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Posted on 08/28/2005 2:26:23 AM PDT by Soaring Feather
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One Step at a Time
A touch,
a kiss,
a smile,
and I am happily lost.
A word,
a promise,
a whisper,
and I am bound.
A caress,
a touch,
a tickle,
and I am hers at all costs.
A sigh,
a moan,
a cry,
and I know love is found.
Not sure if I've ever posted this one.
Heat of Passion
Inner fire set in two breasts burns the hottest,
when ignited by a single slow soft sensual kiss.
A caress fires them; there is nothing they’ll miss,
experimenting with sensual sensation and little rest.
Dawn comes oh way to soon, and other demands intrude,
even Monday’s work encroaches upon their sweet dreams.
Fever bright their needs, searing them until climax screams,
welding them as one, across their inner universes so skewed.
Urgent need and wanton touch drives them to new heights,
addictive as any drug, they love with unleashed passion’s rage.
There is no holding back, no hesitation in this loving age,
only their fusion, and completion, the goal in their sights.
In that moment they are but one, united in every atom dear,
their cries as sweet as angel’s song in perfect balance and accord.
Time intrudes later, but for now there is only passion’s sword,
and the two of them, more alive then they thought possible I fear.
Sharing Is Better
Gosh I love this poem.
*HUGS*
Heat of Passion
Another room warmer.
Doesn't make any difference about the posting, Johnn. We all enjoy reading your work.
Sensations
She feels like she was the whole world on fire,
every single nerve alive to touches unending.
Her skin was so sensitive to his hands moving higher,
soft madness mounting to ecstatic timeless blending.
She gasps as the universe explodes suddenly around her,
through her, along every fiber of her being, so complete.
A totality of color and nothing, silence amid the blur,
enfolds her like a second skin, fusing through her mind so sweet.
Orbiting down into shattered silence, as the cosmic wind cries,
she rides the fading fire to a sweet soft stillness of the heart.
Sleep slips in on gossamer wings to her, under his watchful eyes,
soft the night enfolds them there, bound as one and not to part.
I was trained many years ago to work steel, and long ago I made swords, good swords as my teacher taught me too. There is something of the maker in each sword he makes, a part of his soul if he is any good at all. In martial societies, the warrior puts his soul into his sword by how he lives,fights, and dies, but it is never alone, for it shares the sword with the maker.
A Warrior’s Sword Soul
Falling hammer set sparks a leaping
to the tone of steel’s ring painful clear.
Slowly I shape its elongated form so severe,
setting the edge till now but sleeping.
Shaping the long edge beyond just sharp,
until light is lost along that finite line.
Air splits to escape that touch so fine,
a chill whisper that sounds like the Devil’s harp.
Set the wooden grip, wrapped with shark’s skin,
to balance the length of darkened steel there.
with a sigh I slide the grip down the metal with care,
locking the form with a single hidden pin.
I move it through the air in the ancient forms,
listening to its song of sundered air so soft.
I feel the shape of the blade in the air aloft,
flutter like a swift’s wing as it performs.
What I have created now seems alive,
as it should, taking its first breath in my hands.
I caress the grip’s delicate pair of silver bands,
gifts to the silent gods that my steel soul may thrive.
Good morning Ms. Feather!
Hi, JJ.
I love the pictures you post, simply gorgeous.
My pleasure. The are the poetry I lack but can see.
happy birthday ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
you shall above all things be glad and young
ee cummings
you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear
it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time
that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
Indian Summer,
the lull between seasons,
is precious to us,
for so many reasons.
The heat of Summer
is gone at last,
but, cruel winter lurks
with icy cold blasts.
Colourful Autumn
is a welcome respite,
from the heat of Summer
and, Winter so desperate.
Memories of Spring,
will pull us thru'
when daffodils at last,
will make their debut.
rim 10/14/05©
Good night Miss Feather and Fellow Lairites . . . see you tomorrow.
Lovely poem Hope, thank you.
Night, night, rest well.
Naughty Thoughts
Like a smooth red satin lace,
my thoughts glimmer,
with their silken soft possibilities.
Each beguiling, free of hostilities,
oh dream skimmer,
to paint a smile on my face.
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