Naked Space

The naked space between us

haunts my hopeful hands.

that only feel full when fondling

your fantastical femininity.

Seeking the spooning that leads to swooning,

soon to be a sensuous conflagration

of two powerful imaginations.

The unreality of your eye candy

is like discovering a chocolatier

choosing magic cocoa beans

for their concoctions,

providing comfort to those with

a salivating sweet tooth.

I am glad of the glade

given to wander and wonder

around the otherworldliness of your oeuvre.

A tantalizing totality that tempts

while entreating each exigency

with enthusiasm and empathy.

Fabulist faith forms

through the forgotten familiarity

rediscovered.

A Zen Moment

 The big waves arrive,
 we catch it.
 The surf pounded, the salt water sprays.
 Together we screamed down the wave.
 Laughing, we were as the curl of the waves
beginning to crest.
 In a flurry of foamy kisses
 Holden loses his grip.
and I lose Holden.
 I tumbled, somersaulting.
 Nirvana.
I stand up against the waves,
heart pounding as wild as the surf.
 On, two, to thirty.
No Holden……
 There. His black suit. His long face. His glorious, thick, wet hair,
 and eyes the color of wet sand,
 nestled in his sunburnt face.
 I swim, like a great hand the ocean pushes against me,
 assisting.
 I grab, he grabs.
 Nirvana.

OUR UNIVERSE

Our love is like the blue planet
unique in its fluid fundament
making all life possible.
We are the binary star; dancing,
held by our mutual attraction
burning brighter together than apart.
You are the quasar
the brightest object known
providing a beacon to my bewilderment.
Your passions are the pursuits of the Horsehead Nebula,
creating the embryonic with your enviable energy.
When I am Zeta Ophiuchi you are the quantum constant
that allows me to plow through.
The course of comets plays out in your dark mysteries that bind
all who roam through your orbit, no matter how elliptical.
We see the dark space between as moments to
look into each other without worry.
I set the beat of my heart to your pulsar.
Others are the moons captured by your cloudy, stormy nature.
I am the solar winds that seek to add to your energy
and precipitate the prescient change to your stellar nature.
I see the curvature in the space-time continuum
in every expanse of your intimate infinities
while seeking the release of your event horizon
as we collapse into that galaxy that showcases
our singularity.
You are the string theory that explains
my innermost understandings
as I create wormholes to get to your distant unknowables.

Youth of Age

It has been decades
since my decadence.
So sly was I
always did I wonder why.
Why do the birds sing a song so gay?
I want to know all they say.
Before beyond, from whence to where
not even once did I not care.
Slightly sprightly was I
a wild child who yearned to fly.

My loving thoughts kept in mind,
most of youth in age turn blind.
From the decadence arose
a Peter Pan with bells on toes
to stand and beckon all to be
forever young just like me.

Seasons

Soft-spoken snowy white
whispers Winter.
New-bud green
sings Spring.
Melodious enchantments
calling forth
life to be.
Summer sweats
beads of blue,
smiles radiantly,
laughs non-chalantly.
Autumn heaves
heartbreak gold.
Breathes deeply,
expectant.
Love binds all
in a seasonal embrace.
Ring-around-the-rosy
never falls down.
Lucky few lovers
know this union.
Careless movement forward.
Together.
Winter me.
Spring Summer You.
Fall.

Inspired

Miracle Muse
brought color to a life
tuned to a dead channel,
set to sleep.
To dream in color.
Hair the medium
of tortured desire.
The matron, the mother,
the lover, the lady,
the intellectual, enigmatic
soul desired.
All with the toss of the lock
said she, “Life is full of bitter irony,”
bringing sweet tenderness
to all.
Epiphanic irony.
She bleeds, she weeps,
She Seeks.
Experience deep she offers,
aloof she remains.
Hell is the journey to reach her heaven.
Only one has traveled Styx
for Miracle Muse.
Stealing herself away
fearfully daring fools to follow.
Precious.
Entrance to her musings?
Broken hearts strewn with shards,
deep facets, painfully so.
Filling the Green
with passionate red,
deep thinking blue,
upheaval amethyst.
Unplug the life before.
Her artist reduced
to a sick sycophant.
Wishing, expectant,
In love.

Woodland Waltz

The lengthy languish
is lost
to the passion tide
that succumbs to the most roguish
of waves.
The Knave of the mayflies
impiously pilfers
the rumors of spring
for ballast.
Through the ambient
fundament of the weaveworld
he climbs,
susceptible to the unbearable.
Gazing on high
the ekistics of love, life.

Revel nudely
the infalling.

Surreal sighs echo
from the unfrequented niches;
nocturnal panoramas
that dance only, jointly
held apparitions.

Euterpe plays
Terpsichore directs,
Thalia enters.
As the numen cuts in
the chord is struck.