Category: Poetry

I parted some slender thighs
and fasted on sleepy mouths
that tasted of winter delight cresting in slighted words
I buried in the moment, the hills, the delves that twisted and quickened in the wrist like tender burns

washed, alight, with tinder box candles trailing smoky skeins tracing the silence of words and eyes and lies that fail to crush
that winter kiss
that winter kiss and lips I once tasted
were only to be shared like some
Secret.

no, no secret there but perhaps between lips there is a secret
in her eyes
and her eyes
and somehow I want to see.
those parted thighs, those parted skies of heaven

I am the tiniest fracture born of sweet laughter.

Where words meet lips, journeying forth, there is a touching. I can hold this bit in my hand and let you see the world.

You ask of me the why, and how. I answer only with a story. Because in the end, perhaps you are right, perhaps a story is the finest accomplishment we have. For then we are not only immortal – we are purpose, we are entertainment, we are alive.

Upon reflection, I am not sure if I like this poem. At times, I connect with it, at others I find it overdone and maudlin at best.

Our writing tells us where we are; the style of this poetry reminds me of what I used to write in high school. Not exactly the same, but it feels similiar.

What does that say about where I am now?

—

In some quiet
resting place
beside a tired road
amid the temple’s tilt and ruins low.
I laid my head to wander

I dreamt thereof the fairer sex,
her curving smile, her tender breast
and guided there
by wicker hands
she laid my head to rest.

Cradled ‘gainst a marble thigh
my gaze on crests of stone
her garden built,
in giant’s pride
were crafted of her bone.

Long I lingered in her place
‘fore stirring myself anew
my hands were roughed
in granite’s touch
and kissed by morning dew

Now, I dream of her in downy repose
her winter sighs
her summer’s cloak,
her secrets hidden by man’s unknowing tread
and here, too, the weeds
where once I laid my head.

I dream of her and all is well.
a colding sorrow, tomorrow’s hell.
ask me not to love again.

I have a friend who has been going through a rather tricky time of late. Summer, which should be a time of freedom and relaxation for her, has been just the opposite.

Several years ago I wrote a small poem for SB’s birthday, which I am going to share (because who doesn’t enjoy a bit of cheesy sentimental poetry now and again?).

—

she whose pole dancing deserves a show of it’s own
who can vogue with the best,
even when dancing alone,

whose Rook playing skills
aren’t bad, I’ll admit,
but with glances aside,
improve quite a bit.

whose remarks always remain without malice or spite,
who acts like a drunken sailor when kept up at night,
who is a card carrying member of the Stark-haters club,
and a future purveyor of my friend-inclusive pub,

this woman I speak of, for those who are slow,
is a friend among friends,
and one I’m grateful to know.

Your skin holds more in than out.

Some fears are meant to be embraced.
Not wrapped like a present,
Or butchered like sheep.

But held to your chest to show you are unafraid of its poison leaking into your skin