Past this Flatland of Wonder
Nothing like the orange ball sunset
of a Louisiana summer,
the clouds pinking the sky
for miles over fields of water,
fields of emeralds glistening
in the intense, yet dropping light.
Only a few tall trees to peek
around as it bows its fiery head,
and rests somewhere past
this flatland of wonder, pink and orange
winks and nods, flickering light
as it sinks behind its veil of night.
Brandy
sits atop the stem
of a snifter,
shimmering in candle
glow, a fire
in its rich color,
beckoning him
as warmth of a lover,
especially as
it slides down the inside
of the glass,
coming into his mouth,
flowing down his
happy throat, delighting
in liquid
and taste and afterglow so
sensual, sensuous,
this juice his sweet
love potion.
He sips slowly, savoring
each seductive
look in the light
and every taste
that lingers on his lips.
dances over his
awaiting tongue, longing
throat,
and the simulated
glow of love.
My Mocking Bird
Everyone has a bird
tell a story, but all my birds
are mocking, mocking,
darker than crows
and fatter, wings becoming
the whole black night sky,
symbols of my life
hanging from beneath
a canopy of goods.
One sells or gives away
my precious gems and memories;
one turns my pain into jokes,
one takes the rest away
as he flies off,
pieces of my world
splattering and bursting
on the ground.
Pink
Midday in bed
he touches
every part of her
that's pink,
stalking those places
with breath
soft and warm,
damp, even,
then the light, faint
touch of fingers
of experience slowly
painting over
the pale pink places,
deepening
their shade as blood
flows there and there
and here and here, touching
lightly as if
neither knew or had known
other lovers,
as if they themselves
were new lovers,
then he traced
pink places
with a soft tongue
slowly; and fingering,
he watched the rose
of her flesh
part for him,
its lacy petals
and tiny pink knot
mad for him,
his fingers and mouth
everywhere
everything soft and pink,
wet and tense
from his innocent fondling,
his unexpected
tracings over all
of her that's pink
until fuchsia frenzy
and magenta madness
brought forth rains
in need, wet desire
for a stalk
for that knotted flower
and his power
pushed them both
to rouge sweetness that comes
after the raging of red.
Sculpted
The shadows of your face,
the hollows and dark shades
around your eyes, the way the light
shines down your nose, and the way
it crosses your cheek, the fine lines
of chiseled features, remarkable by day,
sexier still at night in moonlight's romance.
Surely you were no accident. This lovely, masculine face,
an artist's creation it seems. The lips. The eyes.
Surely you are a miracle whose profile my eyes
are drawn to trace.
