I would like to be a writer. I began this site with amorous intentions, and over the course of time, I hope to have evolved as a male in an ever changing society that is today, recognizing the true beauty and elegance of woman. My words and notions will I hope respond in poetic verse of many genre and style. Come along and please share your ideas and insights. Thank you for your visit.

Posts tagged “mystique

Sweet Wine


Oh to taste lips of raspberry wine,

to imagine,

sweet love,

the moment passion

might sweep inside

desire’s mind.

 

Oh to know the essence

of her touch

when quiet

in the moonlit serenade

her gasp direct me.

 

Oh to wonder the sensual

nature of passion,

when unbridled a society

allows two lovers

to own magical lives as one.


She Is His Elegance


behance

simple quiet
cobblestone grip
unseen is wonder
only steady gait
a will
to wander
slowly seeking
her

she is his elegance


My Time Is My Own


A mantra with meaning,

a saying to suggest,

a memory,

quiet in its discretion, its wishful

mnemonic fortune.

Oh, to have the time to say the words,

to know the reaction, to see the eyes,

to feel the lips, to taste the passion,

to understand the mystique

is drawn inside our own set of fashion,

our world together,

it is in that quiet alley way,

where romance did lean against stucco walls,

inside a broken world,

where healing hands and gasps and fires

did maintain some semblance of peace

internalized by the conflict of our realities.

Oh to know the sweet spirit of love

in all its natural abandon

preserved by the symbolic nature

of heart and soul.

Oh to taste the fire of dewy eyes in winter’s landscape.


When Wishing We Make Love


One might wonder

the occasion

to know the

passionate embrace,

the metaphysical,

inspirational,

devotional desire

to want the motion,

to wish,

to make love.

 

One might imagine,

when in the moment,

intensity,

abandon,

the sort allows our bodies

a shelter

to land upon, inside, beyond,

to feel this surreal nature

of sensuality drawn upon

years inside a quiet energy,

waiting, wanting,

finding that reach,

the place,

sweet serenity is a cliche

that might not ever describe

the truly incomprehensible

vision,

knowing the moment.

 

One might always

wander,

asking the reveal,

swift is the response

to finding her mystique

knowing, believing, wishing

to comfort

such aspect of truth

is inherent

when lost in the throes

of wishing only peace

to be the

center of woman.


This Posture


Like yesterday, perhaps in the moment,

a gasp

to the naked eye,

such is beauty,

inherent in the persona

of a lover in her privacy.

 

Only quiet reminders

might recall,

such is the treasure will

a woman

behold upon a man,

sweet delight is mystique.

 

If forever could suggest,

a posture,

a pose,

a need to expression,

then while the world evolves,

would my heart be held in hers.

 

We will remember the moment

sweet demeanor is passionate notice.


In What He Imagine Love


When in a rainfall, we wait to watch the droplets hang,

a lush forest, where a glistening fire of Her magic,

awaits our eyes, doesn’t beg, just does remain,

… and we continue to move about our day this way.

 

It would seem there might be a need to recognize,

She is a gift to be cherished in her every wise

manner of Grace in lighting up our lives,

to know certainty is the absolute of her mystique.

 

When love might be recalled, described, wondered,

there is this natural sense to look to the forest,

whereby the answers will always await the traveler,

the one who ceases step to pause, whisper the magic.

 

Deep inside the wood, glance into the depths, the sound

a Throstel make would carry a man’s heart further beyond

the tangible nature of life’s preoccupation only to wish

upon her soul, she is a seer, sweet mystical aura, is Love.


When A Younger Man


When a younger man,

I had these notions about love,

seemed to me,

the word could manifest itself,

in a red bikini laying next to me on a beach near a man-made lake.

 

At fourteen, I could see her nipples through the sheer fabric,

the lower garment-like a drape,

covering some aspect of woman

I would later only cherish as my spiritual mecca.

But I’ll never forget her breasts in red velvet,

at least that was my impression,

at fourteen,

a hot summer day,

my erection buried in the sand.

 

See the reality is I was afraid to look,

and yet she was delighted to feel so beautiful,

to know eyes would glance,

and all I wanted to do was

just tell her,

just find the right words to suggest how wonderful

she made me feel,

buried in the sand in a safe sort of adolescent scream.

 

When I was a younger man,

I began to love woman,

not women, but the essence of her being,

and I would imagine the travels,

my lips, my fingertips,

my journey to bring only pleasure to her eyes,

at fourteen,

with my head buried in the sand.