Wandering Thought # 92

Poets love intensely because they invent their love long before they live it. Their lover is an active fire that brews in the marrow of their soul. Their carnality is an animal ferocity softened, spiritualized and intensified by their imagination and longing. Poets are the animals of the soul.

Free Verse # 445 (a lonely cabin)

She hated the camera
yet when I photographed her
with poetry’s lens
she looked into my eyes
asking me to bare her
a little more, a little deeper,
to photograph her soul.

~

When I touch you
my heart is still,
like a star being reborn
into the vastness of the sky.

~

Her light is nourishment for my soul.

~

Dawn
on the still breeze
I feel a window
open between our hearts

~

A lonely cabin in a lost wood,
fire in the chimney,
empty bottles of wine,
his voice reading
as her head rises and falls
to the heave of his chest
while his arm surrounds her,
the falling night outside
hiding them
from the eyes of the world.

~

Her perfume of choice –
all that touches her skin
burns with the poetry
of his touch