Blindfold me with silky whispers
Strip me naked with your eyes
Tie my hands taught with metaphors
Tease my senses with your scent
Drive my imagination wildly insane
As you degust my innate nectar drops
And I plunge deeper- in your complex folds
Where I live and die, over and over again
As pleasure of your unbeknownst…wishes
Poet of the Light © 2019
I often find myself subdued
Liken, a room without a view
Until I set my sights on your picture
Painted by your heartfelt words
Unlocking my mind, my soul
And between those lines, I go
Listening only to your whispery voice
Akin a trickling flow water over ice
Where I escape this acute silence
Into a realm with your silky essence
Nakedly we peregrinate shores
Where all our lofty dreams gather
As we lay upon them like a bed
Releasing all our tense constrictions
Intertwined, savoring each other
Like divine wine…from heaven
Poet of the Light © 2019
Years have past but not without
my personal felt notice-
regarding each of those missed moments.
There still comes times
when I go mindlessly into other rooms
to initiate aflutter conversations
of something inspired to speak over
and the empty cold silence has to
drastically remind me- you’re gone.
I stand in a sorrowful dumbfounded mess
never really knowing, for just how long
let alone recalling…what day, today was.
Poet of the Light © 2019
It’s over
the flicker of hope
extinguished
by a gasping breath
exhaled too soon
thru a premature grin
The hollows of a hearth
cold and silent
broken darkness
all is as it was, again
Normalcy for me…lives on
Poet of the Light © 2019
Looking in a mirror
For what is invisible
I’m optimistic
Poet of the Light © 2019
Senryu-Seeking
Haphazardly, in the process of finding ourselves,
we can still get lost, become self-complacent.
Becoming far too consumed on one focal point
that we are more like some horse with blinders
just plodding along- while in our mind
believing we’ve just finally hit our stride
and more important, way out in front of everyone else.
Never even noticing we are the only ones in a race
and missing life and all the scenery along the way.
There is something to be said of an old adage,
of stopping to appreciate the roses along the way.
I’d prefer to be a horse in some pastoral setting,
roaming mountainous green meadows- unencumbered
than some cosmopolitan rat chasing…toxic crumbs.
Poet of the Light © 2019
The lines on my face- are evidence
Of roads traveled, choices made
Not necessarily always mine- or finished
Some just appear for seemingly no reason
Thus, is the punitive signature of time, itself
But like inked words of any frayed book
They tell stories, some depicting for chapters
And yet others are much more subdued
Like a fog adrift at twilight along an ocean
Ghostly implications, purposely left hanging
While some are obvious, others are darker
Not all stories can be considered informative
Riddled with clues, thereby providing answers
Leading naive readers off a precipitous cliff
Some stories in books are merely like art
Subject to interpretation by individual readers
But always predicated on their true motive
Of what they hope to find or dismiss- sneeringly
Relying more on conventional restraints, idioms
Too afraid to learn or accept any new truth
Deceptively veiling their true inadequacies
Because they got lost, or really have no clue
Unable to comprehend the author’s thoughts
And yet, none of the lines alone can define them
In pictures- painted inside visiting minds by words
Greater is the challenge of peregrinating a heart
To appreciatively understand the trails and tales
Of roads life created or discovered by a person
Experiencing them unblemished in whispers
Risking knowledge lived with them from…inside out
Poet of the Light © 2019
