Pageantry for Hate

You asked, ‘I do not understand…this pageantry for hate…’

And, more so, I heard the question…’really?’
As if, in disgust over how peace could be what I may have been feeling.

In an instant, the night raged on…doubt deep.

My fitful sleep…to keep.

Thus, I had lingered on your words today.
Watching as the roots, the limbs, the earth…felt the anger of our decay.
Avenging angels dressed up in their poetic make believe.
Babes with pacifiers, made of leather and recycled politically correct discussions.
Nibbling little infants feeding on store bought garden variety weeds.
Oh, the young, filling the void not the need.

Drifting back from the path in which I came.
The grove of 3 leaf clover, recoiled and fluttered
Nature blew about your sake, your self sanctimonious title…your fiery heart’s name.

My footing wavered over stone and ledge.
Focus, on good, focus, focus…
I began my pledge.

Death is spoiled on the old…or, so I am told.
Perhaps, I am just beyond bold.
Yet, I could not shake what might be easier if displayed.

Storms set deep inside the soul.
Rumbles of angst upon the horizon.
Wolves parading in opaque fur.
Screams in the night awaiting to be heard.

All of this and more, my dear.
As humiliating as stumbling down a wooden path.
Old and used…forgetting where you began at.
Wasted energy
Letting bad karma take the lead…
down a road of… nature’s way of showing off our misdeeds.

Loving a Good Mystery

Simple enough, how pleasure hangs upon my lover’s lips

How tribulations drift away in the light that shadows her curves

The tenor to which she paints in watercolor

her imagery of our world

Some contend it is in the way a lover moves

her prowl-ness with infatuation

A bell that cannot be un-rung

Her voice that cannot help but be heard

Her cherished adages underlined and dedicated to memory

Some will say…herein lay a lover’s mystery

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When the Day is Done

Seventeen years, and I still remember her first tears. 

I vainly asserted an oath,

‘I will extinguish your fears!’

Faithfully, seconds and minutes did…what they will always do.

Trifling away as the morning dew.

Must remember to circle back.

to turning her gray skies blue.

 

natural vagina
Look at the stars
Look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah they were all yellow  /ColdPlay

Weaving Way

Maybe a lost cause

a lost girl.

Found by a wayward woman.

A predator, inquisitive, tarnished but bold.

Weaving her web to wayward prey.

Talons sharpened by the victims she slays.

Ascending the turbulent sky…defacing ache.

I guess she must fly where pleasure belongs.

I want to believe…she teases away the mistakes.

Shakespeare’s Sister

Hazel eyes on the Avon…in ravaged jeans.

She had just been so…sanguine

so masterly

so supple

gone…too soon.

In this land where William took Anne’s hand…

Swaying…

‘Have you got it? Do you get it?
If so how often
Which do you choose
A hard or soft option…

How much do you need?’

If only I could plead.

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Erin understood more than eighteen years could ever understand.

Of course, these were infant moments when I had no grand plan.

Skinhead rock atop of tie dye undertones.

Far from home, I had been willing to bathe in her ocean.

Waters once ashen or stark turned tenderly…vibrant.

Fingertip to skin…

a medley of liquors…

strokes…

soon assertive and grand.

Hearts and secret thoughts will fade away.

Hazel eyes on the Avon.

Black tea, a bed, a breakfast, an English kiss, on the Thames.