Sunday, 24 November 2019

The Other Hand


Maybe these kisses would land, better,
on the other hand,
while you show me the scars where rocks and
landscapes, have scraped
the depths of you? Have been the agony
and life-giving
of you… Softer than silk and roughly
hewn; my under-honoured soldier, and his
every day wounds, of growing,
and living,
recounted –
all these marks,
his adventure’s bounty,
and beauty,
beyond measure and doubt – let me cover
each one, with my hungry mouth, and hot gasps,
on skin;
I will exhale fire
and have it sink in, until your soul burns with passion and
grace, each map of past, I want
to trace, with my tender,
smoothing thumb,

ahead of sweet lips and caressing tongue; drawing circles
on my favourite part
of you;
the story of your march,
to me, this moment; my fortress of light;
where a quiet warrior
may spend his nights, in arms and
all ecstasies – deeper and deeper, wider than
seas – show his cards and throw defences aside.
For here, the King of Hearts,
need not always
be a knight. 

Sunday, 20 October 2019

Sunday Morning

Pressed against me, in my kitchen
on a Sunday morning;
there is only coffee, and time; no doubt.
Fall on me, come breathe your soul
out; ecstasy out loud,
risen up
and laid down
without the soft-veiled fight,
cried out
in a river
of viscose light
from all our universal stars;
show me,
one by one,
your newest scars - 
that I have not 
let me kiss them, accept them,
like they have always been, for you
be changed:
your insides
my name,
written through and side to side;
your crimson,
my blue skies,
we are bound by the glorious purple;
a beautiful love
welcome passion-burden, 
raw truth - 
cut me open,
my insides read: one word,
only: you.

Where Is Summer?

I looked up at the sun today,
and asked him his mind.
He met my eyes.
And sighed.
Then drew the clouds
to hide behind, and went back
to his solitude;
he turned his face away, night's cool replacing
heat of a day,
he just could not face.
I chased
and challenged him, why he did not shine?
That it cannot be winter
all the time;
there must be warmth and life; his soft caress,
his touch on my skin through a summer dress, his whispered,
golden breath
falling tender
on the back of my neck, 
twisted sheets, beaded sweat, and his
of my soul...
He crumpled then and rolled
the clouds
quicker and quicker; freezing raindrops, began to fall.
I looked up
at the sun, a moment,
appalled - and I understood;
took down my umbrella
and pushed off my hood; to be willingly cried sodden,
and kissed,
in the ensuing flood; arms open,
without a single
It was not that he would not try.
He would again glint, off the waters of that river,
created and gushing by.
The sun yearned,
for it to be summer,
just, as much as I. 

My Favourite Part

If I tell you that this
is my favourite part,
know it is because there, I feel your
heart-beat, and your soul
speak to me,
feel you tighten on the edge
of an ecstasy calling;
a dawn, and a sunset,
a sky falling, and the stars bereft now
of a moment
that was written in them,
as it soars to new galaxies, twists
and bends, in trails
of comets,
burning through blackness, on its own
trajectory of dizzying, colourful happiness – this
is the place,
you let me in –the torsion of muscle,
the softness of skin,
on skin,
and I feel your lips curve,
without ever needing to hear a word or a sigh,
out loud,
here we are lost, beyond the
clouds of Heaven, where tender passion calls;
roars, and begs the rush
of a waterfall of light; a glistening ribbon
that curls and binds
you inside me,
and I
in you…hot mouth, caressing too
to miss, as I bury my face, in my favourite part
of you , to kiss. 


The devil
is in the details though, you see,
the dove-tails, and the ways
you are
with me, locked together, like strange-cut keys, and turning,
as a puzzle -
a monkey tree;

tangled, entwined,
and holding vines – I am yours and you
are…mine and borrowed,
this, I know,
details…details etched in sand
beneath my toes, hidden with care
and warmed by sun,
washed by rain, those details come
again to haunt us,
time against time: ‘what’
and ‘when’, and I push them aside: three from ten blackbirds
baked in a pie -
they sing the truth of our star-bitten sky,

and it matters not,
the ‘if’ or ‘why’,
so long as I smile
and I look
in your eyes.