The Dance

Somewhere...

on the other side of the world,

he sits,

watching her play,

hands swift to delve,

to tickle, to surprise...

for his eyes only.

Somewhere...

on the other side of the world,

she glides,

dancing round,

hands swift to part,

to open and explore...

for his eyes only

Some day...

on the other side of the world,

they meet,

giving each other

wet kisses,

hands swift to touch,

to fondle and arouse...

for their hearts only.

Today...

on the other side of the world,

they long,

sighing deep,

for touch and scent,

for thrust, and groan...

for their hearts only.

After Four

It's after four in the morning...

why are you up so late?

Is it the words I whispered,

and raised your heart rate?

It's after four in the morning...

why haven't you gone to bed?

Is it that desire you feel

at the naughty things I've said?

It's after four in the morning...

why aren't you asleep?

Is it the lust we're fighting,

the need that makes us weep?

It's after four in the morning...

why don't you come to me?

Take me, my darling, I'm open,

ready, and hungry to be!

Promise

See my tears?

I cry them for you...

Not mine the agony of soul

for chances missed

and deeds undone,

for love not given

and lives unlived.

See my eyes?

They look for you...

Still there outside the gate,

awaiting someone's hand

to push the buzzer once

and let you in.

See my heart?

It beats a steady balm

of love upon your wounded spirit,

grim and bleak and torn

and signals peace.

© Copyright 2008

Drowned

Like feet in well-worn shoes 

that rub against the sides

and feel the loosening of years,

she feels the sameness 

deadening all her tomorrows,

a numbing void of feeling,

dry, like old newspapers,

the story never told,

long overdue;

like stinking laundry,

enduring the drowning crush

of Cheer

and bleach

and dryer sheets.

Going through the motions

- the everyday routine -

the radio blasting out

the story of her life

in wailing notes on metal strings,

while dinner simmers 

on a pristine stove,

a baby's bottom washed,

an aging parent soothed,

a scuffed knee bathed and dressed,

a once-but-no-more lover

fed and watered.

The table cleared, 

the hum of busy dishwasher 

drowns her life.

The quiet evening light

sifts through her drowning eyes,

which search with fruitless stare

for some new vision

of a sharp and brilliant future.

Nothing appears 

to change the awful sameness.

The floods break through the dam

of eyelids swollen by old tears, 

newly minted

in the furnaces 

of expectations

and anticipations 

disappointed.

The familiar, no longer safe,

entombing a dying spirit.

© 2011

Daydream

Through all the little mundane things

I do each day and night,

I think about you, and I wish

thoughts would turn to delight.

I wonder if you're sleeping

As I fold the socks and shirts,

Or if you're having dinner

While I hang the frocks and skirts.

I pack the dishes, glasses first,

and wonder where you are,

or if, as I ply mop and broom,

you're wishing on a star - 

the selfsame star I wished upon,

while tucking girls in bed,

The one my eyes lit up to see,

as thoughts flew through my head.

I think of how I wish I'd see

the passion in your eyes

that blaze from every note you send,

that thrill and hypnotize.

Some day, perhaps, my wish will turn

to grand reality.

Till then, I'll just imagine you

right here, right next to me.

© 2008