Have you ever felt so much pleasure that you thought your entire body might explode?

Have you ever stopped being intimate because you were afraid you might not be able to handle what was coming?

Have you ever submitted completely only to be racked by a painful pleasure that just won’t stop?

If you haven’t, you haven’t experienced all that the orgasm has to offer.

If you haven’t, you can’t understand Teresa’s expression in the statue called Ecstasy.

If you haven’t, then you haven’t yet had the best sex of your life.

I know, because I told an older married woman that I didn’t like sex, and I didn’t believe her when she told me:

“It gets better.”

Meadows and Flame

I’m coming to you once again today,
Naked of soul in child’s innocence,
Robed in lavish scarlet of latent love,
And dying for just one moment of truth.

Years of whispering to the night sky,
Yield to the flit of a deer’s flaming tail,
Turning to defy bloodied hunter’s hands,
At the iminent threat to her romance.

The flames beyond beckon her forth
In fear and jubilation’s mysteried threat,
A monster or a dream far, far too perfect,
Driving her into the abandoned meadow.

Flit fair doe for flaws are waiting-
Faint, for the weary road you trod ends not.
It goes on, for the one not stout enough of heart,
The one not willing to sacrifice herself to either flame.

Writing to Write

The pen hits paper.

Metaphorically. No one uses paper and pen anymore.

I start speaking innermost thoughts, no feelings…no,
I start painting my inner landscape outside of my body.
The sadness of one day becomes a vicarious violent jaunt across a blood red sky.
The joy of another becomes a happiness medley, a fogue of smiling bays.

Mockery comes from some edges.
Only Romantics write their feelings.
But the Confessional Poets didn’t do too bad.
And I’m not writing feelings anyway. Weren’t you listening?

Anyway who cares what the captain of the Old Guard says.
He never liked you anyway.
Well, or he never was willing to act like he did.

He isn’t here though, and there’s more to do.
Don’t think you didn’t notice the jab of missing him,

but keep on.

I have something to say.

Writing is life in a way.
Speaking, promising, like in The King’s Speech, “I HAVE A VOICE.”
Proclaiming to the world that Yes, I, me, matter.
In the great grand scheme of things.
I, me.

So you continue writing
And don’t stop.
When the phantom chants to you of the Old Enmity,
Look at the blood red rose,
And breathe out.

The Long Lost Love

Penelope glides across a railing
As she watches the tumultuous sea.
Cloud masses rise above, pierced as lightning
Cuts across the night’s looming ebony.

As her blackened hair turns, sad eyes appear,
And gaze into the distance wistfully,
For the long lost love who had once been here,
But had sailed these long years restlessly.

She knew not what dragons came upon him,
Or what treacherous siren threatened,
But as she stood at end-of-the world’s brim
The monster’s taunt said she was sure-condemned.

New knights beckoned to the fair maiden within,
Begging her join frolick and debauchery,
But her gaze was fixed upon what had been
and what dragon must have made this quandary.

Sing sweetly, my beloved Penelope,
And wait while dragons fall, and I find thee.

Plato’s Soulmates

You were the one who told me of creatures
Split in two for being too powerful.
You were the one who conjured me seer,
And filled my recognition overfull.

But in the moment you scorned the story,
Highlighting what Plato said that denied
The magnificence of this love-majesty.
Yet it returned to me in love revived.

As we two met in the moonlit star night,
I recognized your soul and my own twain,
Tangled and wrapped in darkness’ self sight
You came to mine, and you loosed my chain.

Each word emitted, now embraces my soul,
For time decreed that you and I must go

Away, and for this time I sometimes mourn,
Though I wish to wish only what is here.
But what twisted between us and was born
Became in me a new sight, made me hear.

So you have melted into what I live now,
Tangling into webs the blackened trees
You’ve never seen, so tell me just quite how
Your breath is what into my soul life breathes.

Fear comes with this life I find solely in you,
For somehow, I find life in Him as well,
But I hope, and ask if all we are is true,
Or if our eternal song has passed its swell.


The Terror

There you are. When I said I saw you
Standing there alone…I lied. But now,
Now it’s true, and you are standing here, new,
Alone and different, distant, somehow.

Maybe it’s because you’re not really here,
Just here in the throes of my memory.
You stand alone, looking at me, seer
Of all that I am and ever could be.

That was the magic of what you were,
Your one expression made me live, alive.
You forbade me let life go, a lost blur,
And in a day I learned to breathe, to strive.

But you are distant, far away now, and…
I cannot ask you what I once did and could,
My stomach churns and yearns for your warm hand,
And is met instead with impenetrable wood.

Will you come to breathe life to me again?
Perhaps my very need will make you stray…
Is this very longing my deepest stain?
It’s fear for which I don’t think I can pray.

God knows the burning desire of this soul,
May He preside, and make anew this foal.


Advent is a time of year
When the strings of the violin are too taut,
Faithful everywhere are worn,
And tired of each day’s toilsome lot.

Hearts writhe in fearsome rest
Lingering in the world’s heavy skepticism
Gasping air of lasting life
And forbidding each step into life’s rhythm.

Just wait another day or two,
What everyone’s longing for is coming.
The world’s dark cynicism waits
To be conquered, by a Love real and all-stunning.

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