lovers new at play

chivalric
smiles of lips too sweet
in hesitance approaching,
may I…open the wine
he asks seeming meek.

she turns
a coy smile newly learned
teasing eyes brightly,
good sir please as much
as you have discerned…

and stops mid-tease
yes, please, open it for me.
She forgets to breathe in
gleaning underlying strength.

sadness

when in the garden there's a girl
spills her heart on her sleeve saying
oh how clumsy, pardon me and
cries rubber duck smile
nodding, slipping, torn away...

rainy day

Sometimes my soul sinks in spirit,
gray skies and damp rich earth
a duality in passion and lack of luster.
You see I love to grow; things,
people, myself. And though I turn
a heart wild and thighs throbbing,
equanimity toward the sun, I let
the gray depressions nourish
to thought dreams of tomorrows
instead of temp into decay of spirit.
Yet deep do I desire the sun
to stroke and admire in soft caress.

on double entendres and inuendoooooos... You see, I think in eight dimensions and ever anything I may say may or may not appear to be eight of any given things at once and yet I only mean what I say quite specifically having not the thought process intentionally though I know I've done it as soon as it's said and oh how I do snicker!

dreamin is free... Someone but the right one... let me turn your bacon into fresh veggie pies, cool scented linens, wine, a clean mowed lawn fresh trimmed bush. I long to read, to write, to nourish, twenty plus years of labor have I to throw to the wind weary of the constraint. And what if I worked part-time in some small café near the beach brought home pastries and cream, made sure you ate. Went to school, yes I'd like to eventually teach, summers to play and live and there could always be the café when your job was more demanding and until you quit, yes I want you to quit, me teaching, the tables turning both pursing what comes from the musings we play and bring passion to each day and eve. Ah but a dream and yet that life would I lead ever if I could find someone but the right one.

writing is... when asked what do i do? i rarely say i work in academia and am a goddamn underpaid... anyway, i say "oh i write" and of course they ask "oh and where do you publish?" or "what have you written?" or "do you have a book out?" i of course am thinking "how bloody damn conformist of you." but i turn the tides and say "what a lovely..." and they preen and puff at the compliment to thier a p p e a r a n c e. and i am happy having not shared my passion of writing my soul like ink on paper with someone so low as not to be able to understand... writing is breathing, one breath at a time, one heart beat in a moment captured and expressed. XOX ~p