Oh to taste lips of raspberry wine,
the moment passion
might sweep inside
Oh to know the essence
of her touch
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.
unseen is wonder
only steady gait
she is his elegance
A mantra with meaning,
a saying to suggest,
quiet in its discretion, its wishful
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.
One might wonder
to know the
to want the motion,
to make love.
One might imagine,
when in the moment,
the sort allows our bodies
to land upon, inside, beyond,
to feel this surreal nature
of sensuality drawn upon
years inside a quiet energy,
finding that reach,
sweet serenity is a cliche
that might not ever describe
the truly incomprehensible
knowing the moment.
One might always
asking the reveal,
swift is the response
to finding her mystique
knowing, believing, wishing
such aspect of truth
when lost in the throes
of wishing only peace
to be the
center of woman.
Like yesterday, perhaps in the moment,
to the naked eye,
such is beauty,
inherent in the persona
of a lover in her privacy.
Only quiet reminders
such is the treasure will
behold upon a man,
sweet delight is mystique.
If forever could suggest,
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.
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,
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,
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,
with my head buried in the sand.