the lethal dose

There are days  shadows course
through me like a breeze,
pressing deep into my life line and
the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow
where I refuse to lay my head.
I don’t fear  those intrepid ghosts,
I embrace and release them with
failed  gravity or the force that once
held the cupped hand of my lover.
The sky was alive then with every shade of
blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes
where I longed for space.
Desire is a stranger,  a lethal dose,
 encountered beneath a sacred mound.
art by Laura Makabresku

‘The lovely silence’

With John’s permission. Comments closed, please see the original.






The lovely silence
The real poets and writers know. The silence is golden. Words become meaningless in the midnight hours. True lovers don’t need to speak. They allow their mouth, hands and body to send their message of need to their lovers.


Sweet lady whispered please don’t say nothing and her soft hands danced on willing skin of her lover. In the midnight hours, lovers don’t seek permission. They open their minds, hearts and body. They don’t take and steal. They give and expose willing places and skin. They are willing to climb the mountain of wild and deep passion. Three a.m lovers don’t seek forgiveness and repair. They seek solemn place where lips and body become one till the morning light.


Pretty woman eyes filled with love and hope. Perfect words said to lucky man. In the quiet of the night. We can be saviors, takers and…

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In that state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and mortality

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles,

macabre dreams interrupted by sighs

the soft strophe of sonnets and the odd

sensation of strung pearls  falling like

tiny moons through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow,

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Now  I am sleeping less

roused by the wing beats of boreal Owls

circling   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwining knotty branches.

When sleep intrudes fitful winds  erupt

feathery curtains, vibrate my hemispheres.

A  swift breeze lifts  me over  the

valley to a  moonlit hillside of sweet lea

where a silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden meadows and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.




Universal Equality

We must never ignore injustice or the disparity around us. Thank you Dennis.

Comments closed.


Dennis Cardiff

In the past two weeks
I’ve had a lot of time to think
about important and unimportant things
(long story).
I have come to some very basic conclusions
as is my right and obligation.
They may seem obvious to some.

To others they may seem inflammatory.
Deal with it —
say what you want on your own page.

I believe that as humans
we deserve:

These are big issues
that have repercussions in news events
around the world.
I haven’t worked out all the details, yet,
but I have seen a lot of headlines on television
in print media and on the internet.

On our planet
we must eradicate (as much…

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The Pale Window

The sun is still low in the sky,
it’s rays have barely begun
to pierce the chill of our pale window.
Don’t go,  we are scarcely out of dreaming.
Caress my breast with the lifeline of your palm
while my head rests in the crook of your shoulder.
With these  fingertips you kiss one by one
I will ease the furrow of your brow and
soothe your body with the twining of my own.
Let the hours pass  through us tenderly
like a shallow river of fledgling reeds.


Steve hanks art


Dreams Don’t Recede

Comments closed…please visit the original to continue this stunning write by S.K. Nicholas


S. K. Nicholas

zhu-liang-1122428-unsplashIt starts in some strange, recurring dream, where the buildings in my hometown are not stained by history but brand-spanking new, and there in some park beneath a tree that touches the sky, is a girl who would be my own; a girl I once called home. You’re alive for a while with time on your side, then before you know it, you’re no longer a child but a shape wearing a suit. Most make the transition without knowing, and even when they do, they deny it the same way they deny the uncomfortable truths regarding the dastardly card of death. It’s not a dance for them, but a slow descent. It’s a dance for us, though. It’s a dream of a forest and of the glowing lights in the middle of the night that call your name through the window of your room, and even though it’s cold and…

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These fragments  I offer

at times coalesce but  they

are defined by the spaces

between their  lines.

Short and serpentine,

they gently prod your subconcious,

I want to make you comfortable,

but feel the silence.

Please do not interrupt

my breathing or break the

momentum of fragile hands

on your neck and shoulders.

My hair is  a rope ladder  we

climb down  into  a  dream-mind

of iteration where words are

food and wine.



Butterfly kisses

art by Sarah Riches




With Mr. Cakes permission. Comments closed, please visit the original.


Igor Morski Igor Morski

I never looked at you in a sexual way before
But I am now and I’ve got a feeling
That once started I will find this cute
Compulsion near nigh impossible to stop
Now that the scales have fallen
From my eyes and you are transfigured
Into a Valkyrie, an angel, a vamp
An incandescent imago razing
My mind with intuitive intensity
Reducing my chaotic complexity
To a single lust, one driving desire
To possess you so that I can in turn
Be possessed and then engulfed,
No longer thrashing in the shallows,
Diving into the depths, a plaything
Of strong currents, subject to
The ebb and flow of tides
Battered by breakers and waves
Hearing oceanic roar, whale-songs
And the susurration of sighs
Only with you do I want or wish
To turn the petit mort into
An epic grand mal, a seizure to
Pause creation in…

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