On Writing Erotica

Oh, to find sauce in the sweep of a tongue,

to linger in gasp

might we some way know a path

along his center,

the long and drawn out slide of exploration,

to feel her response,

the sweet touch a nectar of truth

when cradling moans become such wild


not yet we will always say,

trying to find

an edge,

know when she, he,

when they as one

wish us, wish them

find our center together

in such is this our explosive mantra,

the sensuality of the human condition



Oh it is alluring,

the mind wishes to travel

inside the fantasy

of sin,

a practiced sexuality,

the mystique of woman,

the brazen nature of man,

the combination of some swift surreal

engagement of this

our universal gender driven desire

to offer sweet solace,

sweaty and spent,

in each other’s arms,

legs intertwined,

minds as one.


We need the eyes for everything to be real.

On Eyes

If you have looked in eyes,

beauty is there,

the chance of a moment to reflect

in each other’s soul


when two lovers do allow time

to fall into the ocean of their eyes.


Time will move to forever

rather now

strings of shelter slip away

so beauty inside the passionate

nature of love

can explode like that sparkle

the glint, the sensuality

we might feel when we allow

the real of a moment

when relying only upon

the eyes.


I stand alone,

a person walks by,

we announce one another,

continue on our way,

and I know today,

there will be no one in my life

whose moment

I can count upon

to rest my weary heart

on eyes.


Oh to be inside the presence

of such is the lovely chance.

An Emotional Day

Speaking to strangers in a private world

perhaps an overstatement

while lost inside a delusional affair.


This one day while standing rather alone

watched a dream enter the room

thought beyond the moment, a fantasy.


See there begins this rather sordid mystique

hers is visual wonder in his

therefore, words may be shared, understood.


Yet, then the eyes, the smile, the eyes speak

a certain passionate appeal,

he says yes, he says now, he speaks truth


Cut to the chase she says without a beat,

and he is lost for the day,

now in desperation he recalls that day.


Sweet wonder in the quiet description

of her fall evening in a window

listen to the nature of her life around her


the years we listen, we speak, we love

are inside a sudden memory,

when life returns with a silent reality.


So wonder is in a design of sweet serenity,

the loveliness of such is a passion

inside an emotional day we find sweet peace.

The Sensuality of Words

I used to read them all the time,

and then one day

they began to pour out of my mind

always looking

always trying to find the right rhythm

then one day,

in a fit of tears I realized

I couldn’t feel the words I wanted,

or I couldn’t hear the passion,

or I knew that life was just not the same,

so the words,

the beauty of such sensuality,

an erotic dream,

an imagined fantasy,

beautiful story in lovely minds,

her eyes, his physique,

their anonymous unbridled sexuality

were no longer mine

to create

inside the mystique of my own quiet beauty

her beauty,

her unimaginable humility,

her remarkable silence

has given me reason

to know love is forever,

yet, I will not travel in the same surreptitious

lanes I once found comforting,

I’ll alone

know there is truth in the elegance of a word.

Listening to the Moody Blues

When I was just a kid,

I’d listen

there were rhythms with such skill,

I would look at a stone

on the ground

with a different lens

by the way the music spoke to my mind,

and I never understood why.


Then one day I found this song,

the lyrics of which,

struck me,

perhaps she was in my mind,

yet it seemed

so perfect,

every word crying to be heard,

“A turn of the page
Can read like before
Can we ask for more”


Seemed so easy, to read the purpose

of ‘Isn’t Life Strange’

so fitting

telling us all to stop and breathe,

to realize the world the same,

perhaps not absolute,

yet certainly can we all fall in love,

yes we can,

for we do turn the page,

though we know

the words remain.


They could always be the same,

our lives, our loves, our words.

This Wise Man When

once said

now believed


happens the quiet


what is real

toward how can we become

someone new.


I stood on a bridge


ice caps and open water …


later on

the frozen ground crackled

with my every step

not knowing why

yet still reminding

a lost soul

such a walk


move me forward.


there are tears

we all seem to share

just the timing of when

why yours now

her later response

his acceptance

a recall

a song

a familiar morning air

and the rains do slowly

Turn to ice.

A Quiet Man

If you noticed him on streets wearing opaque

we would be hard pressed to clear a new path

for man carries the weaponry of wrath

when suggestive measures his outlook take.


Standing on the street corner fare in hand

waits inside crowds of unknown ambition

Childhood agony (a) primary mission

He would wish happiness in a soft land.


The train will convey a sea of ideals

all begun with ambition spent by day

his a persona, quiet man per se

yet still his life will be amongst the reels


My eyes search swift similar to your own

Whence is this such peace serenity grown