Just starting my "ese". It's Friday night & I can't find a new law and order, or even a new csi, so I'll find myself.

the day waited
I anticipated
begonias burst into flame
scarlet clay
in marquis-shapes
this poem is deadly
quickly, dissipate
it will kill all the others

live intrigue
coral reef
left behind
tracking leaves
innocence
light-years
humility

secluded
fatigued
dusty night
wake up
you, you unknown
dry crispy leaf
not sinister
refuses to leave

lonesome activity
soft hands
whisper covers
faded metal stains
ice glistens

hollow diamonds
hollow hexagons
pointed shapes
oval to vees
half what ice should be
sprinkly stars eventually

draped property
rows and rows
chain-link fence,
years pass
I spent all my shivers
on removing articles
spell check
preview
post

I suppose I should give credit
where credit is due.
I should show him
the utmost justice.
he truly is charming,
as he says.
a little solemn too,
but oh,
the things he plans to do.

in the evenings,
he pulls words
from his pocket and
revives my drooping spirit.
daily, he uses powers
of persuasion and philosophy,
overwhelming me
with lofty thoughts
and comforting phrases
provocative, soothing.

soon,
he will silence discussion
with a kiss that falls
a blow to the heart; 
like a criminal confesses a crime;
like demon possession

whether innocent or guilty,
I'll do what he suggests.

life holds a brilliant sky
stars are there
you can see them
but you can't count them
they twinkle fire
first there is a bridge
you cross
a ladder you find
and climb
mountain you scale
tunnel you travel,
valley you divide
its name
shadows
death.

Hands feel,
as if touching again,
what lips and skin remember.
Smooth desire runs again,
through honey-ed blood,
as her body awakens
to the taste of him--
his savour known and
remembered

I was wholly unprepared
for his enormity
My thoughts
were much too small,
never big enough
to encompass his truth.
 
I searched
for a bridge to cross--
the one of separation
But no one
could take me
near the edge,
where only there,
could I die,
present in the moment.
 
Death, like rain
fell gently back
into an immense ocean,
where brave ones dive deeply
through narrow uncoverings
of what is always there;
where separation is an illusion;
and isolation is only fear.
 
The sea was kind
and without urgency,
no pressing in the moment,
or into worlds of awareness,
where I had work to do,
hidden things to uncover--
 
moments to remember
without going mad
searching for a center,
or an empty space,
flowing and unfolding
ryhymes and reasons
on which to hang my grief--
 
I never knew
and didn't care
about their provision,
or experiencing false
sensations of
effortless activity--
or whatever this
and whatever that,
or whatever happened next,
 
a mere investigation--
the one on the edge
across the bridge,
where he waited in comfort
without falsehood:
I was clarity
and he was balance
as we presented
ourselves simply--
a focus for the sea.

I can see the Sun from here--
clearly my key to light
as I look over my shoulder,
watching dappled shadows
bounce from white-light
to black-light, from
daylight to night time,
in glowing colour casts--
at points easy to forget,
waiting for my eyes to adapt.
 
These lenses invite
a lovely rapport with life,
although at times,
the lense is much too long,
and not always convenient.
 
If it were not for the
soot and whitewash,
bright dappled sunlight
would fill my journals
and record everything--
even all the glory.

He inspires me to write poetry,
rigidly poised,
listening for different sounds,
testing the chords,
plucking at strings-- 
the brass joins in,
the cymbals and drums,
and always the applause is silent.

I'll talk.
You'll listen.
No, wait.
I'll talk.
You'll squirm.
Isn't that what you like?
That excited, squirmy feeling?
Pushing, pressing
so close to the edge
but never falling over?
You love that jolt of power
when you've finally broken
the last frazzled nerve,
the nerve that held on,
tried to stay strong
until you snapped it--
busted it wide open
like a broken fire hydrant
gushing profanities
while you smile.

I've changed my mind.
No squrim for you.
No pleasure.


I'll talk.
You'll listen.
Or maybe
we won't talk at all.

She and I are one--
poured out,
plundered for you
by the law of recipriocity--

She, at her finest, her highest,
meeting her most ultimate goal,
a gleam in the eye of vulnerability--
an ache drawn from the deep
of passion's bounty;
an avalanche of need, at last
consuming humanity's greed.

And giving herself over
to a fantastic scheme,
she succumbs to the fancy
of reality only in dreams,
and so, I will accompany her
in the lost joining of one.

Niagara in the Fall


Under
the waterfall
twenty miles
and a day

still
we are
far from shore

our bodies
never drying
under the sun

never insignificant
like yesterday's
neglected news,
rolled-up and silent

Hey
I bet you could
if you would
if not for mere entertainment
whiled all joined the arraignment
of rhythm without time
and poems minus the rhyme--
only to discover
one cannot be
without the other

but, on the other hand
one would surmise
her own summations;
the other could laugh
without hesitation--
only to discover
one would be fine
without the other

because, although
would and could
are very close
humans always have faces,
even in far away places
and are not that way,
of course.


Cheryl

strong thighs,
curvy hips,
a dark past,
laces tight round legs
and feet and the gritty pen
of a poet-slave,
staying soft when her words
would not take the chance
to let her dance
when she was ugly,
when she was pretty,
when she was nothing
or even everything,
tight black leather
and the knots of circumstance
loosened round her lover
and she danced.

Out the front window
pumpkins, whole thick crops
clearly blown away, nothing left.
Strange smoky faces appear
from smouldering rock.
Golden teeth gleam in wide-open
mouths, gaping like carved pumpkins
from fields once-green.
 
Singed hair dangles from temples
crossing hollow cheeks,
resting on lips meant for kissing.
Lids pull up and back--
curtains exposing round balls
once slick, now afloat in black holes.
 
Lenses look miliseconds
into atom's brilliant flash--
     Hiroshima
     ... and the eyes of a woman.

First Edition


A sad King once ruled my life.
He pressed me into His satire,
where once I was His chronicle.
My lips he never read.
And though I screamed my throat red
with the blood of disgust,
He dismissed me saying,
"It is not you I value. It is not you I trust."

I was His priceless First Edition, bound
in leather and fine leaf, that He battered
and abused. I told of history and decades
of decadence, but He tore out my pages,
destroyed my gilded edges, and robbed me
of integrity. He became the exception to every rule;
an absolute Monarch, and I his fool.

He called me Tragedy claiming me to be His prose
and in the darkness of His Poetry
stripped me of my vanity.
Run wild, you Beast, you Child!
Your "poetry" echos in my face:
   You are but mirror. You have no place.

Even the young have wisdom.
Watch how  the cold search for warm.
See the helpless seek shelter
Bright eyes like newborn sun.
Even the hopeless, relentless
Dare to dream, though they fade.
Tears swell to great rivers and oceans
Where wounds and scars are laid.
Pain is not like a fever
Rising and falling with time.
Hearts don't break like fine china
Dangerous, jagged straight lines.
To one a season is needful.
To another the same is pure joy.
One struggles, surrenders to valleys
Strength no lie will destroy.
Don't tell the girl she can't hide
Or talk of Angel Wings at her birth.
Don't play her music you've written.
Help her thrive in your shelter long hidden.

***********************************************

Ever the young have their wisdom;
See how the cold seek the warm?
Watch as the helpless find shelter
Away from a gathering storm.

Even the hopeless are thinking,
Daring to dream, though they fade.
Swells of great rivers may wash the
graves that gilded hands have laid;

But pain is not proper fever,
Rising and falling with time,
Nor do hearts breaking like china
Ever break along straight lines.

To one a mountain is needful,
To someone else it is joy.
We struggle to glean from valleys
A strength no lie can destroy.

Do not tell the girl she must hide
Her Angel Wings at birth.
She plays a music in her mind
Replacing censure with worth.

All of the ones are now undone:
they've all been turned to twos.
All by myself, I can't stand ones,
or children with no shoes.

Not all the shoes were left by me
though those I did were many.
Of empties, though, there should not be
even more than one, if any.

this room


on lonely nights
a crowd's nearby
silence is in this room

on sunny days
clouds pass this way
shadows wear gloom

in the calm of storm
even air is warm

all is safe and still
waits on a passing chill
drifting through this room

what would you say
if she told you today
she heard gentle words
chase the silence away

would she be right
if she told you tonight
she watched the bright
shift the shadows light

will you think it wise
hearing moans and sighs
from a fire rise

but cold is what she finds
she's a forlorn child
maimed and mesmerized
staring with lonely eyes
where sorrow lies

living in yesterdays
searching for a face

fancies instead a mask
but she's afraid to ask

which one to wear
she really doesn't care

to hear you say
she lost her way
in this room

the first time

Solitary Flame

There is a fire.
I see you .. solitary and centered.

Surrounding me with warmth
You have none. I reach for you.
To kindle a flame.
To light for you a candle.
Your face I can't see ....
You turn away from me.

Fear is in the fire. I will help you see.
Take your hand. Lead you through
When you willing allow me to.

No stranger to me is the fire, but familiar.
Did you think? Were you aware?
What time did you take?
Your trust is hidden there.
One such as me should be weak, you believe.
Must needs be what you think you see.

Shallow breath and weightless.
Gentle bud with fragile limbs.
A seedling can't know where courage ends.

Tender leaves, wind-blown.
Thorns of sorrow each petal knows.
Buried roots, safely below ... the rose grows.

Crimson-scorched am I
When your face from me you turn.
Yet I sit among fire never burned.


Flesh and bone will bear this heat,
From spark, to ember, to flame, a fire.
My heart is holy, scattered dark and deep.
Solace beckons .. the stairway steep.
No fire will destroy me.

Single ring of fire able to scorch me
Though your trust you must keep.
Solitary Flame for you I reach.

Be kind
to those
you know
who's
daily-mantra-replay
is
"my life is hell".
Because,
dear friend,
if you have not lived it,
if you have not been there,
please listen
when I say
"hell on earth"
is not
a mere cliche.

Find me in your fallow'd forge
Surround me in your shallow shore
Walk me through your open door
Break me till I cry for more
Make the ache weaken
and scatter my call
So shall the air shatter it all
Drown me till I care no more.

I tried to paint my world
but I didn't know
how to use a brush
or acrylics
or oils
or water
with beautiful color.

My hands were heavy.
My fingers were frozen.
I couldn't draw
a straight line
or shade
the curve of a circle.

Stick figures
of rowdy children
with bug eyes
poked fun
at my visual contortions.

Whispers fell from the page
into my world
like drippy voices:
"you're hopeless".

When the whispers
turned to shouting
and the dripping
turned to leaping
I had no choice
but to walk far away
from the stick figures
and the swirling circles.

I walked
until I lost myself
and tore away the ropes
from the way
things should be.

There was life,
the way it is.

Knots and cords
and slings
are machines
but I'm human
with lines, unsophisticated
and curves, not comprehensive
but all of them are me--
the way my art should be.

I once knew a man who lived by chance.
No, not your usual impractical dance.
All it took was the sun to encourage him.
A tender bush or weed he'd love to trim .

He seldom knew of sensitive nods
(Innocent peaks at his rambling rod -
Desiring to see what everyone knew).
If only they knew what he could do!
Cloud a faithful lover's eye with tears
Or laugh at the shock of ignorant ears.

He longed to dance and so he did.
He longed to be the authentic "him".
He longed to comfort hurt and shame
Mixing and measuring name by name.
Giving solace to both vain and slain
His generous breast absorbing the pain
The timid, shy, the fearful and insane.

Many things such a man may deny
But never temptation; his only lie.
He claimed his golden pot was real.
Of it's wholeness his desire to feel
Never revealing the truths concealed.

"I'm ok", he was known to say,
"I'll prove to you I'm really this way".
Planning and plotting his run-away
Not knowing he would forever wait
Mapping his route and never escape.

... Never Misled


It's true
she's a beauty in red
Her dress bunched up
all around her in a heap
still young and lovely

A little weary of this
I sigh and turn my head
nonchalantly
so matter of factly
such an apathetic stare

I'm just me
an empty bed
waiting for the dead

Or maybe I'm lonely
looking for a mere tiny space
a pleasant place
to lay this pounding head

So forgiving am I
so forlorn

I give up
Darkness fails me again
another sleep-search
I'm on the rise
Seems like I'm always roaming
chasing a shelter of wood
a square box called home

Gentle, kind ripples
rush swiftly by me
soft and giving
But like time
won't slow down
when I've lost my way

If only I could
I would come to you

Even though math
carefully calculated
science with her formulas
even though old wives tales
say I shouldn't
I would anyway

Calculations keep correcting
over and over again
Formulas continue
weaving perfection
tight as a drum-skin

But there will only be
one you one me one we

I watch you beckon
the young beauty in red
knowing she will turn her head
and walk away from you
just as she said

But me ... I was never misled.

Quietly In The Background


"Nowhere and everywhere", you said,
upon my first meeting with you.
I dared to ask where,
from what direction you entered
this tiny closet of a world -
my life, with an old wooden door,
swelling and shrinking each time
the weather changes.

"There is a place where no man can go,
save one," you tenderly revealed.
"There is an ache no man can heal
save one, and if it be me for you,
I will walk in you, like the wind
blowing through; you will never
wonder if the breeze you feel is me."

I am comforted knowing
you earnestly desire I ask much of you.
In return you are free to give more.
I have come to know you intimately.
It is a gift, and I am pleasured.
I revel in the man you are,
and I relish in the telling.

You are a mixture of story and invention,
as genuine as the stone under my feet.
Your plans, I cannot comprehend.
You are outrageous, stirring in me
the most extreme adventures.

I do not know your genius.
Boasting does not become you.
I wonder; would you even know how?
You hide your talent from me.
Neither are you a lover of intrigue.

You test my inventions
yet I am not your experiment.
Here in this place with you
fantasy will not linger long
though in your eyes, ecstasy lives.

You make color out of my flesh.
You draw sound from my bone.
You do not tarry.
Instead you carry the weak
and break the strong.

You know all tongues
not ignoring the slightest cry
or berating the beating
of a thousand drums ...
in my hands.

An encounter with you dazzles me,
a reverberation of all my senses.
You taste of the euphoric -
an orchestration; an aphrodisiac
for the palate of any soul.
You seek only to play your music
throughout my heart ...
quietly in the background.

So I will not look for you in high places,
in cool streams or mountain-tops.

Only in difficulty will I find you.

This one truth I know:
if I avoid you, you will find me.

You touch. You hear.
You see. You are real.
You are simplicity
and you love me.

I have a friend named Thomas.
Calling him friend - quite a stretch.
I dare not be assumptive.
Thomas - he will know.

We are creations, kingdom seekers
By a silken thread we are looped
Unashamed of our talent.
He will know this too.

He is no better than me; I no better than he
Should he choose another man to be
Or different castles in which to dwell.

Of the young I know this well.

I have a secret to tell.
Crossing treacherous watery moats
Dare I speak the unspoken
No breaking of the broken, shall I
My tears a token.

Thomas writes; my heart longs to smile
Sings a tiny tune; and all the while,
I ache remembering the delight of a son
A light; living on the side of another moon.

More than life I love this one, my son
Undone by care, I'm sure he never knows
A world beguiling concerns him so
Is the very reason I will never let him go
Not by vapor, not by shadow.

Sir Thomas spins words of gold.
No matter he thinks
No matter what he's said.
I will never turn my head.

He is not a boy.
He is a joy.

Honestly kind friends,
I stifled a laugh when he said to me
"You may have whatever you desire, my sweet".

O my dear men, who listen to me
make sure of your offer, if offering to me.
I will be kind, though secrets they be.
I would ask these questions, if it were just me.

When you look at me and see my beauty
do you look only with desire to have me,
or with curiosity?

Have you watched me closely
my flesh so fair, sparkling in the sunlight?
Have you gazed at me with such intent
that I appear to be in movement
though with you I am still?

Has the shine in my hair so fresh
an amber glow warming seem
you could taste the scent of it,
yet never touch me?

When you make love to me, what do you see?
Searching each limb,
do you see me as a mystery?
If I feel awkward will you comfort these
orgasmic contortions of my body
as my back arches toward you; this primal plea?

Do you hear a loveliness in my voice as I moan
knowing I desire you to come closer,
to be near the beating of a heart so restless
wanting more, never having enough?

Do you feel my ecstasy when I grimace
at the thin line of pain and pleasure
only you can bring me to?

Will you balance a pain so hidden and deep
with a pleasure so vibrant any minute
the Universe will open for me?

When my body is at rest, my face peaceful,
will you stay? Will you rest beside me?

Have you ever felt so utterly at one with me
you couldn't distinguish or separate you from me,
at rest by your side, even in beauty,
though she sleeps?

When you look at me, for just one moment
will you see the light in my eyes,
and the tenderness in my body?

Are you awestruck,
amazed by what only you see?
Are you in complete wonder at the how,
at the why, at the curiosity?

Whatever I desire I may have, he said to me.
Only when he gives me these things
sated I will be.

Bewitched By A Lullaby


Who has bewitched You, My Friend?
Your mask is darkened and seared.
Your brow deep furrows haunt.
Light of hope has left Your eyes.
A mind dull and dreary with fear.

Yes, I am this Burn You speak of!
How fiery My scorching flame!
Your steamy Torch once Your pride.
Now concealed His prowess You hide.

A dam of lust has broken
Steamy and out of control.
You endlessly ache of desire
A prison You cannot escape
Tightly locked is always this way.

Much time passed, You speak?
Hungrily You reach to touch
Grasping for fullness and depth
Vast and heated hot flesh
Slick, firm ... waiting for Me.

Picture Me now in Your mind
One who beguiles You with tyme.
Like the coil of a snake I unwind
Wrapping, draping, tempting, taking
All of You coming inside.

Writhing, unsettled and longing
The core of My passion You ride
In desperation an ache I quake
Red, gold churns, Garden's snake
A flame You don't know?
You can't think. "Come,
"Come, together Let's drink",
Sighing softly as death I sing.

Your senses have loosened.
Your body is free, fire consumed
You are blind never to see.
All of Me I offer freely.
My sweet ripe flesh You need.
No mouth or tongue will redeem.

I invoke You, I whisper Your name,
"Reveal how You feel;
"Burn, burn slick Steel."
My breasts flash forgiveness,
My body Your witness.
"Will You burn, burn only for Me?"
I cry this betrayal My tears.

Your male Member hardens like sin.
Your Flame shines brightly of lust.
Are You feeling, floating destruction
As though with one stroke
Finished, spent You would be?

Fire in Your groin, a Furious Flame
Surely at last I must douse
You enter Me deep and sweet
Familiar and priceless to keep.

Let Me hear the sound of Your voice.
Describe to Me just how You feel.
I listen, folds shiny and glistening
Embed Your Rod, hard and eager
A Rock amid tender new flesh.
I engrave Myself deeply in You.

Hear my song of passion and lust,
"Tell Me, do You burn?
"Pray feed Me, burial-burn".
Replenished yet never will finish.

I'm comforted now with Your raging
Ravaging rod, You plunge Me like steel
I'll keep You hidden and deep.

I sing such tender love-lies.
My lust complete satisfies.
Melody lilting, lifting such sighs
"Burn with Me, burn with Me now.
"I'll come for You, I'll gladly show how.
"Burn with Me, burn with Me ...
"Come with Me, come with Me".

You I've bewitched with My lust
Midst a ring, a circle of fire,
... singing My sweet lullaby.

she dances


little one
so small
she hears music
bereft of beauty, she cries
and she dances.

her body responds
in odd ways, gracious
circles and turns
whips and whirls
as she dances.

each hand an instrument
her arms a courier
of worship; she worships
the One who hears her cry
and she dances.

her feet expressions of praise
she flies; Pegasus-winged
freely she glides on milky clouds
of yester-years; sorrow's tears
and she dances.

gifts now bestowed
among hearts of all men
she is gifted; hear her song
watch her worship
take view this glory
...
as she dances.

We Walk Among Wood


Be my shroud
my piece of humanity
cover me when I am exposed
disclose me with your hands
illusory and distant
wrap yourself around me
with your muscle and tendon
ease this knot of lust hard for you
bound by your steamy flesh.

In reconciliation
we are ancient,
bone and marrow
from the birth of man
always hungry, never full
forever lost, we can't find
the you
and the me
we were at our birth.

Amidst a circle of fear
we meet in the center
of our beginning,
our Alpha
renews us
Gilead's balm at every touch.

An end that should be,
but never is,
our Omega
lives in moments of time
with no distance
between a man and a woman
bursting with flames, warmed with life,
fire melts ice, and once again ...

beyond a third dimension
we build mountains
from grains of sand
we walk among wood,
plant trees of oak,
forests of maple
with seeds too small to see
yet each a progeny.

From ashes and dust we are birthed
tossed and flung through the atmosphere
never touching the earth.

sea chant


dare a man search
where few men have looked
where few men have touched
among the tender sandstone
swirling and swollen
he will find a dam of desire

an anchor, weightless
lowers and drops.
whales cry
without despair.
lighthouse ancient, chimes
an unknown directive.
rumbling ships hum
with no entrance.

amidst the swell,
powers exchange.
one loses
both gain.

when at last a brave man is unfettered
and covered in moist intimacy
textures transform.
sea animals chant of instinct,
the courageous,
... and his birth

This need I have to be touched
is just that, yet more - a hunger.
A longing for invasion
to be captured and overcome
to be so hard-pressed
I burn with furious exaltation
I cannot ... do not desire
to control such extravagance.

So weary of doubt,
ever-analyzing my senses.
Must there always be
hesitation, or fear of my actions
ashamed of this passionate greed.
I only long to forget who I am
unaware if I exist at all.

There is a valley in me, hidden.
Yet, at the longing of another
I awaken, and weep
just as the Earth splits
at the entrance of her lover,
I open for the arrival of mine.

Best born of the Earth,
we fuse fiery and terrible
inviting our lovers quake
to fill empty ravines,
veiled, yet now exposed.

Mysterious fusion
dark and timeless
Earth collides with flesh
and I am known.
My lust revealed.

Fire consumes flesh
scatters heart and bone.
a marvelous heat ignited
by an enigma and her flame.

Mysteries must be solved.

Separated from the Earth,
I am torn.
She is only dust.

So shall this need I have;
this hunger to be touched
never die, lingering forever in spirit;
fingertips of humanity, a requiem.

The Earth grieves.
She could not comply.

My Sweet Cherry ...


I have this endless fantasy of you ...
a ripe, delicious fruit; a luscious cherry,
thick, creamy icing covering you,
sprinkles of random-rainbows
delight me, and tantalize anew.

Hungry for your sweetness,
I feed selfishly
amid your sugary-pink flesh.

With each delectable bite I take,
you lick tiny nuggets, red and scarlet,
from my bare, swollen breasts -
sparkles of your confection,
dripping and falling, sliding all over me,
as you nurse nipples, drawn and taut,
shining of your destiny.

I taste your extravagant affection,
sucking greedily your honey glaze,
nibbling softly your ripened cherry,
drinking of your thick syrupy dew,
slick and new; a sweet lust-fuck ...
dare I eat the whole of you.

Mysterious is
the time
when curiosity
entertains a woman
and leaves her breathless.
Her eyes
become a fire.
Smoky-blue
is the curl of flesh
twisting round her
for the first time.
Her speech
is transformed.
She is
revolutionized.
Her touch
ignites a spell
captivating
her lover, unaware,
and tangled
are his trembles.
His look
is hungry,
savage and wild,
full of wonder
and surprise.
His strength
is in the sparkle-clear
where he lives-out
his longing--
the nearness of reality.
Heaviness disappears.
All is lost
to float upon
the most curious sea.

Draw for me pictures
of a wall and I will use
them to arrest you
on your way skyward.
Paint me a scheme of boughs, limbs
and leaves, and I will
show you who I am
when you think you cannot see.
Build a cabin from
the mighty oak, and
there you will see a landscape soft
and hidden when you
turned your head. Count the
hours until dusk, and watch
me shade a patch of
after-life for you
in shadows so very close
to home until I
find the breath you lost
when you first stumbled upon
me in the wood of
your mind.

I have no favorite color.
I have no favorite number
and to consider such,
is a sin against the other.

But 'twould be
rude of me
not to be polite
so I shall grant this challenge
a winner's best fight.

My effort is a zero
in colors black and white.
As if crazed
or in a daze
(either one will do)
I remember
lifeless days--
like watching TV
without tint, hue
and light.

Surrounded by
another view
were brand-new
TeeVees in color--
everyone but me.
Mine was monotone gray
and repetitve
black
and white
-- white
and black.

Sights and sounds
and lovely forest scents
meant nothing:
nature -- what was that?
Just something to remind me
the world isn't flat?

Dear Christopher Columbus
should history be true
and you the true explorer
and he was really you,
you were wrong about that
because my world was
colorless and empty,
and no numbers ryhyme with "that"
which is a take-away 360--
a lumpless circumference,
never nice and round.

Yet somewhere there is someone
much greater than me, who
changed my life with grace
and taught me truth in-terlaced
and dappled brightly
infinitely and numerous
in swirled and curling mercy.

Having fun at your journal, Cherylanne--like this one quite a lot.

Jill, what a surprise.  Thank you so much.

Haven't had time to post much lately.  I do enjoy it though, especially having an opportunity to share a little art too.

The piece you mentioned came around after a friend and I discussed meeting in Niagara Falls.  Glad we didn't though.  He turned out to be little nutty, in the end.

Thanks again,
cheryl

She wants an ache in her belly
without the wanton womb
She wants to build a fire
and inflame a captive
She wants lightning bolts
and incandescent memories
 
She wants to find the remnants
and smooth the wrinkles
She wants to feel the kindred
spirits of stallions and rams
and bulls and drakes
and she wants to stay that way
even after the public shame
... and the privacy claimed.
 
She is such a disguised child,
     or is she is a girl?
Or is she a woman--
because, who else
     would want to watch the face
     of Anais Nin as she speaks;
     or tell the priceless secret
     of making love to Henry?
 
 

She wants a man longing to sing to her,
no matter how beautiful the melody is,
as long as he, and the melody,
don't leave her cold.
 
She wants him to dream of her,
with intervals of time in between,
with all consciousness of them remaining,
as the world around them dissolves,
leaving spots of time here and there,
until a great silence descends upon them,
and music triumphs at last.
 
She wants to be his chaos,
alive and kicking inside her,
not a vision to decipher,
but a reality to write upon--
a welcomed parchment,
where she writes her etherea,
and the joy no one sees.

She wants to be a seed,
scattering his pollen everywhere.
 
She longs to be his fever,
his delerium,
with bright neckties
and dark bathrooms,
cigarettes, sonatas and
anecdotes, with warm veils,
peach-skinned breasts,
and taffeta fingertips.
 
She wants someone
to hear her say:
     "I love him!"
and even more desperately,
her cry:
     "Hurry, come quickly!
     Or what will I do?
     I am burning with it,
     and ... with you."

We are
a wild extravagance
a mad gaiety
a verve, a gusto
a delerium
a continual oscillation
between extremes
with bare stretches
tasting like brass
almost leaving
a full flavor of emptiness
beyond optimism or pessimism.
 
Might we give the last frisson?
Does pain have no more secret recesses?
We wish no predominant note
of bitterness to the full
if there were one
and if it were possible
do we really desire
to restore our appetites
for
                    fundamental
                            realities?

She wants him to feel her warmth,
and soft, steaming thighs,
and feel his lengthened hardness
reaming out every wrinkle inside.
 
She's aware he knows how to
build her fire, and inflame her,
shooting hot, incandescant bolts
through and through her.
 
And afterwards, any man,
if there were one,
would feel his remnants,
because he has softened
every hard place,
setting every shore inside her
a little wider.

I do not know where I'm going
I cannot tell you where I've been.
I do not want to take you there
where life was cold--
always unfriendly
Though Jesus, he was everywhere
His touch was warm--
I could not feel it
His face, he shone--
I could not see him.
He was there
He is here
 
This is the one thing I will tell you:
Jesus--  he is everywhere.

Anachronic


 
 
 
Frost-bitten
ice bergs in the bay
a still-life smitten
my ship was stranded.
On the deck
I prayed you would find me
right before the thunder
before your arrival
toting baggage and veneer decor
in iron trunks and steel cages--
     you were
     an empty coin purse
 
A stranger on the dock
you witheld my property
while I maintained my dignity
a pretense of artistry
in bands of violins
a gypsy's gypsum jewelry--
     you were     
     widely used.
 
I was losing time in the underworld
with stairwells flying up and down.
Yet I stood still
and reveled in the landscape.
When the elevator fell thirteen floors
I lost my footing,
here in the hollow--
     echos of
     a another life.
 
New and used
you borrowed my books
for nothing:
          the bay has melted now.
          At last I've landed
          among the living
          my blood is at peace,
               and warm.
 

The sliver of silver
and the brass couplet
round her slender neck
would not
could not
compare
to the fantasies
entwined
and shining
round and about
her tender soule
like a golden rope
through millions of milleniums
and the mightiest of Kings.

They flew in circles
the cat and the dog
They were legendary
containing within themselves
a deeper truth
the meaning they would debate
and it was history--
each one must learn it alone.
The lyric was certain
and fell like iron curtains
forbidden for centuries
to pronounce the name
of the mystery
Or was it a myth, a delusion--
what was that word?
The power was extraordinary
it was supernatural
exploding with danger
Both ran to it undercover
whilst circling the vowels
rolling over the consonants
chasing a tail chasing the tail
of that vain superstition
that disappearing act
the whimsy of man, la femme fancy
If only such rudimentary creatures
would scrape the earth
and bow to de amor, to the flamme,
to the rapporte romanique,
     to love.

I am the storm rising
waking you at midnight
wet and tired with sweat
watered-down for me
you are my salty-sea.
 
I am the lightning bolt
striking you from behind
sending climactic moments
electric spoken words
in color for you alone to see.
 
Mine are the eyes peeping
in shadows long and weeping
where you hide your
needs beyond repair
on your knees in disarray
waiting to hear you say
you want me anyway.
 
Mine are the ears hearing
thoughts interferring
with your life
the way it should be
and I can't disregard it
that I own a place
and mine is the face
     in your reality.

Dice still between your fingers,
     you lead.
It's early to be stirring senses.
          You stir.
We speak in metaphors,
seduced by words
left to interpretation.
     Your magic lingers.

Invited in, your hands play
as you arrange and open.
          You are glad to be here
knowing the face of passion;
tracing the lines of longing--
experienced fingers coax.

Discontent in transitory moments,
          we pretend.
Permanence is in the curve of letters,
     and a kiss.
Beyond well tended beds,
winding paths lead to questions. 
          You turn away. 
                    Or lose your way.

Take a chance. 
Make a choice.
     Make one.

The dice fall two by two. 
                    Flesh becomes.

Smack-dirty Ho
 
 
Ay ho, how bout you now?
Layin lo witcha romeo?
Maybe he's playin hi-di-ho.
I be laughin so low
at nuthin but a yo-yo-ho.
Don't cha know? I got it so-slo.
 
If I be schemin witcha dolla,
I don't worry -- I just holla.
But you don't know bout dat.
You don't know where I'm at.
Ho too busy smackin spit-spat.
See ho, I keep my mouth clean.
 
I know you don't know bout dat.
Cuz ya ain't got my g-sheen.
Hmm ho?  I do know bout dat.
Know more than you can dream.
Cuz I be fightin for my clean.
Nah, you don't know me, ho.
 
Cuz if you knew me, ho
you wouldn't be a-bout me, ho.
You wouldn't talk a-bout me, ho.
Don't know dis gurl's slightly thrown.
So don't be talkin shit a-bout me,
cuz I be fast as light-ning
 
when it comes to a yo-ho's ding--
knowin you don't like me
cuz your man sho-nuff does.
He be watchin all da time.
You been watchin your blind-side.
Aight ho? Ya got only yerself in mind.
 
So ho, you don't know bout dat, tho.
You say ya fru-fru scary-poo?
I say ya better keep very kewl.
I'd sure hate to bury you.
A word-slap or two--
you be losin that at-ti-tude.
 
See, I know bout that, ho.
Dis gurl ain't foolin no one,
not like you think you do,
cuz I don't try to.
I keep my mouth clean--
got nuthin to re-deem.
 
But you don't know a-bout dat.
Nah, you don't know a-bout dat,
cuz you be tossin da to-ta-fro.
 
Ay yo, you ain't nuthin--
you ain't nuthin but a smack-dirty ho.

Leaves wait, tightly wound, the buds ready
for the bursting and unfolding that soon comes.
Ahhh, the sweet sap flows as wetness grows.
Spring, the time when life renews again.
 
Moonlight sings softly, with never a hint of sadness
but it holds me, transformed into a being of the night.
The love reaches deep inside, my life holds treasures dear.
Please, help me understand the meaning. again and again
 
Must I be a product of my basic needs?
Must I respond to images and titilation?
Must I belong to a fraternity of loose malcontents?
Must I hang and wait beyond the moment of sanity?
 
There are no easy answers as she wonders
Her life is different, she needs the completion.
But I cannot fill her, she has not chosen me, I wait.
but my patience slathers and slides and disappears.
 
As though the sparkles fade forever, the trumpets
go silent, the bells sweet and shiny in the moonlight.
Only the rarest few can understand. These meanings
need a priest, the ones that give their lives to knowing.
 
The buds go about their ancient business of unfurling.
And birds sing songs of territory and mating.
This is the rebirth of the world, the newness of our living.
I wonder deeply when I again will be reborn. 

Deep grow the roots of
pain and pleasure,
and dusty are the courts which
the royal fear and desire. 
 
Velvet and carnal bodies struggle
and are convenient vehicles of passion--
of rejection--  masks of Sir King
and the Queen, expressionless still,
but never the stillness of ease.
 
His figurative shadowy movements
maim and encourage her
like a church badly shaken--
the fiery point of a King's arrow
gouges the heart of her entrails
like a whirlwind flying
with the kindness of traitors
at a Queen's barren door.
 
He feels the silent storm of revolt
rise in her as she denies the words she heard--
his promises; his gifts, and her own consent--
with trembling legs;
with dark and distant circles
round her eyes, and beads of sweat--
he whirls behind her--
a bend in the spine of a Queen--
her arms and forehead hit-solid
the bloody floor.
 
Yet,  the story is not through:
      Though the dust will not settle--
      soiling defiance and imagination
      and plunging humiliation--
      the King will never be
      the innocent toy of a Queen.
 
 
 
ca.leverette
04/2008

the force of his will, the power of his body
made him feel good, deep deep down.
He did these things because he could do them
and he felt an imperative; sweeping from somewhere.
 
Always pressing, bursting, flying from inside.
His devine wishes, his holy desires
all sneezing from him as spittle flew
the mouth of the King speaks, all shudder.
 
Some felt horror as if earthquake trembles gathered.
others imagined the rolling and bouncing of a severed head.
The Queen only felt imposed upon, his trouncing ways
not magnificent, not superior, not a holy writ.
 
She knew the man, the human, the beast even.
He had awful breath and stained teeth.  His loins
reeked of too many days out of the bath.
arms were strong and hairy and harsh.
 
The King rose, magnificent for a magic moment.
She saw his manhood, erect, beautiful, amazing even.
Oh no wonder she thought, men are almost devine.
Only she was left with folds and an opening; like a scar.
 
She would gobble him up, take all of him, swallow him
and her precious place would milk him, shine him up
and then out he would go, defeated, lost, softened.
his magificence blunted by her; and she had his essence.

Her life was full
of goat skins on dirt floors,
long-handled gourds
and grassy luminous platforms.
She walked among stony bridges
across snake-filled foot-paths,
with white owls hooting
and fingers drumming
in the tropical darkness--
or even in the endless bursts
of blue across warm skies.
 
Now, the Queen entered a room
filled with oriental rugs
and velvet chairs on pine,
crystal wine glasses
like veils of twinkling light,
and sparkling chandeliers
bowing to the night.
 
She was not timid in her grandeur
as she crossed the entrance hall--
every pulse beating rapidly,
waiting for her to speak
in a voice like the sunset
melting over mountain peaks.
 
Her silky form glazed iridescent
as she gazed outward--
thoughts rippled upon her chosen prey--
her eyes leaping and undulating
in their strange dance,
weaving a net around
the helpless one:
 
     "When you first hurled yourself at me,
     no great boundless waves
     crashed the earth,
     as you choose to believe.
     Yet time did open secret caves
     leading me to pain and mercy.
 
     "Life was silken euphoric shadows,
     and patches of fading stars,
     as I bent to a light
     I could not understand,
     Neither could I withstand such light--
     distant, haunting murmurs
     played and pushed
     against desire and confusion,
     the weeping and the living.
 
     "But no man
     shall be a stone about my neck--
     I will not contain
     soothing powers or blessings,
     like the calm space all men dream of--
          for destiny drives me
          like a roll of the sea."
 
Silence loomed as her eyes,
like whipcords of strength
tightened, drawing her victim
into a whirling sea,
as the King fell at last,
     into the valiant freedom
     of a Queen, with eyes
     of turqoise green.

He stood peering long into the distance
The castle ramparts solid granite, it fit
his gaze at this moment, high above the dungeon.
A sudden impulse struck and the King urinated
down the side of the cool rocks; a mark of his dominance.
 
Legions would come someday, to assault his symbols,
to chain his captains and rape his women. 
But the castle will stand. Lethal preperations were made.
Scouts ranged far and wide to warn of approaching armies
He sighed, knowing that so much depended upon him.
 
She crept into unguarded thoughts.  Her image, the sound
of her legs moving under silken robes.  The earthyness of her
a scent she had, deep -- primal -- fertile.
He wanted to place her deep in the castle, down in the dark.
Stretch her on the rack, hang her from irons, as he donned a leather mask.
 
The thought aroused him, as the quivers of thickening reminded the King
of his endless need for her.  The beguiling bitch of his consciousness
So deep inside his mind she lay, she inhabited his inner world.
He had consorts, youthful brides at his command, a word and his.
But she tossed him aside as she wished, her head not a worry.
 
This lack of fear, this daliance with death perturbed him.
The Queen would toss a laugh to him, threading it deep.
Ohhhh, to twist that rack handle, to stretch her another inch.
He though of her legs getting longer, so badly he wanted her.
The need for her to be around him, holding strong, the pressure.
 
He climbed down alone again.  His thoughts faded.
The long view sustained him, his need softened for now.
His need to punish the Queen will turn to unseen but gathering
enemies.  Often he wondered what it all meant.

She was not complacent
perched as a bird
in the sun drenched window.
Nor was she silent in her ecstasy--
and the King wondered what
was in her mysterious mind.
Did she dream of her ancestry
sweeping back tides
through eons of time;
of royal dynasties
and Chinese legends;
or of Egyptian realms and
prehistoric centuries?
The Queen revealed nothing
in her opalescent eyes,
with an aura of contentment--
and he longed to join her
in her dreams.
 
His kingdom grew
without and within
and disappeared,
transforming him--
he could not dream of nomads
wandering on waterless soil,
or of ocean wayfarers on
watery paths leading home.
He could not dream of liberty
by knee or land or sea--
he could not conquer anything
until he conquered the Queen.

Her distance beguiled the King.
Shattered a place inside where his confidence sprouted,
the very place that made him Kingly
that spark of manhood that melted his female subjects.
 
The glance from him, a fierce instensity in his eyes.
Women would blush and lower their gaze instantly.
A man who could have them at the snap of his finger,
The KING.  She doused his spark, the fire dimmed.
 
Yes she would remove layers of clothes
Yes she would lay down and allow him
Yes she would open her legs
No she would not guide him inside; her eyes dull, her hips lifeless.
 
He wanted the swoon, the blush the submission
She offered the sullen, the ashen the duty
This distracted our King from the warrior inside.
Carefully but surely his sense of living life had changed.
 
He was begining to love the Queen.
Puzzled he sought answers to a most ancient dilemma
and the thoughts became twittering birds, suddenly in flight.
The King reddened and wished for her head on a platter.

Her head on a platter ... my ... hasn't this taken
on a sadistic turn ... hmmmmm.
 

Reply
   Message 17 of 20 in Discussion   
 
From: Sent: 6/2/2008 5:57 PM
Not so much -- back a ways he wanted to stretch her on the rack.
He was thinking of lengthening her legs
She just beguiles him to the point of anger cause he doesn't
know how to get what he wants from her.  A classic
hard to get scenario.  You missed the "thoughts became twittering
birds" line just above the head one.  I kinda liked that --
maybe I rushed the ending 
 

Reply
   Message 18 of 20 in Discussion   
 
From: jåsmïne‡Åkïrå© Sent: 6/3/2008 6:48 AM
No, I DID like the thoughts line--
just didn't say anything.  Perhaps
I should have.
 
Regarding rushing the ending,
I'm not sure why you say that.
 
One area that's a challenge for me
is the Queen laying there with no
response.  Not even sure what
that's like.   Even witchy bitchy
woment get wild when it comes
to sex-- maybe even wilder.
 
BUT, I WILL think of something.
 
Thanks for the reply, as always. 

She does not sing,
but whispers his name in
haunted intentions,
low and gentle.
Dark nights embark kisses of rage
and a will draped in wrath
and the still-white of beginnings.
 
The Queen would not fall on razors
of splendid blue days;
she would not bury her thoughts
in a facade of mellow thorns,
or roses, tortured for the
purpose of giving or for love
or for the aimless show
of a showman's hope.
 
Her sorrow is bordered
with wisdom, and her
visions aligned with truth--
and all of her words----
whether brutal or splendid--
are written with the wings of
a Queen in mystery--
her impression among the silk
of pretentious gowns hanging,
always prepared and waiting.
 
Royal sheets and linen cloth
promise rest and tangle as one,
embedded by King and Queen,
yet lay styled and smooth with
a seamless token of sleep.
 
She will not write dramatically
on the walls of his arriving,
or of her coming alive;
nor will she sing or cry or
relive memories of her life--
escaping more than twice
in a dance of many well-trained
knives, or any weapon--
causing only vivid complaints
and tainted of words no one
would hear-  or of wounds
never self-impaired;  or scars
never left unattended,
or memories without names.
 
Her myriad of perfect rooms
blend and rise, always remaining
young and light-  her silence
is mystical-  her inheritance bold--
and her life held as high
as the cheeks of chiseled bone,
and no moment ever a mistake.
 
Her words are holy,
climbing the soul of the King,
the One who's dream is to
set fire fire the day--  he is
timeless--  the Queen's only desire--
with her wings never burning away.

Hardly There
 
 
What did I do this time?
Have you forgotten
you were icing on the muffin
and sweet as butter cream last night?
 
I bent over when you told me to.
Leaned forward like I always do
and wound myself around you,
delivering intercourse like wine.
 
You were so convincing:
it was all so very private.
Yet you painted me like paper
with simple yellow flowers
and smoothed out every wrinkle
you didn't need to mention.
 
Why the glaze in your eyes
if I'm still worthy
of your hands and knees
crawling through me,
like I'm a garden on the wall?
 
Why the stare without meaning
while back and forth
your body moves inside me,
yet I am hardly there?
 
 
Lest I forget that you are my only lover,
surely there is something I can do:
 
I will awaken your sleepy mind
and listen to your sounds.
I will blow through you
like the breath of a tunnel--
a summer wind whirling round--
and the shine of sun
coming down in the darkness,
holding you spellbound.
 
Once or twice I will take you
like a fountain in my mouth--
and a sky of clouds will empty--
raining silver trumpets and whistling
a return to innocence
with eager tongues unaware
like slender fingers dancing--
hardly there, yet everywhere.
 
 
ca.leverette
04/08

Wisdom spoke of vision
and said to me,
     "This road is not for you.
      You will not make it through,"
and drove me toward the shoreline
and washed me with the tide.
 
So I chased the pain
and tossed it out
and locked myself
against the pounding at the door,
where gleaming eyes were winking
through the window-watch,
from out of the night like starfish
in a blue-black sea.
 
Innocence ran far and fast
from the tenderness
of the tender's grasp,
and though our dreams are brief,
like unfinished symphonies,
fierceness pierced the darkness
with a royal sound, and
roaring winds spilled many summers,
exhausting every fallen star
and bathed us
in a brilliant percoid heat.
 
Illusion sparkled
of silent stolen light,
closing in on all my earthly-things--
rare and delicate, were they--
beating in a rhythm primal,
resolving men to life,
where our very closeness here
in this world, steals our future,
and ever seals our fate.
     
Wisdom spoke of vision,
and said to me,
     "Such fierceness does not last,
      and is never safe".
 
And to wisdom,
I'll succumb-- but,
I must ask:
     "Why, when we leave the shore,
      and all is left undone,
      must we always land
      one day late
      behind the sun?"
 

Craving
 
Ah, Succubus, succ-u-bus,
or might you be Incubus,
the demon who laughs
as we blame what we create?

I know this one thing --
I long to be with you.
My body craves to crawl inside you
to drink your soul as you eat my flesh.

Will you slither beneath me,
your arms bent, curled about
my neck and shoulders,
your hands grasping, fingers

tugging, tangled in my hair,
a fusion of desperation and need?
Or will you rise above me
levitating lust, salivating greed,
my legs curled about your waist,
your pulsating phallic member,
stroking ... demanding ... stroking?

There is a rumor you are merely a myth.
Yet I know your heart beat.
You gnaw at me like the fire of hell
and the Sun god's furious heat.

Wanton waif I am, I covet you.
My soul is barren -- you have consumed me.
I ache for you, inciting your deceit and lies.
From a deep dark hole inside, you bewitch me.
My lust is devoted, separated for you.

What a serpentine beauty you are!
Do I care that you are male?
If you were female would it matter?
You could be nothing at all --
Why would I be concerned?
My only discernment: You are here.
I've memorized your call.

cont....

~gingertyme~

If life unbearably pressed me,
tempted to take the dastardly fall,
you would not let me go.
You have attached yourself to me;
a fascinating parasite disguised.

On sleepless nights you come to me,
whispering seductively,
righteously and raspy,


     "Be still, you restless one.
     You have submitted to my enticement.
     You've befriended me.
     I have captivated you.
     I will flood your inner valley
     with thick rich come.
     

     "You will never be satisfied.
     I will always be the one.
     I know precisely what you need,
     what words to speak,
     what shadows to flail about you.
     

     "I mesmerize your enchanting bud,
     once innocent, now possessed and swollen.
     I circle your knot so hard,
     tantalizing your beguiling clit,
     with fingers sinister and slick.

     "My tongue teases and flicks,
     reveals many a secret.
     My hands, stealth with perfection,
     caress you, dangerously deep
     inside a ravenous place so hungry,
     with your lust, all my flesh you eat.


     "Will I let you go? No.
     You will succumb, fetal and helpless,
     you suck of me, suck the Succubus.
     Nurse the Incubus ... winding about you
     a tale of sin, and dark, empty caverns.
     

     "Still you croon mindlessly with lust for me.
     Ah yes, I am Succubus.
     I am the Incubus."

cont....

~gingertyme~

With one word from you,
dark shadows divide me,
come inside me,
open me wide to you.

I want you again and again,
lost with the taste, the scent,
the filling of you Succubus,
my Incubus.

You grow, you swell, you harden,
until no room is left inside
my drenched, orgasmic womb.

Sighing, moaning, uttering sounds
even demons cannot diffuse,
once more, a night I am spent.

I feel you smile inside me,
I know you will be waiting
until I beg your entrance once again.

~gingertyme~

If allowed your rebirth
would your elusive delusion,
at last, find a remedy?
 
This wallpapered
world of maps
is like a forbidden formula,
a terrible algebra--
the multiplicity of a grand divide
designed by a captivating
and calculating calculus.
   
Which one of us
is more like
the wayfarer,
abandoning himself,
waltzing into
the wake of grace,
returning with
supplication and renewal
for his lost crew?

To know a man
is to know
that which conquers him.
 
 
Dammit!  WHY
do you do what you do?
 
Because you like it.
Because you can't control it.
You can't conquer it.
It conquered you in the past,
and continues to conquer you,
everyday.
 
It feels good,
and this is why:
because you don't
understand it.
You can't figure it out.
It's not statistical.
You can't define it.
You allow it
to define you.
 
Like an addict,
you can't say no.
 
Like the insane,
you don't know
     what
     or why
you're doing
     what
     to whom
     or when.
 
You are dumb-founded.
Deeply. 
In so deep, you are lost.
 
Like a puppet,
you hand the master's strings
back to him,
because they were never yours,
and the puppetmaster reminds you
that you can't win.
You lose the war
everyday.
 
You want it,
and this is why:
because you can't make
it go away.
It's stronger than you.
You're too weak
to win the battle,
so you go back for more
everyday.
 
You're unashamed
of your actions,
unabashed,
in your behaviour.
Would I tell you again?
     I will.
Because you have an enemy,
an enemy hiding from you.
You look, but you never
find your opposition.
Your rival is alive and well,
and you can't beat him.
So, you
embrace an invisible,
but very real, enemy
everyday.
 
Like a jack-in-the-box,
you are a prisoner
in a colored tin box
that your god made for you.
Custom-made, for you.
You're a captive
until the victor
winds you up,
and let's a part of you
pop out, and bob,
bobbing for attention,
like a puppy,
for a pat on the head,
looking for strength to win
the medal,
power to earn the
trophy.
But you never win.
 
Your victor
knows how to conquer you,
The puppetmaster
knows how to wind you up
so tight,
when at last you spring free,
the only thing you know
     is not what's true.
The only thing you know
     is what you feel,
and for a few minutes
     you feel free.
And still,
you never win.
 
It was just a little taste.
Just enough to
keep you prisoner,
and beg for the winder
of the key
to set you free.
 
     To know you--
     to know a man,
     is to know
     that which conquers him.
 
I've met the power
that rules you,
the power that you can't
and don't overcome.
I've seen a defeated man,
blind on the battlefield.
 
I've met the enemy.
It's not me.
I've seen what controls you,
what defeats you,
what conquers you,
and now I say,
with a wisdom beyond
my own understanding:
     
     I know you.
 
I know you,
my friend.

I will always be anxious
and you will always speak
with surprising irony
and both of us
will always be hungry
for freedom
for the world
and for each other.
 
An elixer of time and space
you were a canyon eternally deep
and I was the wind whispering
until darkness would drink you up.
Then, I was the wind wailing.
 
You were the stalwart rock,
I was the ever-flickering flame
and with great gasps
like martyrs in a renaissance drama
we would drop to our knees
as if somehow we had earned
the right to shout "glory".
 
You were a hawk
and I was your stain against the sky
splattered like fins of silver
in your stony talons
and together we carried
all of our stories
and dropped each one
into caves, sleeting and frozen.
 
We were flames:
we were birds
we were singers;
but mostly we were wrestlers,
wrestling the sweetness of hunger
with the sun of many days
rising between us.

poured out
plundered for you
by the law of love.
recipriocity
at her finest
her highest
her must ultimate
goal, a gleam
in the eye
of vulnerability.
an ache drawn
from the deep
of passion's bounty.
an avalanche of need
at last consuming
humanity's greed
giving herself over
to a fantastic scheme
succumbing
to the fancy of reality
only in dreams.

In love
with these tiny spaces--
familiar glowing faces
and lovely finger traces
 
I come
to a favored place
looking for you,
neglected muse
and for what
did I hide your face
fear, despondency
rappelling latent
complacency
 
None of those
have I rejected you
but for the whisp
of many vapors
only to watch
them disappear
 
Time spent
in shallow waters
yet you are deep
and never wake
the sleeping
always tenderly
absorbing tears
of the weeping
even when my dreams
come alive in you
rocks in pockets
of a stranger
diamonds no longer
in the raw
primed to gleam
among dangers
of the stronger
 
A pinwheel
of childish
colored paper
twirling curls
searching
misted blurs
in greener
fields of vapor
I leave you behind
from time to time
and trade you in
for secrets
never once sublime
worshipped last
the divine
is what you are
hidden in every line
 
Whisper truth
in fairy tales
spinning fast
blinding gales
turn to you
at last
when all along
I sacrificed
your tune
your song
for temporal
Babylon.

Like a rural countryside, I am gray on a wintry day.
My pallet is dark and desolate, creating images
of flat fields, in boundaries.
 
Tall and long timber--
trees of solemnity dim silently to dust.
Barren are my branches.
 
Lyrical muted dusk in trembling timbre sings.
Empty farmhouses with glass windows answer me
like lone wolves howling in strange hypnotic strings:
      the wind through hollowed pine.
 
Streams, scarce of water
line my fingers on the inside.
In constant transit are my palms,
     turning outward.

So close to the edge
we lit up the night
awakened a decade of silence
and wrote the story of our lives.
The veils we peered through
were lifted.
We saw firey candles
painting our world
and heard music
stolen from our souls.
 
We were courageous
and built mansions
in the unknown.
We sat on thrones,
our imaginations singing
in velvet robes
the royalty of a purple rose.
 
We cupped words
like water pouring,
running through our fingers.
We scooped up dirt
and found the womb of earth.
We bent our knees to fire
and at last we knew the flame.
We felt those words too.
They sparkled like fireflies
like rhymes dancing
in a dark forest
unafraid of the light.
 
Our dreams were barefoot
and we dangled them
tangled them over the edge
washing our feet
in cool streams of water,
refreshed by words
drawing sparkling brooks in trails,
leading us to the next oasis.
We satisfied our thirst
with water
and with words.
 
And the water
was no longer still
and the words
were no longer silent.

Stolen and silent
like silver-steel,
this sorrow.
Erratic and irrational,
the irony.
 
From the west
a hellish quest:
fires burn
in need of water.
 
In the east
rivers churn
and overflow.
Children drown
in need of a savior.
 
Rains fall,
reins tighten;
from east to west
the mighty reigns,
and once again
like a prayer,
this promise:
I'm calling out your name.

So deep,
so deep in centrifugal earth,
glows the brightest gold;
none bolder man will know.
If not for the glory of the stone
human eyes would not behold
such beauty of the gold.
 
I watered and softened the soil,
preparing it for the mine.
I dug desperately, prodding patiently.
I stretched out-- lengthen'd my hands.
My fingers grew numb, until
darkness drummed again.
Tears fall on pages of wisdom
and I do,
I do not sleep.
 
I worked the ground
and awakened the fields.
I fed my flock and
gathered my hundred-herd.
But the earth, her riches
she would,
she would not yield.
 
My pottery I've broken.
My flesh I've ripp'd.
I've ceased my feasting,
my drinking, and
listened to heaven's message.
Yet armies attack and
capture my kindred.
Fire falls
and falls from the sky,
sweeps down and
destroys this home.
 
Where is the God of the Holy,
Creator of Leviathan, the evil?
I return to my childhood
and cry;  I weep and plead
growing tired like a child,
desperate for rest
but peace is strange;
understanding-- void.
 
I dream of the day you touch me,
and like a babe,
I close my eyes and rest,
awakening to a new
world shining, shining
of the purest gold.

this is powerful
and beautiful,
you are prolific.

i don't think i can read
as fast as you can write
so i can't read it all, but...

Oh, I'm not writing this as I post it.  I'm copying and pasting some of it.  I love this website and would like to have stuff close at hand.

Thank you Scott.  I'm glad you liked the above whatevah-it-is.  That means it didn't hit home with you, which means you're not like that, right?  lol  just kiddin.  I don't mind men and the ways of men.  In fact, I like them very much.  Women are the same way.  We have our secrets and our idiosyncrasies, as you well know.

Thanks again for stopping by,
Cheryl

no
i do see the tendency
of what is outlined
in men, it's not
absolute for sure,
but a slice.

well done

actually
i didn't see it as a condemnation at all
but a loving observation.

i saw you;
your inside
sprayed across
a page today.
such worry,
such insight
i stopped asserting
when i knew
i knew nothing but what i feel,
i look
for beauty -
i look
for truth,
without
a hope
of ever
touching it,
like a vagrant
warming by
a campfire
burning
dollar bills.

well, I just sat and stared at this.  didn't know what to say.  don't know what to say, except thank you very much.

you're very kind, probably much more than you know,
cheryl

i'm glad you took it that way,
i didn't know if i was breaking some kind of protocol.
your beautiful poetry helped inspire this poem
so i thought it belonged here,

thanks

Oh no, you will never break any protocol where I'm concerned when you address me with poetry as lovely as you write.  I almost took your last sentence, which is very good, and replied to you in kind, but you deserve more than that for such a kind gesture.  However, I may still do it, as long as I know you know your comments and participation are truly appreciated.  I do not take them flippantly or take them for granted, by any means.

Thanks again, Scott.

Approachin' fifty-three,
considerin' rollin' pennies for gas
she's a far cry from drivin'
the 98 Eclipse cherry-versus-lemon
red as blood off the final chop
of the family tree that does her in.

She's easy pickin's for bad luck. 
Right when she's ready to lay it
all back, that blow is off the chain
sure brings her to the knees
she's already on, worshipin'
in the church, where in

his over sized shitty brown
Dakota pick up truck
her husband and best friend
come to know each other
the Biblical way, compliments of
the Sunday School parkin' lot

and Western Sizzlin' buffet
on any available week day.
They're guilty as sin. those two
are dirty as wall eyed catfish suckin'
mud from the Arkansas River
where the water flows

keepin' the broken tree alive. 
What happens in the moments
she reads the wadded up love
letter, pencil scribblin's
on the back of a Days Inn receipt,
she doesn't know how her life

turned black as Ozark Mountain coal
or how reality is a nappy rug
pulled out from under her feet.
Now strange faced folks in
nightmares laugh at her with no
face, wakin' her up, wakin' up

everyday, she's on the way
to fifty-three, collectin' penny rolls. 

She'll plant another tree. 

I thought surely I'd visited Death Valley
Thought I'd swam in the Salty Sea
But only my visions were of a valley
My delusions were deadly and deep.
 
When my Dad died, I was broken.
How can the broken be broken more?
Like hell, I clang on the Gates of Heaven
and like Clapton, who knew the truth
when he said, I'm "knockin' on Heaven's Door".
 
I watched my Dad suffer.
I held him when he died.
Now I live with my Mom in her suffering,
I fight and fight, I swear I do,
but I cannot cease this crying.
 
I speak often to the God of the Universe
There's no greater power than His
No higher mountain to climb
No sweeter voice to hear
Not a more precious thought to
contemplate, than the sound of wind
I hear, as He whispers to me, "wait".
 
When Daddy grew weary
and held his head in hands
When it was more than his daughter
could stand, I would walk out the door
of sorrow, if that's what I chose to do.
But so strange a tint, is this visitor-- 
this grief living in our home:
tough, unfamiliar, and shaded
in colors, relentless and ever-new
and I can't, like a selfish dancer
waltz out the doors of gray,
mysteriously cloaked in blue.
 
I thought I'd swam the Salty Sea
in a visitation of the Valley of Death
but salty is a never-ending tear
and the Valley is my Mom and me.

In the end
on her silver anniversary
a dark-soul
will return
to light and color.
 
She will break ground.
Move the earth.
Shake death valley.
 
Luminous is her beauty.
Cyclical is her color.
Her strength is luxurious.
 
She is a calendar of years
a cult object, exclusive
to collectors of depth
to lovers in circular stairwells
hollow with her design.
 
Her passing
marks decades
renowned with
visions and images
tracing history
in costume
in fashion
and the taste of time.
 
In revolution
she becomes the end.
Coveted paremeters
stretch, deliver her.
No longer
is she an object
but a prize.

Fingers touch
Quick tongue licks
Flutter by me now
I need this twitch.
 
Tiny swats
Your sweet lips
Taste all of me now
I want this twitch.
 
Return the favor?
O yeah I will.
You'll beg me to stop,
But you'll want me still.
 
Round a lap we go
Such decadent lust
This fanciful show
It's "fuck me slow".
 
I'm your tease
You tantalize me
Tempt to please
Your death I'll be.
 
Twitches and quakes
Murmurs and groans
Knots and aches
A "grind-me" moan.
 
All these things
A man to make
I won't ask
What's mine I'll take.
 
You want me slow
I'll fuck you fast
I want you hard
But you won't last.
 
Tease to please
Dreams are these
Or will I be
On my knees?
 
Milky and sweet
You see me now
Your aim is clear
I need you here.
 
Whisper heat
Upon my neck
Tell me lies
Between these thighs.
 
Blow and burst
Your come I've stirred
You start this swirl
With mere a word.
 
Flesh-flight screams
Flutter-by wings
Quake-quasi switch
A "dare me" twitch.
 
This orgasmic space without any air,
Lost in a place called "we don't care.

Long ago in the 19th century
lived Jemalynne, of British aristocracy,
and due to her rebellious attitude
made to ride a horse, bareback in the nude,
through an open field where a multitude
of men and women watched Jemalynne,
very excited from such a tremulous trip.
 
Quite a shock this was to young Jem,
well endowed she was, now seen, her audience
could not help but become excited and begin
to pleasure themselves (and to her amazement,
each other as well), in a field wide and open
of the 19th century, ever so proper and prim.
 
Sexual tension
mounted as all the women,
exhausting themselves when
they simply could not remove the silly
pantaloons underneath quickly,
to find the wet spot seeping
through the many
layers of clothing a lady
wore back then.
 
As a result, the men became even more aroused
whilst the English, whether proper or espoused,
would only express such comments as these,
     "But, oh my dear sweet
     Madam, waiting only for me,
     how moist your sex must be,
     to learn how much more
     this hard, engorged
     rod will do for you, than your
     fingers, yet novice and pure".
 
Jemalynne merely watched, gleeful and giddy,
men and women of the 19 century, sexually
privy, aroused and silly, the British aristocracy.

Wet heat covers me all at once,
the smooth, solid contact I crave. 
Your entrance,
and essence,
both powerful and timely,
stretches, raises, and exposes
what only you see. 
Please,
allow me
to ride out these
quakes.  Then I will be
encouraged by this trembling
till the end. 
 
With every aftershock, I am amazed,
while at the epicenter of all I am, you remain,
suddenly swallowing, drinking all of me,
lost in this orgasmic work of art.  Freely
you exhaust this chamber and glean
white-hot strands, once alive in dreams,
now a steaming struggle, living and
dispersed, throughout the whole of me.

She was provocative,
deep and delightful.
He was an artist
surpassing the form.
When there was no light
in which he could work
she would go to him
and provide a subject
for his hidden canvas
and his paltry palette.
Sometimes she was
a circus act,
walking a tight-rope.
Other times
she was a clown,
because in that dark
under-the-earth place
his whole life assumed
the character of imprisonment.

Up in the Ozark mountains
when a man wants a rub,
or if he gives ya' a rub
all he really wants
is some grub
for that growin' belly
and all those teeth he's missin'.
 
On the flatlands
a man would rather
give a rub than
than ask for one
'cause he's honest and true
and "dammit!  He really likes you!"
 
BUT, in proper Scotland
here's the way it is.
(this is true but you'll
find it hard to believe.
made me laugh till I pee'd.
if you're Scottish, just
laugh with me, please).
 
I told a fine Scottish man
he had a positive attitude.
To this very nice man,
(and respectable too)
I said boldishly unknowingly,
     "maybe if I hang around you,
     it'll rub off on me".
I meant his attitude!
 
But the poor man was surprised!
And said I wasn't very nice.
I grabbed my book of euphemisms
and looked up the "rub off"-isms.
 
I'll be damned if I didn't
tell that fine man
that if I hang around him
long enough, maybe
he'll be jackin'-off on me!
 
Needless to say,
there's nothing else to say.
I remain me,
innocent or guilty.

He put me in handcuffs
made "special" for
crazies like me.
But when I met you
I threw away the cuffs
and swallowed the key.
 
I'm still me
but, dammit,
I'm free.

The wind, like a bridal gown,
blew a black gale-- a black veil
across my lips
when he entered the room.
     
'Twas the sweet kiss of death,
he said.

Buckling under, my knees weak'nd.
Silent, my eyes grew wide
 
at his antithesis--
sad and mournful
a kiss, striking me with terror
and erotic excitement.

 
Throbbing ecstasy soared through me
fireballs of uncontrollable heat.
Visions rushed and pleaded,
bleeding, soaking and filling me.

 
At last, I opened my eyes 
to flickering candlelight
and a warm, sensuous glow.
Black wind turned me gently

caressing my face.
In glimmering light I could see
blood-red lace strewn about me
I could hear soft after-life music,

and felt such thorns of many roses
upon my pillow.
Dangerous and dark,
a presence swarmed round me.

I remembered the kiss.
I remembered it,
just as he said:
     "Fingers will play upon your neck and breasts

     "... and before you take your next breath,
     your lips will welcome
     my sweet kiss of death.
     You will never again wonder,
     
     "'Am I dead or alive?'
     Now 'tis so. 
     You will snap in space and time,
     devouring nectar-laced knowledge
     
     "that forever,
     you shall be mine."

Black veil did turn
turning again... and bit,
 
whispering,
     "So be it".

Around midnight,
on the Eve of a Revolution--
the war between Ignorance and Revelation,
as the Maidens did parade;
and the Age of Steel waylaid,
the King hid his treasure-house
filled with mirrors made of jewels
unearthed by villages
with weapons of iron
before the grilles and screens
of churches
gave the working class a chance,
with skills famous and unsurpassed.
When strength remained the instinct of man
a greater war was at hand ....

II.
 
The orchestra hall was jammed--
packed with men and women far;
up and down and all around--
a program of stars.
 
As the feathered fowl of enlightenment
chirped and twittered to and from,
a strange, foul-winged presence
entered the huge auditorium.
 
And carried
by his tarried-side
confusion and fighting;
arguing and backbiting.
 
From the last row and moving forward,
like a flock of doves in coat and tails,
every gentleman and lady,
stood and took a bow,
deferring to the side of
his-and-her outstretched hand.
 
The strange presence lingered,
meandered and faded,
as honor and nobilty
replaced the shameless presence, 
unafraid of darkened space.
 
 
III.
 
The orchestra grew quiet
as instruments were tuned.
The muscians were prepared
on the blue of a hollowed moon.
 
Row upon row,
slender shafts of iron
wrought twisted designs,
turning feathery and flighted
on an ore-smelted wheel:
sharpened the New Age of Steel
in a battle of free will.
 
Civilization in journey,
now a masterpiece of peril
as an ancient unseen tribe
conquered decadence and pride.
 
Kingdom in tyranny,
culture of artistry,
liberty-twice-bound
by no more than heresy and irony:
an open door for all inclined.

Smack-dirty ho
 
 
Hey ho, how bout you now?
Layin lo witcha romeo?
Maybe he's playin hide-da-ho.
I be laughin so low
at nuthin but a yo-yo ho.
Don't cha know I got it so-slo?
 
If I be schemin witcha dolla
I don't worry -- I just holla.
But you don't know bout that.
You don't know where I'm at.
Too busy smackin spit-spat.
See ho, I keep my mouth clean.
 
I know you don't know bout that.
Cuz ya ain't got my G-sheen.
Hmm ho?  I do know bout that.
Know more than you can dream.
Cuz I'm fightin for my clean.
Nah, you don't know me, ho.
 
Cuz if you knew me, ho
you wouldn't be bout me, ho.
You wouldn't talk bout me, ho.
Don't know Gurl's thrown slight-lee.
So don't be talkin shit bout me.
Cuz I'm fast as lightning
 
when it comes to a yo-ho's ding.
Knowin you don't like me cuz
your man Sho-Nuff does.
He's watchin all the time.
You been watchin your blind-side.
Aight ho? Got only yourself in mind.
 
So ho, you don't know bout that, tho.
You say your fru-fru scary-poo?
I say you better keep very kewl.
I'd sure hate to bury you.
A word-slap or two
you be losin that a-ti-tude.
 
See, I know bout that, ho.
Ain't got nobody fooled.
Not like you do.
Cuz I don't try to.
Cuz I keep my mouth clean.
Got nothin to re-deem.
 
But you don't know bout that.
Been tossin the to-ta-fro.
 
Ain't nothin but a smack-dirty ho.

Alone, I begin my watch
of the sun bleed
on trees of green
wearied and bursting,
as crimson threads
make my bed:
     you are my world tonight.
 
Should you stumble
in the darkness
neath a nether-long,
I will be your song;
falling down now,
on your shoulders
an offering to rest:
     my mat of tenderness.
 
In my tears the sun sets.

Life holds for you
a brilliant sky
filled with stars
twinkling every color
of the rainbow
But first
there is a bridge you shall cross
a ladder you will find,
and climb,
a mountain you must scale
tunnels you will travel,
a valley you must divide
 
-- and its name is
the shadow of death

Curled in a ball
with the lights off
I wait
until the ripples
are smooth
from the stone you skipped
across my placid sea,
as delicate as glass
breaking
 
and I wonder if I have
any foundation at all.

Dancers danced
as if by accident
then dropped the pretense
as bister-darkened eyes
stared from underneath
plumage, the darts
of a nocturnal bird watched.
 
Her illusion was extraordinary
and no one stopped
to ask why
as if she were nothing more
than an owl or a sparrow
deaf to human vowels.
 
From midnight till dawn
the moon lit up the night,
waned, and dropped
in the eastern sky.
Circles formed among the stars
like circles on the earth
and captured the bird
 
With chains
parting her kness
dancers peered with flames
warming her thighs
to see the depth inside.
 
She chased the summer
moonlight and found the heat
to feel the earth grow warm
beneath her freedom-feet
to move beyond
the moon-dancers,
where she dropped her chains
underneath a winter sun.

Many voices flow through you
of sea
of land, and
of the mystic caribou.
 
I shall lift the latch and set you free
be silent
be still, and
constantly pour yourself through me.
 
You are my fervor and have my gratitude
to stay
to remain, and
from another view
the color of passion in greens and blue
changes from me to you
yet never of a lesser hue.
 
In truth, I long to know you
but I am bound by no mere sacrifice
of who we are in this place
the author of a more meaningful self
such is this fruitful life
born for much greater, a paradise.
 

I was searching for a stranger
in places where strangers go.
The stranger fled
to a drummer's dwelling
and his drum opened for me.
I flew round the curvature and fell,
lost inside the drum.
 
Soon the sun began to set
and I longed to feel
the drumbeats I couldn't see.
 
Ay, the stranger threw me
in the drum
with the strength
in his fingers and thumb,
but I escaped
alone and on my own
from the stranger
and his empty drum.

so, you think you're wise
     to the pain in these lies
but never were you privy
     to the why in this disguise.
 
promises can't be broken
     that's my take, that's my token
paid when the swear was made
     over secrets never spoken.
 
your tune of fluted solitude
     kept me bound and bruised
tightly reigned in disdain--
     hissing piss'd-off pee-s and cues
 
your debut was oh-so-you
     your materialism new
shining-brilliant is your future
     blinding you to your past
     of black and blue.

There are times I must miss something I never had, because I don't know what it is.  The sadness eludes me like the butterfly cliche, but the tears stay, and stain, leaving tracks like false memories.
 
Who was I back then?  When I loved everyone?  When I would have made love to the moon and her stars if she would have allowed it?  And the songs I played for her beat a melody like the fingers of a lost angel, waiting for her lover to return-- because she knew he would ... she knew he would return.
 
Have I forgotten how to wait?  How to hope?  How to believe that even though I feel such mediocrity, I truly am more unique than the starlit rings of Jupiter playing round about, like the miracle of a new beginning?  And that miracles and new beginnings are not fairy tales....
 
Tell me this is a dream, but do not tell me it will not come to pass--
 
and this is what I am not ashamed to beseech from all of you--
 
you are my beloved--
 
and I cannot, I will not be any less honest than this.
 
 
cherylanne

If you're a man of pimbly-nimble
here's your deserved recognition
a little of this, a bit of that--
in fact, I'll take some back.
Your double-feet must be stronger
so you shall dance a little longer.
Not sure of what or who's insane.
Might be we are ignorant of the game
and though your valleys be not deep
at least your mountains aren't too steep.
I remit and admit a lesson I did learn
and now this I must proclaim:
     the sane stain your hands
     as your feet in circumstance
     never weary of the lame.

Have you no other fields to romp in
and must you romp in mine?
You rode in here on my back
and now by my side
you are a parasite
hoping to stay alive.
 
You were kicked and butted
all the way from here to there
and its the pity of irony that you
return, simply because you have
 no-where.
 
Dare I say beware these fields
they have grown and changed a bit.
This time round, should you dally
 in the wrong pasture,
 your romp will be
 heading else-where. 
 
And have you no respect for the dead?
You act-out scenes from epitaphs
as if you are deaf, dumb and blind
never understanding
the words once said.
 
These fields were my land once
and I was foolish to gather you in
but its not too late for you
to don new blinders 
for your  wandering eye
and muzzle your froward mouth,
lest I open up and finish the  tightening
of the loosened-noose
tis now  round your neck.
 
You asked me so many questions
and I answered every one
but it appears you will not
learn a lesson in words
and the gurgling you heard
is your drowning, yet you don't see
this sea of weed will suck you in
until the funneling of it,
and you, are finally done.
 

The avenue we paved
we walk still--
we always will
dream sometimes
and a presence lingers
 
The bridge we built
we needed--
souls daring to meet.
Not flesh to flesh
but spirits to see.
 
In our forest, we were lost
not knowing another's touch
or what sights we'd see
but believing came easily
in the nature we explored
 
we learned to create
something from nothing
and all from everything.
Our travels taught us
to understand
even in
misunderstanding.
 
We painted peace through conflict
and ran from anger to affection
stumbled from fear to protection--
the blind truly do lead the blind
from madness
even to
acceptance.
 
We formed a new way
making sense from need
uncovering visions lost
awakening fantastic slumber
 
At last we could declare
affection and care
are not like math solutions
Differences are
good and right
never black and white
 
We explored with
meaning and value
nurturing those moments
when the impossible
becomes possible
 
Fragrant are the memories
and flagrantly we struggled
to believe in pleasure;
in discovering
there are no secret agents
hiding behind masked villians.
 
Sometimes, we are
who we are
and nothing more,
stumbling dangerously
like brilliant falling stars--
the few who risk it all
to lace one's life
with a stranger.
 
The avenue remains.
The bridge is sturdy
and strong
and the forest
we never saw
for the trees
was you and me.
 

Although a muse may be neglected,
and the light may dim,
I'm not sure it will ever abandon a writer. 
It will always return. 
 
This is an interesting concept though --
the thought that a muse has a life of its own,
a will of its own.
But a muse, by definition,
is birthed by the writer
and lives and breathes by the writer's pen. 
 
So, a muse can be neglected,
but it will always return.
 
Personally,
my muse will never abandon me,
because its part of me.
By another's view,
I may neglect myself,
maybe even abandon myself,
but in truth I can't do either,
because my life is not my own
but belongs to a greater power
far beyond anything I can imagine.

It is three am in the morning.
My fire will not go out.
My lamp does not smoke.
I have plenty of wood
an more than enough oil.
I will never go to bed.
There is a fever in my brain
and I cannot sleep,
lest I dream of him
who is on the way to me, and
my fever turns to delerium--
delerious dreams of tomorrow.
 
Outside, the night is calm and silent.
Tender, moist air softens the ground
beneath a sky sparkling with stars.
Somewhere in the night
he is on his way.
Through space, I see him.
I see him dreaming,
serious and enormous;
light-hearted and humble--
at the same time.
He is coming toward me and
as he draws nearer he smiles,
bringing gifts of freedom and peace.
 
....
I suppose I should give
credit where credit is due.
I should show him the utmost justice.
He truly is charming, just as he says.
A little solemn too, but oh, he
plans things so very well.
 
In the evenings, he pulls words
from his very own pocket
and revives my drooping spirit.
During the day he makes use of
the power of persuasion,
and his own philosophy,
and overwhelms me with
lofty thoughts and comforting phrases--
which both provoke and
soothe me in one instant.
 
Soon, he will silence all discussion
and draw me to him
under a kiss that falls
like a blow to the heart.
Soon, in a moment of passion,
with soft words and caresses,
he will kiss me asif he were
confessing a crime,
but I will be powerless against
his will and he will hold me and
possess me like a demon.
 
I think I would be happy being his,
and I will do whatever
he wishes me to do.
And whether innocent or guilty,
I may even go wherever
he tells me to go--
so great this hold he has on me.

The path we struck, we wander still
and, dreamlike, wonder will a presence linger.

A bridge of need, we built to meet
not flesh to flesh, but spirit to spirit;

we could not see our forest through our trees.
Not knowing how to touch what we explored,

we traveled lightly and gave in gently
to the insistence of impossible moments.

Ex nihlo alius. We found we could declare affections
flagrantly, as if the blind could lead the blind.

There are no masked villains here; no hand
to take away what is offered. We are who we are:

two brilliant falling stars, flaming
to lace lives to strangers.

Oh don't you know
I'm beautiful this way?
That's what I heard 'em say
all my life, and you know,
I believe what I wanna believe.
I don't wanna know you
or anyone like you.
You say you care, dammit,
don't answer me when I cry. 
 
No one's gonna rule over me.
I ain't in your kingdom.
I ain't your kind.
No one's gonna judge me.
Don't you know? 
I know my righteousness
ain't like yours.
I'm poor.  I'm needy. 
So what are you? 
So where do you live? 
Yeah, I know better.
I know much better than you do.
 
If I let you in, if I stay with you,
if I breath a little,
while you remain, 
you might relieve me from myself
and save me from all this pain
bringin' me into you,
and oh no, that won't do.
Wont do, cause I ain't stupid.
I ain't gettin' that close to you. 
 
Why would anyone love me? 
I never done one good thing,
not one nice deed,
from the beginning to end.
No one really cares about me,
and God, it consumes me like a fire,
but hell, I ain't no liar.
I never claimed to be
anymore than what I seem.
I'm so much less than what you see
and so much more than what you fear.
 
That's all I need to push you away.
No, no way, will I let you get to me. 
Don't want your peace,
don't want your care,
don't want your desire.
Your damn  fiery trinity
tryin' to consume me,
and God it hurts,
God, it hurts
knowin' you're right.

where will I go
when the east wind blows
what will I do
in shelters of snow
 
hatred stings
as a robin sings
so shall I escape
his suffering
 
along the top
of a great, great wall
I make my way
through a widening bay
 
my eyes
sweep the horizon
my fingers
carve the rampart
the stone is soft
as a wooden cross
astonished
at my remembering
 
the beginning spark
in the first of fires
is swift in his departure
leaving without a mark.

In this,
the last turning
of your head,
I will not speak to you
with tears.
What was yours
is no more;
shackled in black,
your silk I wore.
Though you wound
and should redeem
I have bled,
now I'm clean.
And though you bury
me, I will rise
on the day of my resurrection
borne on the wings of this,
your final rejection.

When I consider this paradox
never has there been a more beautiful one
never one more passionate.
Closely I love, yet wars surround me
tearing at intimacy,
the pulling away of enlightenment.
 
On moist patches of grass
beneath jewel-laden skies,
on palace balconies,
wherever eternity and time collide,
this is where every pore of my soul cries.
 
Why must ecstacy's first flush pass?
Why must heat's early devotion cool?
I am in love ... yet now
I have fallen away?
 
My deepest nature is marked,
primal desperation quieted,
and not by a shallow or easy design.
My need will never be instantly satisfied.
Nor do I desire such superficiality.
 
I am not robbed of the great in numbers.
My spirit has not been cursed.
Intelligence and gifts abound
like elements and facets of diamonds.
Yet these unadorned packages
are not what I seek.
 
My soul cries for the deep.

Strolling with intrinsic egoism,
he is a King, scrolling sarcasm
and engraved envy, searching
for his kindling prey.
His cryptic eyes lock with hers.
Greedily, he tongue-wets his lips
divining her beguiling sighs
crossing a grand divide of
sparkling diamond baguettes
and jewels-- a mosaic exquisitely cut.
 
The King marks his path
through a royal exhibit
aiming for his potential Princess
amid crowded blinks and flickers
and blings of scattered lights.
 
Though she is a touch too brazen,
and her boldness a bit much,
the Princess is classical nubile nuance,
minus a sensual slinky shape
and smoke-chain barbed wire fences.
 
The King hails her halo of flattering
flames and smiles in simile:
     she knows as much about style
     as she does her downward spiral.
 
His movements tug the memory
of the phantom Princess--
like clipboard blades on an
antique glue-gun fan,
like the tap-tap-tapping
of an ancient tomb,
his courting is ritualistic
and disguised decay.
He is alluring, typing every
inspiring line and all the right
words with erotic perfection.
 
Arrogantly, his timing
is quick and calculated as
he lures his trophy toward
the center of a cultured care,
wrapped silently undercover.
 
Flattery flutters and tilts the clipboard blades--
the Princess is now his quintessential Queen,
with one last courtly coronation for a King
who is many kings once more
pouring bile from his demon-bowels
and one last answer to his call:
the final ballroom curtsy to the King
of the Cyber-speak Ball.

I hope your mama dies
before you do
'cause I like her
an' I don't like you
an' when your perka-lated liver
swallows you up
I don't wanna see her sad.
 
Now I need to find
a quiet place
to pray
a soft space
to kneel
so I won't hear your voice in my head
tellin' me not to feel.

Humiliation Lyrics 

by: John Simmons
by: Ouchman
Written by: Simon Critchley
   


Humiliation
You told a lie, I’m going to tell
You cheated me, so go to hell
You worthless scamp, you petty snail
Hope you can’t sleep, and your crops fail

You told a lie, I don’t forget
And if you live, I can’t forgive
And if you live, the air you breathe
Will choke your soul, and eat you whole

But if you ever, still needed me
I’d be right there, I’d be right there

I loved you so, you hated me
You told a lie, how can it be
I loved you so, you hated me
I don’t take things, philosophically

I curse your name, I wish you ill
A plague of flies, behind your eyes
I hate your mum, I blame your dad
They must be mad, or simply dumb

But if you ever, still needed me
I’d be right there, I’d be right there

Oh many are, the ways of man
On Wanstead Flats, in a camper van
You cheat on me, you cheat on her
You cheat on him, you cheat yourself

Why should I try, to justify
What you deny, you told a lie
You feckless nit, you slimy shit
You lumpy head, you whoreson zed

But if you ever, still needed me
I’d be right there, I’d be right there

 

So close to the edge
we lit up the night
awakened a decade of silence
and wrote the story of our lives.
The veils we peered through
were lifted.
We saw firey candles
painting our world
and heard music
stolen from our souls.
 
We were courageous
and built mansions
in the unknown.
We sat on thrones,
our imaginations singing
in velvet robes
the royalty of a purple rose.
 
We cupped words
like water pouring,
running through our fingers.
We scooped up dirt
and found the womb of earth.
We bent our knees to fire
and at last we knew the flame.
We felt those words too.
They sparkled like fireflies
like rhymes dancing
in a dark forest
unafraid of the light.
 
Our dreams were barefoot
and we dangled them
tangled them over the edge
washing our feet
in cool streams of water,
refreshed by words
drawing sparkling brooks in trails,
leading us to the next oasis.
We satisfied our thirst
with water
and with words.
 
And the water
was no longer still
and the words
were no longer silent.

What sweet words I hear!
 
How gracefully you tear
thin rice paper from your soul
and speak of your tears.
 
Like onion skin, gently
you peel each layer,
all of them and there you are:
your eyes like great oceans of blue
a scent of salt water surrounds you
so thick I can reach right through,
feel steamy heat on your face
moistening sun-drenched cheeks.
 
As a sweet milky thickness
shines in the night, when
rainbows encircle each light
my thoughts rest on death 
and life, on home and those
whom I love, and on your words
rich with kindness and grace
 
and I am so grateful
for this place I'm at
so grateful to say
I know you.

Wow.  What an odd revelation-- 
to be so moved by both of you;
you and your words.
If I broke into song it wouldn't be worthy.
I could pick out my favorite lines,
but every one overflows with meaning.
One phrase rings in my thoughts--
love knows no bounds.

So many miles we've traveled
and I wonder, was there a place 
with you I merged?
Your emptiness once engulfed me
but I can't see it.
 
You were never there.
 
I can't watch you work the land
with tender fingers   
with understanding hands.
 
You never touched me.
 
Unable to gaze in your horizon-eyes,
dancing with affection,
your fiery attention, draped and smoky
elusive, you hide nothing
and everything all at once.
 
Offerings of first rites no longer matter.
Acceptance at birth has long past.
Bodies in both minds last and last,
curved and pressed together so many ways.
This mystery stays in never-trace.
 
No matter the place or way,
we fill it well,
like a lily among her pond
a steed among his herd,
even a star of wonder in this world.
 
We may wander among wood
always loving the good
partaking of the tension,
the stone of pain
striking, flint against flint
sparks a better two
from light, another view.
 
Will you come often, awakening now
beloved senses you've taken,
burning lust like red wine
through my blood, my lips and skin
embers deep, from warm to hot
sweet like honey, scorch this body
only in my mind? 
 
Flames kindled, I can't dilute.
Yet in your wake, I'm nourished.
 
Somehow, we take the fall
me to you, you in me
through a world
where outside it's walls
we can't imagine.
 
You move in me and do not stop
quickly finding the hollow
of my voice and throat
breaking me, chaining me
without falter, above me,
beneath you, a curling hunger
for what you give.
 
Inside, I hold you.
On the outside, I wait
for your silent command.
Slippery I invoke you
with constant movement.
Raising and lowering,
no turning back.
 
This is the want
I cannot touch or understand.
 

When I eat an orange
I'm like a little girl.
I bite the peeling
off the top
and feel the juice
trickle down.
Peel after peel falls
as I open the fresh fruit.
Then I see it--
the bright, wet orange
and I can't wait
to take the first bite.
 
No napkins or washcloths.
I soak up the nectar with
my tee-shirt,
or anything near
'cause I don't care.
I love the tangy wet
sweetness, and lick
every drop off 
my fingers and chin.
 
When we make love
I'm a woman.
I can't wait for you
to take the first bite.
You peel off every layer
of my facade-- shyness,
inhibitions and fear,
and I become bold.
I am bright and tender.
 
No fluffy pristine
towels needed.
I don't want to miss
a single lick or taste
of you, and we both
suck the juice
of the other until
the thirst of two
climbs and swims uphill
as we empty ourselves
into a deep fiery ocean
of sweet tangy desire.

I looked
and did see
hands and fingers stretching,
grasping in and out
with a shudder.
Reaching for comfort.
Searching for peace.
 
I listened and heard sounds,
child-like and needy.
Saw light-eyes seeking
hiding and peeking
watching me
from the bottom of the sea.
 
Your warmth rolled in,
spooling and soothing
spaces of weeping
where spaces needed mending,
and allowed me entrance
to an unfamiliar language.
 
And you, in words
spilled light between us.
Your spinning touch
ending and beginning
once again.
 
Moonbeams pulled me
in a watery embrace.
So new, this place
hiding and seeking
peeking at me
from the bottom of the sea.
 
 

Perched on the edge of circumstance
she took a wayward chance.
Tired of promises,
weary of the never-ending dance.
She gave hope one last glance.
 
How could she not,
his voice a bellow?
Hiding truth with lies,
a transparent disguise.
He heard the music flow
from her fearful eyes.
 
     "No one's ever offered.
     No one's ever asked,"
what she really wanted.
What she needed
to make her devotion last,
or take her adoration to task.
 
All her life was one mistake
and everyday she ran away.
She always knew how
but never really knew
an answer to the question
he broke in two:
     "What does it take,
     what's a man gotta do?"
 
She would lift her eyes and look,
peer into him, like a lovely book
with soft beginnings and never-endings--
rowdy romps at midnight spinning,
to face the truth
and steal the winnings.

Dear Freedom,
 
 
Forgive my brevity.
I have so much to do,
and you're the only place
I want to go.
But dreams aren't real.
It didn't happen and
you were never here.
 
I know--
we're waiting for
a change in the wind
 
While silent needs
lay dormant
searching for a new day
in tidal waves
a thousand ways
 
And moist wide eyes
now burn
for a different reason,
the dawning
of this first season
 
When you carry me
bleeding, ripe and raw
ending days of finality
 
Not discerning why--
a willful acceptance of all,
and determined to believe
 
Truth is such a dark cliche--
never will I doubt your delay
or distort and construe
your meaning
for the pleasure, for the comfort
of my own dreams.
 
Time to face the storm.
 
Freedom,
you are a cup of wonder--
waiting for
a change in the wind.
 

When she took away his name
she was a mere
part girl-part woman,
and made a promise just the same:
     
    "Its ok.  I won't give it away.
     It was meant for only you.
     Maybe I'll call you "guy" or "dude"
     from now on, or maybe
     for just a while.
     I'm doing what you want
     and besides,
     this is the way it is. 
     Not just
     the way it will be.
 
     "I never really hated you either.
     But you knew that. 
     I had to say the words;
     feel the feelings.
     
     You should know
     it takes strength to build a bridge;
     to erect a sturdy wall.
     You were so powerful. 
     I was so small.
     I could only see life
     through your eyes;
     touch with your hands;
     and worst of all--
     think your thoughts.
 
     "You were a part of me,
     not meant to be.
     We were one, not two,
     and should have been
     on our own
     separate and alone.
     
     "By your side was fine,
     but I was a captive inside
     searching that thin line
     for my separation-time.
 
     "Like sour milk, we putrified.
     Our time was much too long;
     your will much too strong.
     The pain was far too great,
     my healing, far too late.
 
     "Understanding you
     is no longer my ambition.
     There's no universal definition
     for hands reaching through
     an obsidian sky,
     bleeding the oblivious lie--
     the tainting of you and me".
 
With a sigh,
childish eyes smiled, 
a mere glimmer
he was allowed to see:
     
     "Yet, in the end your lie set me free,
     and even though, from where I am
     it may seem hard to tell,
     my rescue
     set you free as well.
 
     "Sometimes it takes the small
     to cross a bridge or
     climb a wall."
 
With a toss of her head,
she looked back
for the last time, and said:
 
     "After all
     we'll both be ok,
     in the long haul".


The Real Story


I took from you your name,
but that's ok.
I won't give it away.
It was meant for only you.
Maybe I'll call you "father" or "dad"
from now on,
or maybe for just a while,
but you'll be ok.
I'm doing what you want
and besides,
this is the way it is
... not just the way it will be.
 
I never really hated you either.
You knew that. 
But I had to say the words.
Feel the feelings.
I needed strength to build a bridge,
... to erect a sturdy wall.
 
You were so powerful.  I'm so small.
I could only see life through your eyes.
Touch with your hands.
and worst of all
... think your thoughts.
 
You were a part of me,
not meant to be.
We were one, not two,
and should have been each
... on our own.
 
By your side was fine,
     but I was captive inside
     searching for the thin line
     to separate.
Like sour milk, we putrified.
Our time was much too long;
your will much too strong.
The pain was far too great,
my healing
... far too late
 
Understanding love
is no longer my ambition.
There is no universal definition
except God,
     who reached through
     an obsidian sky,
     put to death the oblivious lie
     that tainted you and me
but in the end set me free
and though, from where I am
it may seem hard to tell,
His rescue, my forgiveness,
... set you free as well.
 
Sometimes it takes the small
to cross a bridge or
climb a wall, but after all
we'll both be ok
     ... in the long haul.

Her home is a skeleton
of burnt timber, black and charred
smelling of soot--when fire
and smoke gutted her world.

     She rues the moment she was born
until every moment's gone
and hums empty tunes
like rings without stones.

Her dinner is a dry seedless
gourd on a weathered board
where she cans in broken jars
and weaves with rotten thread.

   
In the cold she falls
asleep on a narrow bed
listening to black walls.

I'd cut the last line off this, Cherylanne, let the 'black walls'  do it.

milner

Thanks so much for the visit and the suggestion.  'Tis done.