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 “rain

Alone In The Quiet of an Afternoon


When the rains began to fall,

I wondered,

did she,

was she at all curious,

did she know

I would be right here,

waiting,

where it is I always want to be,

this place, one night,

the first time,

a kiss,

quiet afterward,

when her eyes opened

to see him standing there,

laying next to her,

cradling every aspect of whom she might be,

in the moment,

in the quiet of a

rainy

afternoon.


What Is Left Of A Dream


What once would be a smile,

is a soft yearn,

a quiet response

while the mind

could wish for play,

a sign,

some indication

might always allow

sweet recall,

her light

he would lose himself

if not for love,

if only this passageway,

her desire, a passion,

no longer readily

sworn to the moment,

the need

is forgotten.

 

There are the rains,

a gentle remind.


When The Rains Come


I’ll always recall,

the beauty of her eyes,

glistening in a tear,

a sweet, soft, surreal

accentuate medley

of misty rains

held our hearts close,

we did remind our love.

 

I’ll always let a tear drop

when the rains do come,

the soft reality of her

sweet skin sheltered

inside my cradled arms,

the windows wet

inside the spring.

 

I’ll always know the rains

her love with time, it remains.


The Rains


Seemed right

to wake

a sudden jolt

and a flash, soft patterns

play a tapestry on my mind.

 

When wishing Nature’s beauty

suddenly transformed

that day we were hidden in love,

the skies protected our surround

while we

in arms

kept safeguard upon our soul.

 

I am listening,

hearing, a sadly alert

sense of time and place,

laying awake

wondering where she might know …

My heartache begins a slow

and deliberate

flood,

Iveant to feel

the rains

leave traces of beauty

reminders in song

stream along my cheeks.


Sleepless Storm


There’s a rumble I hear,

is it my imagination,

is my mind

lost in a sea of confusion,

while sleepless

the night sky lights up,

to offer a beacon of survival,

a moment to reflect,

a sound wave of natural existence

far outweighs

the surreal state I seem to want.

 

Yet I do listen to the rain,

hitting my picture window,

dancing to a rhythm I can only

imagine

does the same  in her quiet

refuge,

together alone,

we stand inside the storm,

we wonder about each other

wander towards the moment,

the fantasy,

the imagined harmony we once

understood to be whole,

a holistic sort of reckoning,

together we planned our sojourn,

and we would wake with one another,

eyes in a fashion

of love.

 

Listen to the wind,

calls our name,

in a sweet silence,

while the wet rains sing.


Imagine Rain


Do you remember that time,

walking in alleys,

staying close, looking for eaves,

the water teasing our eyes,

like sweet rhythm

in a tapestry of sensuality,

garments gradual gathering

in the damp nature

of a beautiful summer rain.

 

We would walk around water

summer in a showery afternoon,

an already wet,

delight caress me delicious

stroll within my arms, feeling peace,

when our soaked disposition,

smiles,

in rain swept eyes, lips damp,

sweet flush cheeks,

my hands can land anywhere now,

in the wet,

beauty of your abandon.

 

Remember when we would walk for hours,

and then the shelter,

strip off our wet garments to each other’s eyes,

dry cotton, still our arousal is in the

quiet wonder of knowing

the depth of our love goes well beyond

a rainy afternoon.

 

Oh, the soup, warm, waiting, hungry …

 


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.