Friday, 23 June 2017

Drowned

Drowned


Eyes of green entice. Mischief
on a pillow. Hair strewn awry
lures my lover's look. Allure
brooks no timorous touch.
From feint impressions traced
by finger tips that linger long
on freckles passion beckons.
O how she looks. Engulfed,
I drown in wells of green.

Friday, 16 June 2017

You

You


What can I say of you that counts for aught
against this forceful feeling in my breast?
I start to speak and fail to utter words;
the sounds exhaled mere sighs and cries
that tell you more than any poem.
A helpless man turned upside down,
in turmoil to his inmost core,
where insistent roils a sickness – love.
For you. Ah you, my love, it's YOU

Friday, 9 June 2017

The night owl

The night owl


She perched on the edge,
watching, patient, attentive.
It wasn’t the talons that held,
nor the wide-eyed triumph
in the moment that fascinated;
it was the noiseless, swooping descent,
her secret, silent flight.
Are you man or mouse?
she said.

Friday, 2 June 2017

Tailored

Tailored


They went at it like tailors
fashioning
birthday suits,
stitching
bodies together, fingers
unencumbered,
multi-coloured threads
threading
their way through hair,
limbs shorn,
scissored,
hands crafting patterns,
collar and cuffs,
buttonholing
the needle's eye.

Friday, 26 May 2017

Principia Philosophiae Naturalis

Principia Philosophiae Naturalis


For every first night's nervous fears
there's fears the first night ends in tears;
for every touching, whispered word
there's words she'll whisper touching me;
for every look from depths in eyes
there's eyes return that look in depth;
for every kiss with parting lips
there's lips that kiss until they part;
for every touch that bares a breast
there's barely flesh left unaddressed;
for every leg that's clad in silk
there's silk that's wrapped about my chest ;
for every high heeled shoe in red
there's red stilettos worn in bed;
for every rhythmic, thrusting moan
there's moaning, thrusting, on and on;
for every force in nature now,
a diametric equal – Wow!

Friday, 19 May 2017

Portobello

Portobello


Do you remember?
In that year of September,
we strayed for a stroll on the strand.

You kicked off your boots
and waded like Knut
'til the tide had gone out on its way,

then danced around
with your toe as a brush
and sketched out a classical heart.

You added our names
and a thing like our youth
was preserved in those pictures I took.

Oh to remember
the day that September
when you took the place of the sun.

Friday, 12 May 2017

Love is

Love is


...like a pipeline to places where only we've been.
Places we've found when we've crawled through our selves,
when we've flowed in each other wisely unseen,
uncontrolled in unruly topographies. Delves

within more penetrating shafts than arrow straight
to where it is that us two coupled always leads?
It is that fabled truth that makes us osculate
and leak and seep and from one to the other bleed,

makes of our every notion an infinite thought--
Yes! No words need be uttered (our eyes cry as much).
Bound in those aeons of time that we've wrought,
we're fully submerged in the aesthesis of touch.

Oh, she looks like I feel when I feel like she makes
me all that I am and she's all that it takes.