A feast for my womanly inner beast! I tease, I please, you have me on my knees I wring my hands, you oint my head With your fingers locked in my hair of red You -I call Master! Begging for forgiveness, in a position of love My words are bashing with one stuttering sound Moaning & Moaning, As you make my head spin like a merry-go-round Craving for you to unleash a liquid heaven sound My body speaks and mumbles a language meant for you A touch of intimacy, that lathers up like liquid glue Sticky but, yet so compelling My tongue slips silent beloved words of joy into the air You play the master of this dark solid room This dungeon's all I consume You engage me, to provoke you with everything I got Yelling, please master don't ever stop! At this moment, I yearn for excitement To feel the arousing sensation of your presence That melts me and chill me with a flow that does not kill I'm your thinker Your muse and poet You are my composer creating liquid tunes Come here and expresses the hardness of your boldness I confess to you my love You are all I'm dreaming of You drive your hands all over Reaching every steamy spot Encourage me to stimulate your mental needs You are the master withholding a liquid element In me, you release fluids that hit like a silent tide A desire that comes with a full force of the fire inside I crave for the taste of your lips Your hands on my hips Your fingers with a tight sensual grip I dedicate my heart and my lust To get lost within every push of your trust Like a treasure deep underneath the sand I'm addicted to the feelings of your command Your hazel eyes are the sunrise You bring out the obsession, And my sweet tooth temptation Like the moon above a misty night Seducing me in every way in a poetic write YOU, MY LOVE!!! Your liquid heaven is the beginning- -Of my delicious delight!
Let us watch how they cluster in whirlwind ballets, lifting like clouds from the dark swampy ground. Burrowed in sunlight, then full-bloomed at midnight, bouquets of white moths wings, that gather like flowers. Rising from shallows, with satin-soft petals, that circle the meadow in small constellations. With great expectations, they rise in their journey. Star-struck, while seeking the light of the moon. Imagine a beautiful guide sitting in soft dirt, as we fathom the mystery indulged with fragrance. Aborning the beauty bribed by the sullen dark- Under the lunar month, winged flower stands in confident. Sailing in wander against the moonlit sky, pillowed flowers, ring throughout the atmosphere Satin-soft petals tend to crystallize into splendor form Behold, the journey embellished by the canvas we adorn.
In the debate between accessible and difficult poems Poets' poems and poems for people Only the single poem and private reader matter Both kinds and anything between can matter or not Solid or made of air, a vase or heavy clay ashtray One word repeated or many like a lei An acquired taste, like wine, and like wine Not sustenance, yet men die with their miseries Uncut without it, news and mere matter I advise everyone to keep a personal anthology of poems that matter Or not. Perhaps it should be novels. Stones, insect wings, Feathers, Birds you've seen, People loved.
Many insects creep upon this earth, and hardly anyone refers to them as “nice” or writes a poem reflecting on their worth! Spiders sometimes make me jump as if they were small mice, and how repulsed I feel to see cockroaches or lice! How many cute soft cuddly insects can we find? Worms are soft, but cuddly? I don’t think so! Which bug both cute and sweet comes to your mind? Well, Butterflies are lovely; fireflies have a nice soft glow. But the one that comes to MY mind I bet you know! She is a lady beetle, and when she lands on me, I do not flinch or swat at her or gasp out “Ugh!” People like to count her spots. A lucky one is she. Protecting crops, she is well liked by farmers. What a bug! If she were but my size, I’d give her a big hug.
Experience life though the images around us. See the beauty in everything. Even in the darkest place you can find the light.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be?
How can one help shivering with delight when one’s hot fingers close around the stem of a live flower, cool from the shade and stiff with newborn vigor! God’s grandest messages are not loudly self-assertive. His most fragrant flowers, unlike the hollyhocks and the sunflowers, do not challenge the attention of the careless wayfarer, but hide under the cool hedgerows and only betray themselves by their sweetness. Our dearest and deepest joys are not those which we have in the glare of publicity, but those which cluster round about us in the home.
Perfumes are the feelings of flowers, and as the human heart, imagining itself alone and unwatched, feels most deeply in the night-time, so seems it as if the flowers, in musing modesty, await the mantling eventide ere they give themselves up wholly to feeling, and breathe forth their sweetest odours. Flow forth, ye perfumes of my heart, and seek beyond these mountains the dear one of my dreams! ~Heinrich Heine, “The Hartz Journey” (1824)
Against a dark sky all flowers look like fireworks. There is something strange about them, at once vivid and secret, like flowers traced in fire in the phantasmal garden of a witch. ~G.K. Chesterton, Alarms and Discursions, “The Glory of Grey”