Letter, September 29, 2015

I write poetry, but in truth all I do is gather your fragrances like mist over a lake. All I do is hunt for the breaths that have since long left your lips and harness them into bundles of words. And in the process I turn into a moth whose being has disintegrated in the fire of your flame. Thus, I inhabit the ether of your fire, unlocking the secret that birthed life and all the stars.

Free Verse # 318 (skin on skin)

Under my tongue
her honeyed kiss,
a succulent poem
melting all day, all night,
filling my veins
with her solar fire,
the throb of her want.

~

His hands on her body…
rivers of lava
flooding her secret wells,
in moans and fevered breaths
carrying her heartbeats,
seeds of poetry.

~

Photographer unknown
Photographer unknown

Skin on skin
the hand of night
merging them,
two souls bare,
revealed to their core,
their molten flesh
a river flooding
the sea night,
a hidden dawn,
a nebula of stars.

~

All my poems…
dewdrops whispered
on her lips at dawn

Free Verse # 317 (no words, only silence)

Passionate vigil…
a candle’s flame weeping
into the still night

~

Night
inhabited her hair,
her face
its pond of stars.

~

Nocturnal tryst…
my breath and hers merging
somewhere amid the stars

~

Letting her hair loose…
the fragrance of fire
filling the air

~

Skin of dewdrops…
flinging her over
the earth at dawn

~

No words…
only silence hovers
between our hearts

~

On the altar of her love
I laid my soul bare,
felt her crafting
my roots in her soil,
setting free my branches
to bathe in her air.

~

Her lips crafting
the wind in curves…
mists of autumn

Breadmaking

Harvest comes
and with the sickle moon for scythe
I reap the blades of wheat
populating your skin,
the seeds I once planted
are now grown full and ready,
aching, begging
to fulfill their purpose
and on my stone be laid,
grinded into flour,
a fine white essence
welcoming the teardrops
of my passionate poem,
its liquid flame,
a throbbing matter
I now knead
with firm fingers
(am I forming your body?),
a sea of dough,
body of my woman
now baking in my furnace,
in the fires I honed
from my own flesh,
hot loaves rising,
a feast on my table dressed
and a hunger with each bite
in your skin sown,
a new seed to renew
the eternal dance,
our lovemaking.