moe-tif

sex, soft, sexy, wet…all encompassing sex….
mmmm, kisses trailin moist from neck to thigh…
hands caressing wherever they find skin….
fingers tracing lips,
rubbin places that send hot shivers down the spine…
distractions are…what?
nonexistent, the focus is she on he and he on she,
one pleasing the other or is it vice versa? 
bodies melding together so that the bliss one feels transfers to the other…
pleasure spots licked simply for the sake of pleasure,
there is nothing else but for the night breeze blowing soft upon naked skin…
whispers carried to the night sky,
like prayers to appease the jealous gods…
rocking back and forth into each other,
all at once soothing, sensual, sweetly sexual,
definitions to define a relationship unnecessary,
but to say this is just ’sex’ is….wrong…
this is…two people enjoying one another,
finding the art and ecstacy of one another…
exploring the palettes that each other hold…
bringing out wondrous colors and glorious symphonies…
so into each other they are…
breaths mix and match each other’s rhythm…
rhyme nor reason matter, they find their own…rhyme and reason…
night passes into morning and they part from each other’s presence…
facing the day a bit tired, a bit raw…but with a hunger sated, an appetite satisfied…
with memories swirlin brilliant and wild in their heads…
of a night of sweet sex, soft, sexy, wet…all encompassing sex…

she dazzled as she walked…
this old woman from the
house on the hill…
her hair was white as snow…
her smile brilliant and her eyes wise…
more than the light she emanated…
there was also a sound…
like that of a song…
a melody that played just under
the conscious hearing…
only someone who ‘listened’,
in that crazy, kooky kinda way,
could hear that song…
the same type of person who understands the way of things old
and unmapped…
this white haired woman was a storyteller,
a visionary who saw past the hardened edges of so called ‘reality’…
she saw the truth of things from where the eyes of the story peered deep
into the soul…
and she reached in…drawing out the hidden parts,
those parts people were too afraid to show…or,
too afraid to look upon.
she had an easy way about her…
made people feel at home, no matter what station in life they belonged to…
she was a love set apart,
a love that obeyed no rules so…she was accepted on all realms…
without even trying…
when she told her stories, the People stood in awed silence…
they knew these stories she was telling…had lived them…once,
long ago…before time had become a constraint upon existence…
the People breathed in her words and felt freed from chains
they’d worn from before their birth…chains they’d been born into,
as soon as the warmth of the womb had been taken from them…
she told the stories that needed telling…
stories that needed to be lifted to the heavens so that the gods…
if gods were listening…would know…
that she knew what they were up to…
she gave hope to the People…and she held the People responsible…
for the madness of this world can be blamed on ‘gods’ for only so long…
this storyteller told stories filled with solution…
and the solution was…
responsibility…
go back to the Old Ways, she urged…
go back to what you, the People, know, feel, breathe as right…
there are no gods on which to place blame and, there are no gods on which to depend
for rescue..it is all up to you…
the People…
so said the storyteller…with hair as white as snow…and a melody emanating from her being…
‘it is all up to you…the People’…

There is no right or wrong way to write truth…
for truth is it’s own poet, it’s own storyteller…
So many voices, so many languages…
all rising up on high to speak…
truth.
Perspectives shared, brought together like so many patterns
on a patchwork quilt.
Colors so vivid, so vibrant their hues, only the eyes of the soul
can bear gaze upon it.
Songs, oh the songs! 
They all rise and fall with a beat so old as to go back to a time before time…
existed.
They call forth a dance only the Spirit can know.
They call forth from memories buried deep inside the blessed depths of all Humanity.
Lay down your arms, set aside your hate, I beg thee to a world that won’t listen.
The People are lost within a crazed, infectious swirl of foolishness.
Lies have blinded, deafened, deadened the souls of so many.
But…there are no right or wrong ways to write truth…
I say this again and again.
First thru a hushed voice, timid in my new found resolve to speak.
I raise my voice and note a resonance, as tho’ I am joining the voices of many-
many from the world over.
I draw from this realized sense, a sense far beyond that of bravery. 
I know that the truth I seek, the truth of which I speak will be spoken
from places on high, from places down low.
Colors and songs will ribbon these words and
Spirits will raise their once downcast eyes.
I will call out the People, 
lay down your arms, set aside your hate, 
for Truth has come back for us and our healing…
oh yes…our healing is at hand.

This thing that’s got you locked up so tight,
this pain that keeps you from breathing full-
you gotta face it, you gotta step back away from it,
turn and face it.
You must first take a moment to accept it’s existence,
understand that it forever is an indelible mark upon your soul.
But only for a moment because then…
you have to stand your ground and tell this pain,
this ugly tortured mark upon your soul that you are taking control now.
You say these things softly but with resoluteness and conviction.
You tell this pain that you are no longer defined by it,
that instead, you will re-define yourself with the lessons it has taught you.
You will take this ugly mark and you will from it draw beauty,
you will see thru new eyes and look upon the world with compassion, love and empathy;
with the eyes once of a tortured boy but now of a man who has been there and knows the depth of pain, loss, disappointment.
As you say these things to the pain that has burrowed for so long in your heart,
something else will begin it’s emerging from deeper still within you.
This mark upon your soul will shed its calloused skin and a light will blaze
through the darkness where once you chose to hide…you see…it’s all choice.
You will breathe full for the first time in what seemed to be always,
you will finally…choose…to breathe full.

Poetry gives you a key to emotions you lock up tight,
until you finally find the words…the words are like a storm
that builds up slowly, taking up power from places deep inside,
wide open spaces that yield to freedom for the poet’s soul.
Poetry is its own entity, a life force that moves of its own will,
taking the poet places familiar sometimes and sometimes unknown.
When my pen strikes up a conversation with the pad before me,
I feel like a third wheel, I’m given the privilege to be part of the words being written
but I must not, cannot, will not interrupt.
The flow and power rises from places deep inside me,
a storm that builds and must run its course and I, like a whirling dust devil,
swirl in ecstatic freedom.

he breathed her name…
and he knew
she was the One…
he’d courted others before-
’said’ their names-
he’d ’said’ her name too, yet,
somehow, it was different…
this saying of her name-
as tho’ it promised so much more…
and then one day, no warning happened upon him…
it was just a simple, quiet day…
he breathed her name…
and knew, as he felt her essence
course thru his veins…
she was the one.
she looked back at him-a smile upon her lips
and she knew also, an unspoken knowing…
he was hers
and on this warm spring day…
all was right with the world
because he
breathed
her
name.

you ever notice that when you look into a stranger’s eyes,
they avert their gaze?
why?
they search for a hiding place, 
they fumble, their eyes go everywhere,
but to your eyes…
it’s as tho’ it’s all they can do to hide -
hide their failures and insecurities.
as tho’ ashamed that what they wished to be in their youth faded…
that they somehow let it fail…
i purposely seek that one strong someone
to look back at me-hold my gaze.
i know it may bother some…it may be
bothersome…
but, it’s worth it to meet that one strong gaze
that one undeniable, unfaltering look into another’s soul that when looking back…
looks just like mine…

velvety, midnight blue skies
sprinkled with stars as far as the
eye can see.
i lie in a bed of green grass,
tall and moving along to a silent song
sung by a breeze carrying with it the smell
of summer, rain, jasmine and lilac.
there are trees around me, their branches not so silent
as this same breeze coaxes a chorus from their tall limbs.
i lie here and feel the earth beneath me gently soothe my weary bones
and ease my sad heart.
somewhere my soul is searching for release but not yet….
not yet…for there are things still left to do, words left to write,
people left to help, a world left to heal.

i write about the simple things.
i take what is complicated and
make that simple too.
because in the end, it’s all just that…
simple.
only we make things complex.
we make things hard and difficult to understand.
we put up walls around our hearts, make it almost impossible to reach our core…
or reach another.
we do this…
and it’s time…
we…
stopped.

…a night under stars…
sweet summer air hot upon my skin…
voices within the distance faint against the sound
of the Spanish guitar…
my tongue still tastes the red wine and his kiss…
his breathe catches, even as mine does.
we dance to the music, passion dictating our every move…
we give in, not a care in the world…
the dance, the music, kisses under stars…