another sunday not mine

Warm Italian sun streaking
in on a west coast sunrise
through billowing whites.

Babe at ease in her basket
(so bright she has your eyes)
as she looks about and coos wide.

It is early morning after all
as the sun lays soft upon your cheek
that I kiss as I rise, take our babe to breast
mill about setting out
morning paints and words
softly humming in my head
ready to be laid to ink.

Thinking of breakfast fruits,
your cider, my tea, Babe's milk,
if I should send you for bread.

Cool tile on warm feet chilled
Hair disshelved, gossamer
gown alluding to nude,

I seek our bed again and your arms
that engulf so strong and readily
through gentle smiles we all three spoon.

random spring thoughts

Why can’t love stay new?
passion and active validation
brought to each and every day?
We are masters of mind,
our actions, reactions. If we
do our best, think the best,
wouldn’t causality logically apply?

Oh I am not naïve in this,
too hardened has my heart become,
too much have I lost and left behind
in sanity’s search too oft.

To the first new day
that first flower
opened soft and sweet…
chance the day she'd
wither on the vine.

chees grits, darjeling and sunday morning

Last eve

My lover left me cold but brief,

even soft down could not warm as

dreamscapes of his flesh faded

into the twilight of rotations; yet

come again does he soft in the sky

'midst wee hours and 'tween blinds,

dappled light to my bossom blessed.

Ra came to me in passions dreams

and woke me with his gentle kiss,

his mind as much his soulful touch

do I pine for and greatly miss.

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