I would like to be a writer. I began this site with amorous intentions, and over the course of time, I hope to have evolved as a male in an ever changing society that is today, recognizing the true beauty and elegance of woman. My words and notions will I hope respond in poetic verse of many genre and style. Come along and please share your ideas and insights. Thank you for your visit.

Posts tagged “woman

My Time Is My Own


A mantra with meaning,

a saying to suggest,

a memory,

quiet in its discretion, its wishful

mnemonic fortune.

Oh, to have the time to say the words,

to know the reaction, to see the eyes,

to feel the lips, to taste the passion,

to understand the mystique

is drawn inside our own set of fashion,

our world together,

it is in that quiet alley way,

where romance did lean against stucco walls,

inside a broken world,

where healing hands and gasps and fires

did maintain some semblance of peace

internalized by the conflict of our realities.

Oh to know the sweet spirit of love

in all its natural abandon

preserved by the symbolic nature

of heart and soul.

Oh to taste the fire of dewy eyes in winter’s landscape.


When Wishing We Make Love


One might wonder

the occasion

to know the

passionate embrace,

the metaphysical,

inspirational,

devotional desire

to want the motion,

to wish,

to make love.

 

One might imagine,

when in the moment,

intensity,

abandon,

the sort allows our bodies

a shelter

to land upon, inside, beyond,

to feel this surreal nature

of sensuality drawn upon

years inside a quiet energy,

waiting, wanting,

finding that reach,

the place,

sweet serenity is a cliche

that might not ever describe

the truly incomprehensible

vision,

knowing the moment.

 

One might always

wander,

asking the reveal,

swift is the response

to finding her mystique

knowing, believing, wishing

to comfort

such aspect of truth

is inherent

when lost in the throes

of wishing only peace

to be the

center of woman.


A Glance Contains a Smile


mf

It is with provocative pose,

she sets the tone,

body toned,

eyes to wander wonder,

she is beauty in repose.

 

Her glance is private,

allowing only certain eyes

to bask in sweet elegance,

the shadows of love,

lost in the element of disguise.

 

Oh to wander along naked skin,

to feel the arch of a sensitive touch,

we might last forever,

if when the two hearts we pose,

would, could venture beyond fantasy.

 

Poised and beyond reach,

a seduction sweet to savor,

hers is a lovely sensuality

any man might favor,

yet one should always know,

the respect of her labor is true.

 

Oh to relish in the prowess

is her innocence

to know the travels sweet lips

would venture once her eyes

give allowance to departure.

 

Then there is the essence of reach

for hers is a quiet and dignified center.


When Walking Alone


There is a difference in tone,

a solitary figure in a moonlit backdrop,

the sky is a canvas capable of new horizons,

if only for a moment the character

might stand completely still.

 

Completely still inside a memory,

holding onto the silence,

a wishful recall

a sweet response to time

is all the solitary figure might choose.

 

Might choose offers certain doubt,

when realizing how time plays a role

in knowing love,

he does want to stand there forever,

in the hope that stillness might be a blessing.

 

She is that fond imagination,

the caress of somber spirituality,

the sort that energy

speaks of out loud

without any reservation, ever.

 

I once recall a story of a man,

caught inside a cycle of quiet remind,

always pushing, forever angling,

imagining the final stride would

accentuate his peak, yet the fall …

 

There is a breaking point in sanity,

when beyond the notion of real,

the body might sacrifice comfort,

instead a forever lust toward peace,

will always compel a forgiveness ahead.

 

When walking alone hopeful by design,

I would the eternal march quiet resign.


When The Sea Begins To Know


We can feel the drift, the silence moves granules of sand,

though every day seems the same,

the earth below our feet, naked in the heat,

has shifted its weight to give credence to another morning,

another beginning, a new settling,

a quiet recall of the night before.

 

Yet the sea is waiting,

and we are the ones that want to know,

but will never be told

only expected to undertake whatever resilience

suggests we wait.

 

I would wait for

ever,

to hold truth in my arms again,

yet today, I look to the water,

the edge of my life begins

when the last tide decides to waft inside

my mind,

a naked place,

where security no longer lingers,

instead,

it is as buoyant as a summer breeze,

carry me away,

carry my soul, my heart,

away.


The Essence of Woman


In life lives a fantasy,

a gentle reminder of a soft journey,

one rampant with a passion,

driven by the essence,

the true nature of knowing,

her every curvaceous tone,

whether it be intellect

or the naked reality …

 

In imagining woman,

might the man remember

true beauty,

an eternal mystique

shall be her endearment,

the freedom she carries to be

just lovely in every aspect

of her being.

 

Woe that we do forget

in the throes of a neediness,

a loss of contentment

with recognizing peace,

instead tossing aside the value,

that originating seduction,

for a callous recall,

one that may cause confusion,

detract from any innocence,

to inherit an ugliness toward

proper beauty.

 

It is in that pause,

the reflection of man,

we can realize

there is truth inside the goddess

of our humanity,

that spiritual reckoning

suggests a karmic wave

of true innocence,

the essence of woman

be shared only in the eyes

of sacred love.


there is softness in her beauty


In woman,

in that we recognize beyond the physical pleasures,

there is a softness,

one meant to be honored,

not arraigned,

yet, so often in the throes of our personal passions,

we forget to take homage in their own gentle offerings.

 

In woman,

we attach sacrifice,

to suggest she is meant to be privileged,

at the expense of man,

without realizing her own contributions,

are meant to be the truth,

not a fantasy,

but a spiritual guidance in the heart of all Man.

 

In woman,

I know she is beautiful,

and I relish the opportunity to tell her so,

when in her eyes, I see magic, I see the sunrise,

and I do as evening pulls often feel the sunset,

in her demeanor when a peace,

a needed vacation from all of the torment,

might become her personal homage.

 

In woman,

I see her.