Poetry_In_her_eyes

  Morning  the sensual caress of sunlight   slowly running hands of light   over the breasts and pelvis   of a shy and virgin earth   a slow awakening response   the earth trembling in pleasure   with the creation of life   and passion of a new day   a spontaneous awakening of love   within the endless embrace of morning Midday  embracing the sensual contours of earth's verdant beauty   with the tender possessiveness   only intimate lovers know    teasing secret desires   sunlight arouses     earth beckons   the dance of eons     yearning and unrestrained hunger     not with the fumbling shyness   of tentative love   but the uninhibited passion   of maturing sensuality   cherishing the maddening caress   prolonging exquisite release   the orgasm of life Evening  The soft caressing illumination   of waning sunlight   aro...

  As if our suffering were a badge of honor Yin and yang, beauty and ugliness combined in our effort to survive. Some people just give up, existing in the numbing space between life and death, past and present, frozen in time. This can never be said for poets who abrade raw nerves with the sandpaper of their writes until memories spill onto the page in artfully arraigned hieroglyphics of pain, leaving clues for the reader to examine and judge, to revel in or deny the history of us, as if our suffering were a badge of honor and membership card for the human race or at least acknowledgement our right to draw breath.

  Light now fading cold invading diving deep in the sea of you Coal and pressure emerging in the purity of form The diamond of your soul illuminating life chasing dreams rising from the depths seeking the  facets   of your being A seashell held to the ear sings of faith and promises clues cold pervades darkness dissuades where love begin to fail Memories  are the crucible in ocean depths our coal under pressure coalescing as diamonds  taking deep breath  swimming through the sea of you

  When Wolves Sing   - The wolves have come back     they always come back     scratching at the door     howls echoing deep within   something feral responding in need   I have always known   I am not alone   my whole life listening   to the music of their songs   and for a short time   until their voices fall still   I am free     The wolves have come back     singing  in harmony       my guts twisting with need     puking undigested the breeding of me   set me free!       from the dog collar of society     throwing open the door       let me die fighting   for love and trust and family     ripping throats out     snarling     in my dreams

  Poets are all sadists masquerading as the avant-garde - Writing of beauty in the face of adversity ethereal words transcendental pain   How we overcome the evil of others baring our souls naked and unafraid   Look at me suffering for these words on good days writing of agony   On the bad days reveling in the morass of entropy mining pain conveying despondency   The thought what a bunch of masochists look deeper sharing just enough to elicit shattered hopes often written in blood   misery loves company is such a crock what poems are rewarded and which ones panned love poems boor us needing sadness and sorrow   Oh, what a write,, you're so brave, a shining light in the face of tragedy give us more and more and more addicted to emotional destruction   Poets are all sadists masquerading as the avant-garde

  Excerpts from the Future Kneeling amid the ruins of what should have been, haunted by the ghosts of what could have been, holding the  entrails  of last years empty promises, hoping and praying for more of the same. Don't  rock  the boat, keep it a  float , close your eyes and believe, believe believe believe  in our addiction to the lotus tree, close the mind, empty the soul, of the doubts that we're not free, that something is terribly terribly  wrong  with us taking an eye for an eye until the whole world's blind, knowing it's always been  dark  for no one remembers the  light that used to shine in the  halos  used for target practice. I would submit, for those still doubting their nail polish clashes with someone's goatee as we reach for the eyes that no longer see hoping in vain we can read the  braille  left behind by the last generation of the  deaf and blind , that for this new year we  l...