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.