If the thrill of the hunt sets you a'flame
I long to be the man to play your game
But I'm not a beast to be satisfied with a bone
No "here's a scrap" now go on alone

For me, it's your divine feminine I pursue
The gods felt like showing off when they crafted you
Your sense, so dark, so deep, is what I'll follow
Don't short-shrift my time and make my efforts hollow

I'm in need of a feast - your body, your mind
My cravings won't end with wrinkled sheets and a bottle of wine.
Your flesh on my tongue is what I will savor
I'll eat you alive, if you'll return the favor.

I want to devour you whole
Your spirit, your soul
And once I've stripped you down to your core,
Only then, my dear, will we start the chase once more.

John Keats
Didn’t write any Tweets
Nor ever undertook
To post on Facebook

Percy B. Shelley
Sailed the Don Juan to sea
Where a monstrous storm seen rarely
Robbed Frankenstein’s Mary

His friend, Lord Byron,
Watched the beach with his pyre on
And then, on a whim,
He went for a swim

William Shakespeare
Loved his wife so sincere
That he willed her when dead
His second best bed

Sir Wilfred Owen
Wrote a **** spiffing poem
And he might well have wrote more
Had he outlived the war

Robert Frost
Got hopelessly lost
When for giggles and a laugh
He took the wrong path

Emily Dickinson
Needed hope to cling on,
So for lack of lucky heather
She clutched an old feather

William Blake
Saw the tiger, too late,
And he felt a cold shiver
As it ate his liver

Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
    Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
    To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
So thou wast blind;--but then the veil was rent,
    For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live,
And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,
    And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;
Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
    And precipices show untrodden green,
There is a budding morrow in midnight,
    There is a triple sight in blindness keen;
Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

You spotted snakes with double tongue,
  Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
  Come not near our fairy queen.

      Philomel, with melody,
      Sing in our sweet lullaby;
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
        Never harm,
        Nor spell nor charm,
      Come our lovely lady nigh;
      So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here;
  Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
  Worm nor snail, do no offence.

      Philomel, with melody,
      Sing in our sweet lullaby;
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
        Never harm,
        Nor spell nor charm,
      Come our lovely lady nigh;
      So, good night, with lullaby.

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

I was down.

And so I decided I needed flowers.

But not roses. Because roses have thorns.
And I am so sensitive lately.

I decided, not mixed flowers.
Because I’m mixed up.
And I need to stabilize.

I decided, not tulips.
Because tulips droop.

I decided,
I need gerbera daisies, bright.

Because gerbera daisies stand upright.

And so I bought some
in a wonderful shade of Fuchsia.