Free Verse # 200 (her body, his landscape)

Poetry from her eyes escapes
as sparks from the bonfire,
an infinitely minute taste
of her boundless desire.

~

With her brush every star she wields,
Then stroking, gently,
Paints the canvas of the night
Into a poem burning bright.

~

Her body was the landscape
where all his memories
lived and perished,
where his every seed
became flower then fruit
then poetry.

~

No word could utter
the depth of his longing,
so every word
on the altar of silence
perished into poetry.

~

To read a poem one must write it again, only this time in blood-letters and upon the pages of one’s heart.

~

Night—another name for her hair as it shadows the earth.

~

Embracing her skin
the night mist melts
into cool, pure dew,
in endless streams gathers
and through her curves flows,
morning songs, poetry.

~

Let it burn on your tongue
this drop of honey
which your bees have suckled
from my flesh,
the garden of poetry.

Free Verse # 199 (our bonded flesh)

Her heart be the inkwell
where he dips his pen,
scribing her soul
in burning letters
sailing amid the stars.

~

Words, heartbeats, breaths – the same,
All from this infinite love are born,
All imbued with her name.

~

With civil incivility I bar my door, above it placing a poem writ in words of wonder; he who chants it, enters.

~

To love with such depth
that even the inner tenacity
of iron and rock is but a fable
compared with our bonded flesh.

~

Like a piano
Her flesh unfurls itself
Under his fingers,
Each stroke a note
Rippling through her waters
And into the air rising,
A music that
Makes the whole world dance.

Wandering Thought # 15

We will never outgrow ourselves if we remain unable to acknowledge precisely where and in what manner we are hemmed in and immobilized. This, and the act of acknowledging is far from being a mere intellectual feat; it is, rather, an expression of the entire inwardness, a decisive shift in the energy of the soul.