Poetry: The Entrance

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Dark Room

My fingers caress smooth satin nickel

As the ice in the vodka glass tinkles

Like wind chimes singing in a seashore breeze.

The door opens to reveal candlelight

Flooding walls colored in the memory of blue

With sunflower hints cast from the fire.

On bare feet I reach the occasional

On the far side of the rough iron bed

To find her instruments, tools and playthings.

Soon the room fills with fuck-driving music,

Followed by impatient smoke, scarred tension

And the low-level buzz of a heartbeat.

Now a flick—a fade—a shake of her hair—

Eyes flashing—skin teasing—the dance begins.

Poetry: Reborn

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It is the weight of a feather, a turn

Of the head, the lean difference between

A moment of beauty and an instance

Of sinking apathy, the dancing flame

Burns still the next minute and all seems lost

When she moves into the darkness, reborn.

The hard rhythms of music inspire

Sharper angles, unpredicted profiles,

Rapid breathing. In one slow turn she owns

All my perception, all of my senses,

And like a leopard I lie very still

In wonder of all that is possible

Aching to spring into pure ecstasy

When she moves out of the darkness, reborn.

Photo Credit: © Andrei Sajenko | Dreamstime.com

Poetry: Senseless

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Conversation, soundless; we have never

 

Heard each other’s laughter, music, timbre.

 

Scent, ethereal; our arms have never

 

Held the other or tightened on a kiss.

 

Taste, unimaginable; the deep sense

 

That lies forever beyond the unreal.

 

Touch, hypothetical; a creation

 

Built from the one thing we have: visuals.

 

Sight is the devious sense, denying

 

The chill in the air and the colder sound

 

Of everyday, masking the odor

 

Of woman and man, leaving hungry lips

 

To quiver with sexual starvation.

 

I see . . . I want . . . but I must deny you.