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.
We must never ignore injustice or the disparity around us. Thank you Dennis.
In the past two weeks
I’ve had a lot of time to think
about important and unimportant things
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
UNIVERSAL EQUALITY IN ALL ASPECTS OF LIFE,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS: TO FOOD, WATER, SHELTER,
MEDICAL TREATMENT AND AVAILABILITY OF MEDICATION,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS TO EDUCATION,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF CHOICE OVER OUR OWN BODIES,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF MOVEMENT,
FREEDOM OF SPEECH,
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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We Will Not Be Silenced has made Book Authority’s 100 Best New Poetry Books to Read in 2019! I am very proud to be a contributor to this important and relevant text.
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
Comments closed…please visit the original to continue this stunning write by S.K. Nicholas
It 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.
art by Sarah Riches
With Mr. Cakes permission. Comments closed, please visit the original.
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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