.
Good at eating
And tieing my shoe.
He said I was like him
Because we both have names.
And except for our differences,
We were both the same.
He told me my life would be easy,
Except for the times that were rough.
He said that I'd die old
If I lived long enough.
He said if I had a pencil
On the world I could leave a mark.
He said that when the sun went down
My world would grow dark.
He said I was a proponent
Of flushing the commode.
He told me I'd be naked
If I took off all my clothes.
He said I had a clock
That did a lot of tickin';
And that I had eaten a lot of stuff
That tasted a lot like chicken.
But when I asked about my license,
He said he didn't have a clue.
I hung up and called a lawyer
And asked if I could sue.
I WANTED MY POETIC LICENSE BACK!
I got rights;
I got lefts;
I got a right to bear arms;
I got a right to bare legs;
A part of me looks like a knee;
Another part looks like a foot.
I wish I hadn't told the man
Where to put--
Cause now I want it back,
But I don't dare
Reach in there.
If that's where he put it
It's going to have to stay.
I'll have to find some other way.
ONE MONTH LATER:
I got my poetic license back;
I can legally rhyme once more.
How did I do it?
I enrolled in the poetry school
That is run by Mom and Pop.
It is called Our Lady of the Catfish Pond
Poetry School and Bait Shop.
Mom is the headmistress;
She taught us from books.
Pop is the headmaster baiter,
He taught us how to bait hooks.
The school turns out real scholars.
Better education you could not wish.
Not only can I read and write poetry,
I can also catch fish.
The picture in my license, you ask;
Well that was sort of a gag.
I told the D.L.V. that I was The Unknown Poet,
And I always wore a bag.
Besides, this is just a minor flaw,
And possession is nine points of the law.
And I now possess a license to rhyme
Which you can't prove isn't mine!
Think what you want!
If you want to think that I got a "real" poet
To go to some other D.L.V.,
Take the test in my name
To get a license for me,
That is your choosin'.
Good luck with the provin'.
But until then:
Sail on, sail on
Oh mighty Rhymin' Jones--
Oh great phantom
Of the mobile home--
One who inhabits the twilight zone,
Cosigner of my loan--
Hold the phone,
I got a dial tone;
Pass a kidney stone;
Throw the dog a bone;
Enjoy an ice cream cone,
As I rhyme my way
Through the great unknown!
My soul is sick
I need touch, I crave warmth
I feel so lost
A soft word, kindness, strength
I am so tired
Not my own strength, for I have none
Dreams are not real
To let me know you understand
Love is not true
To provide arms to hold me
Life is not fair
To share a shoulder to cry on
My hope is so jaded
For somebody to goddamned care
I can't still be here
Before it's too late and I'm gone
As His touch brings her alive,
to swirl and dance
in her bare belly,
she gazes with awe
He can see so clearly
into her soul,
the longings, cravings
which go unanswered
when His warmth
offering so much
that she has been missing.
When He fills her with His heat,
freed by her submission
to His yearnings and desires.
a sculptor’s pick
fears and oppressions
she was meant to be.
My false smiles, my real tears pouring down
Hiding my pain in fear of what you may say
'Tho without you this agony would not exist
You walk along too blind to see my heart
The sun never warms the long, frozen days
And the dark, empty nights go on forever
My bed is cold, my useless arms lie still
I can only tear apart and bleed so much
But the deep self-loathing never ends
Some might call me lucky- I'm not
The wretched scabs cover a thousand scars
I live in dreams to hide what's inside
I feel my confusion multiplying
Fake a big smile and pretend not to cry
But I have forgotten the truth of what's real
For when you loved me it felt so right
Without you I find myself lost and alone
My life feels broken and torn
Come back, hold me and kiss away my pain
Wipe away my hot, sorrowful tears
Make me whole; I long for you to save me
Sweet temptress, sweet orchid,
Your calyx clusters
'Neath a rich foliage,
Warm and inviting,
Guarding the tenderness
As you unfold, pink chalice.
Flowing with the richness of your nectar
Hiding deeper within
A glistening jewel
Crowning the mysteries
of your hidden depths.
Drawn by your perfume,
Enters gently, treading softly
On the tender flesh.
Probing, drinking the sweetness
Which you give so freely,
Your sap rises
To engorge your petals,
Your pistil, your jewel,
of your being.
You welcome with trepidation
As the pollenator enters your hidden,
your secret parts,
Seeking the darkest depths,
And there bathes your seed
with its pollen.
You fold in on yourself,
Your task fulfilled, your purpose done
Enclosing the precious miracle,
New life within you,
Sweet orchid, sweet temptress.
Is it possible to be involved
with someone and not feel
one emotional bond?
that time we spent fuc king,
talking, laughing, fighting
hating and making up.....
A f uck is a f uck – is that
Can you honestly
sit there and tell me that I’m
nothing but another fu ck to you?
feathers of your fingertips
still trace my inner thigh
shadows from your lips
pressed so softly next to mine
the scent of you is heavier
than memory ought to be
you wakened all my senses
and gave me poetry
a murmur of contentment
escapes at thoughts of you
fantasies or memories
I can’t tell which is true
as fleeting as our moment was
it was sublime and it was real
leaving heavy traces
of your heart that I still feel
What a beautifull thought.
Lay your head upon my pillow,
Rest your cheek against my breast:
Come the night, the sweeping swallow
Seeks the comfort of her nest.
Hush your words for words are hollow,
Silence brings its own release:
Though the winds may beat and bellow,
By and by the storm must cease.
Close your eyes and dreams will follow,
Sleep and I will soothe your brow:
The sun wil rise again tomorrow,
But that is then, and this is now.
With his quiet voice,
his caring manner,
he touches me.
Reflecting on our days,
he touches me.
Igniting my desires,
he touches me.
Making me feel his heat,
he touches me.
Not with his hands,
but his words.
Wishing, Hoping, Lusting
Friend, Beautiful, Virgin, Minx
Touching, Kissing, Licking
Giving, Taking, Gasping
Slender, Sweet, Wet, Fragrant
Moving, Pulling, Arching
Wanting, Asking, Begging
Encore, Anxious, Lustful, Submissive
Spreading, Teasing, Squeezing
Sharing, Laughing, Enjoying
Faithful, Protective, Companion, Determined
Planning, Listing, Loving
Trying, Clinging, Succeeding
Sickness, Pain, Shower, Preparation
Breathing, Crying, Pushing
Under This Dress
(1 of 2)
You man with your words;
Those cleverly woven words,
With the long step, your eyes swept,
Ever so lightly across me -and my breath stopped.
How you soothe me with those very eyes,
Your laughing, knowing eyes,
As we read between the lines
And you move between my thighs - if only in my mind.
And I laugh with glee when you scold me,
Telling me how to do better, be better, and know better
When it has always been me to say unto another
And though your mind reaches heights mine never could
I might come close at times, and go further, when you take me.
That mind of yours that thinks such wicked thoughts,
I do know, and it does suit me.
And that damn glint in your eye, ever so sly,
Tells me that you want to try me on a little too.
So my knees weaken, my mind slows,
My breath quickens and my body knows –there is you.
So I dance.
I dance around in my head,
Barefoot upon your bed,
In my torn little dress,
And my hair is such a mess,
Always such a mess,
And I am always in a dress,
Always in this dress – for you.
While your hands that can fix every little thing,
That strike the keys, they strike me – and I like it.
You might even try to fix me,
So you mend, while I bend,
And you crash into me,
Complete me, deplete me, relieve me –
Oh, Please, do it again.
And your hair; that dark hair,
That covers all of your body, will soothe the bare of mine
Brush pink, stroked raw, soaked wet
Rubbed in, the marks of our sin,
For days, the tinge upon this fair skin-
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.......
Under This Dress
(2 of 2)
Am I still unfaithful to write of this?
Or imagine us, as it could have been, maybe would have been,
had we crashed into each other on another day?
I know that I am - but I can’t help it.
And I am certain that we must not betray,
So I should no more say out loud
How your silence, or how your words,
Pull me forward, ever towards you.
Or how you reach places inside
Like no other before,
With your mind, with your eyes, with your sigh, with your smile,
With your hands upon my waist,
Upon my little wrist,
An imagined kiss, this mental tryst.
So I will write of this.
Thrown out of chaos to the page
Thoughts of how all the subtle ways,
Our word plays, humorous displays,
Saved in this head, for still moments or hurried days,
Do bind me to you
No more bold exchange.
So when I am near you, I will laugh,
Because that is what I do
Then I won’t come crashing into you,
And beg of you
To just take me, break me,
Sate me, please make me
Do unto you
Every little thing that you would have me do –
For I would do it all.
Yes, I would if you would have me,
Lay down for you, bend down for you
Be bound by you, go down on you –
And I would swallow you whole.
I would take you into me, in every way
And I would play anything that you would have me play,
Say every word that you would have me say. And maybe a few of my own.
You would like that.
I would wear it, I would bear it, and I would beg you for more.
I would be your little girl innocent, and I would be your brazen whore.
And you would be that man, that impossible man
That shook this swirling girl to the very core.
Damn you, man, already you are
So I ask, is it only in my mind then, or on the page, or in my dreams
That you would make me yours?
It should be.
And the truth of that does weigh heavy, and breaks me just a little, and more
As it shakes me just a little, and more
To know that you exist, but I should not reach for you.
With my hands forever tied, I must remain true, and so must you.
And we might
Unless you should decide, on some weakened night
That you would have a taste,
Not let these offerings go to waste, I would come.
Or if I beg of you, please make this girl right. Oh, god, I might.
And if you do -
We would fall.
Fall forever into the mist, into that great abyss
Of broken promises and broken hearts,
And, I would be that girl after all
That foolish girl,
With the wild curls in her hair,
That swirled into you, crashed into you
And shook you for a little while, when you needed to stay still.
And I would cry; god, I would cry
For this lie we would tell, this inevitable hell,
And the look upon your face, full of disgrace
Full of such disgrace for me, I could not bear.
That is one dress I wish not to wear for you
So I will still dance.
But I will dance in the rain,
And not in your bed
In my torn little dress,
With my hair such a mess,
Always such a damn mess.
And my bare feet,
Soul bare of this sin,
And I, still fair of skin.
I am always in a dress,
Always in this little dress; for you.
I will put these flowers in my hair,
And these braids I shall wear,
As I swirl here, twirl here
Dancing about in your mind, perhaps from time to time
Because, dear, I will always be
That clever girl, that naughty good girl,
That silly, ever-spinning girl; a friend, and a loyal girl.
But always, dear, under this dress,
I will be every bit your girl -
Even if you should never claim me.
All I Want Is....
Just one...only one...
One memory making
Goose bump creating
One nerve scorching
Just one...only one
Kiss that lasts for hours
A caress that travels miles
Breasts that swell and heave
Nipples that stretch and harden
A moment, singular..just one..
Heat encompassing two
Sliding within wet places
Hair gripped, eyes rolled
Ecstasy seen on faces..
Just a moment...only one..just one...
Thrust and stroke
Perhaps even some pounding
Some tenderness found between walls
Gripping and milking a member..
Nails digging into softness
Holding desperately for time
To slow down,
and allow the coming wave to crash
Just a moment...
To roam inside of you
Exploring a wonderland of beauty
A moment where we meet on a plane
of plain intentions.
where you clench, and you clinch,
And you groan, then you growl
Where I hold you as you shake
Right before my own explosion
Warm feelings and cold sweats
Addiction rooting ever so slowly,
In a moment...Just one
"SNOW FALLING ON AINTREE."
All of you
in the tight circle
of familiarity are woven
like cloth I used to wrinkle
until you ironed me
out of the equation--
the birthday parties,
and Sunday roast lamb dinners.
All of you bastards
who paint me mad
as Mrs. T's lover,
hide me from any display
of your public approval,
but deem me safe enough
if a secret in the attic
of your morality
with its painted window
Here is where it snows,
where days pass caught
between the faltering arms
of hope and the restless
desperation of escape,
which is never a possibility
if you carry ghosts
everywhere you go.
My past and present
polarities spin and weave--
the New Year's Eve we dressed
in gowns and tuxedos,
promising illusions of forever,
which is never a possibility,
and the snow that falls today,
and freezes and melts
as I watch from one window.