Euphoric Surrender

She gives in to pleasure,
Taken by the passion of his kisses
And the depth of his measure.
She knows that he wants her,
Driving the instincts of his primal stamina
With every provocative word that she whispers.
She closes her eyes, releasing all of her;
Wildly, reverberating sounds of rapture,
In euphoric erotic surrender.

If Only You Knew

How beautiful you are in my eyes.
If only you knew that I see past
what others may think about you;
If only you knew that I see much
more than your physical attributes;
If only you knew your own value;
If only you knew that I refuse
to give up on you;
If only you knew that in the safety of my arms
I want to wrap you;
If you could only see through
my eyes what I see in you;
If only I could take away
the depths of pain in you;
You glow in my heart;
I see the diamond that is you.
When you walk by, they lust after you;
but in my soul I hold your heart—
and the essence of you.
I love you;
Your pain is my pain,
so until your heart is made whole,
I will weep for you.


The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour.

Her Only Son

When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.

Transformation Unseen

Blood runs from my crown; my heavy cross is stained.
Heavy head with crown I stand under torrential rain.
Distilled and then purified by fire seven times again I feel no pain.
They seek to destroy me permanently, blind me, and take my name;
They will never take my name.
When the love is gone, it’s gone, it could never be the same.
Pupae in various stages of travail we have all become butterflies of pain.
I weep with anticipation of the day that I shall reclaim.
Though I have faltered, angels with broad white wings
Surround me to cover my shame;
Mortality is often pondered and then pondered again.
Hope wanes in cold winter winds so prayers to heaven I send.
After the heart is broken something in the spirit bends;
Subconsciously I had held back pieces of me,
So to finally mend, the pieces of me, to myself I will lend.
Love sometimes comes and goes, and like a crushed burgundy rose petal,
There is staining and scarring of the soul;
We were all young once hoping to be old, 
But now aged men in cold seek warmth for old and brittle bones.
Even the dust of us will retain our essence
With love and beauty, revealing long past years of romance untold.
They had witnessed my previous form but were not privy to see me transform
Into a king with power sovereign in gorgeous starlight reborn.
An orchestra plays with the lead violinist in passionate depths of forlorn; 
With a heavy crown in rain, I reign through storms.
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned;
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned.

Though you cry,
you are beautiful.

Though you are weary,
you are resilient in your journey.

Though you suffer,
you will survive the winter.

Though lovers have fallen away,
you have recaptured the essence of your aura.

Though you are immersed in anguish,
the fire in your eyes is not extinguished.

Though you are ridiculed,
you will emerge triumphant.

Though you endure torment,
the strength of your spirit will not relent.

Though you have wept for many seasons,
now is the time of your healing.

Though you have suffered injustice,
a reckoning is on the horizon.

Though you feel unloved,
the universe cradles you in her womb
And Polaris shines upon you.

Though you contemplate eternal sleep,
your heart still beats, and you are not weak.

Though you are sorrowful,
your spirit will not wither.

Though they try to confine you,
you are blue fire, subjugating detractors
and illuminating the darkest depths of deep waters.

The Songbird and I (amended repost)


Searching for light I plead my cause and plight. The vast darkness of a deep well, my road of suffering is that of hell. I have seen with my eyes and heard with my ears the cries and screams of the afflicted, sorrowful moaning and the deep bellowing of the tormented. The voices of their pain fill the void and ascend to the heavens. The stench of it burns the nostrils. Fear stalks me and apprehension holds me against my will. I must cross over the abyss, or forever I will remain in darkness. Vile beasts wander aimlessly in search of sustenance; a songbird refreshes my resolve. My lamp is dim and my oil is low. I must move faster; I must make haste. In my pocket she sings—again my songbird sings. We are both weary but hopeful. She will cross over to the other side with me. We must make it over or perish here in the land of desolation. I thought I saw the treacherous bridge, but my eyes deceive me. Still we slog on, for we are replete with determination and hardened in our travail. I see the bridge now; that treacherous bridge over the abyss. We make ready for our journey over. Yes, we will cross over, Songbird and I. She peeks out briefly, her beak resting on the edge of my worn and rugged pocket. A new song is sung.