Monthly Archives: December 2016

If I Were But A Child

If I were but an innocent child,
how sweet the world may seem,
everything in nature new to me,
and every great achievement
would be yet but a dream.

But, I’ve been that unclad child,
and in my childhood, day and night,
did I but play in carefree ways,
unaware the world was dark,
or that I could bear the light.

And now, today, have I grown old,
no longer bright with such a fire,
and yet, within my aged bones,
still have I that light once held,
and still have I that keen desire.

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Posted by on December 29, 2016 in My Poetry


Just a thought upon reflection…

‚ÄčThat my words affect the page upon which they are written is of little consequence.  That my words affect the reader who lays eyes upon them is of greater interest.  That the reader takes something of my words into their heart to find a home for them is the greatest beauty to my soul.  That those same words might someday fly from their heart, be scattered to the winds, and be as much as a wisp of light upon any other living thing is the most miraculous serenity attainable; and yet one of which I might never be aware, nor need to be.  Yet, that my words are written remains as my inner peace.

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Posted by on December 22, 2016 in Uncategorized


And She, The World That Holds Me

And what is this air to me,
but sweet undulant breath
of her most recent sighing;
‘ere the breeze has weight,
carried aloft with her gaze,
and laid still upon my lips,
with but her gossamer kiss.

And what of this living night,
as vibrant as her trembling,
as calm as her silent gaze;
as tho’ her shimmering eyes
were but enough to alight
all the stars that e’er were,
in a moment such as this.

And what is the sky above,
if not the gaze of her eyes,
as she then sees thru’ me,
spread o’er my soul in blue;
awash in effortless soothe,
my spirit stills with her sigh,
thus, she, my tranquil sleep.

And what of this warm earth,
as her endless caress abides,
reaching hands embrace me;
she is the path I walk upon,
flesh, how it doth guide me,
e’er reaching for her scape,
her earth becomes my keep.


Posted by on December 22, 2016 in My Poetry


Yet Came Her Return

I could do very little
but to question why
that in her most vain
and solitary moment,
she had turned away;
yet soft in her mood,
her dress would have
come undone for me,
and abandon her eyes
to her previous gaze;
had I, but in whispers,
availed myself to her,
but ‘ere, spoke I none,
only as afterthought;
how then did she e’er,
brave, attend the night,
leaving disquieted eyes
unguarded but to mine;
how easily she cried,
tho’ tearless, she wept,
as tho’ was she e’er
in sorrow without me;
so fragile her mood,
and in flesh, as well,
that a gossamer wind
might wither as much;
yet, in her delicacy,
her most tender way,
she would yet claim
her heart, gilded o’er;
‘ere my heart, undone,
lay waiting at her feet,
and she then breathed
with but wanton smile;
‘ere, her eyes alighted,
as a return of some joy,
as she held out her hand
to meet mine once more.

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Posted by on December 19, 2016 in My Poetry



Dare I Not Dream, But Love Her

O’, how swelled my spirited heart,
most sweet and infinitely formed
in the tender fashion of your eyes;
had I not held you of my own flesh,
would I but think it as mere dream,
and would ne’er be quelled in love.

O’, how softly breath escapes me,
as in dreaming, tho’ quite undone,
and heralded by your dulcet song;
you call my name, and awake I am,
‘ere dreaming seems far removed,
thus flesh has substance and hold.

O’, bright sun, heated wildly o’er me,
lend not a moment to shadow as yet,
and let night find me wide awake still;
‘ere may I ne’er dream, but be of flesh,
with my hours aware of her breathing,
thus spend eternity awake in her eyes.

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Posted by on December 18, 2016 in My Poetry



She Is To Me As Sun Is To Sky

No such breath would I forsake
toward mere mention of her form;
no matter how soft she appears,
no matter how vast in her warm.

Tho’ infinite is her brand of sky,
no rain of tears e’er wet her mind;
no more does she know of sorrow,
no more than allowed of her kind.

Winsome soul had she been born,
guileless divine of flesh and heart;
by her offering, no wanton has stay,
by her manner, her amourous art.

She is beauty which pleads for me,
her heart and spirit, her very flesh;
so warm to hold, her eyes in gaze,
so lyric in form, melodious caress.

And like proverbial moth to flame,
am I then to her, infinitely drawn;
with her heart, my fray has calm,
with her light, my night has dawn.

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Posted by on December 14, 2016 in My Poetry



The Fashioned Kiss

Had I the calm of mind and body
to lend soothe in your faintest fall,
as when you did swoon, unfettered,
acquiesced to my sudden approach,
would I be steady with my caress
and most firm in my wanton grasp,
for your supple and tender flesh;
and how rounded my assemblance,
thus plying myself to your breath,
at ease with your daringness of will
with which you feign softest sigh,
and exuberant with such boldness,
your forgiving and enduring smile,
knowing that all had been schemed
upon my senses, but to be kissed,
not just in that procurred moment,
but a life, as planned in your eyes.

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Posted by on December 14, 2016 in My Poetry