Of Pleasure

there may not truly be words to convey

sensations such as this

it may come down to sounds

to movements made

it may simply be a torso

writhing like a snake

fluid motion

reminiscent of a wave

it may be a pulsing vein

swollen and hidden deep

in the nether realm

where eyes seldom see

it may be muscles flexing

convulsing and tearing loose

all semblance of composure

the body losing control

it may be guttural throaty sounds

culled from deep within

and uttered forth

in breathy gasping bursts

it may be fingers interlaced

the feel of skin on skin

lips and teeth

and fingernails digging in

it may be eyes connecting

and holding each other’s gaze

off the eyelid

the escape of a single tear

it may be explosions visible

or the ones that go unseen

the evidence of both

flowing uncontained

it may be soft and tender

may be savage and raw

the scent of lust

enveloping the room

there may not be words

or poetry enough to convey

but you will know

the depth of what I feel~

 

~for my muse~



 

The beauty of a poet

she spoke slowly in words measured

by the gauge of the things that she knew.

she held them up to the light

to see if they truly shined.

she was dazzled by the sparkle

of the words that came in song.

she could never truly tell

if she understood what they meant.

she tried her voice out many different ways.

tasting texture and tone.

she needed to see if she could recognize

them by name, passing over her lips.

she opened her mouth and they all fell out

spilling on to the floor.

puzzle pieces, rainbow splash

she had discovered a whole new world.

in perfect form, like poetry.

she began to tell her tale.

in metaphor, in simile,

in a style unlike anyone else.

she captured the imagination

she took her readers to a place.

where they could see the world

from her uniquely gifted eye.

she could pull your heartstrings slowly

or strike them like a chord.

causing a reaction

that could you shake you from within.

she is honest to a fault with words

yet with a poet’s gentle touch.

pretty words, telling painful tales

of growth and pain and life.

her voice rises and falls

changing pitch and tone.

the impact of the words

flexing their intensity.

listening to the texture

you can hear the subtle change.

the words again take on measured steps

and she is quiet once again.

silently I listen for words

that I hope will come again.

for the simple gift of reading and feeling

her beautifully woven tales.