I love the way you move
I love the way you walk
There is a certain grace about you
In the air that surrounds you
Even in how you talk

Your smile lights up a room
Your touch makes my heart
Burn with desire

Just being in your presence
Is time well spent
Feeling that my heart is safe
In your hands
Is priceless

You are the source
Of so much inspiration
It's difficult to explain
You make me want to better myself
Because you deserve the best man
That I can be

You "get" me
And I "get" you
I've never felt more
Understood or appreciated
For just being myself

You make me feel thankful
And I don't take that for granted

I love the way you move

.
                                       B
                               o    o x     o
                             x      B o        x
                            B         x           B
                           o        B    o        o
                           x       x      B        x
                           B       o      x        B
                            o        B   o         o
                              x         x         x
                                    ~         ~
                                          ●

Trees

I am a peculiar tree
Growing half in rock
And half in the sea

The winter winds do bother me
I need the spring to set me free

I envy ivy trees
So full of green

I can't stop the gale
But I can change my sail

Keith Wilson  Windermere Feb 22 2016

I  walked  under  clear  blue  skies.
My  feet  making  footprints  in  the  golden  sands.
    
I  shaded  my  eyes  and  peered  across.
At  inky-blue  mountains  stretching
Endlessly  beyond  the  vast
Expanse  of  water.

Seashells  scattered  at  random
Lay  embedded  in  the  soft  sand
Showing  off  many  beautiful  colors

I  sat  for  awhile  and  dozed  fitfully
Listening  to  the  soft  murmuring
Of  the  gentle  incoming  tide.

The  tranquillity  was  finally
Interrupted  by  an  excited
Yell  from  a  small  boy  fisherman
Who  had  hooked  a  minnow.

As  it  grew  cold  I  walked  on
With  a  clear  and  refreshed  mind.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

My Jesus
does not shout his father's name
in a victor-trodden written page
in scenes atop mass unmarked graves.

My Jesus
does not begin sermons
preaching the "White Man's Burden"
treating a "Savage" as ill vermin.

My Jesus
does not parade down busy streets
holding signs of scorn and deceit
casting dour faces in their fallacy.

My Jesus
cries out his father's name
from a splintered cross in agonizing pain
his blood the payment of sin washed away.

My Jesus
tore the holy temple curtain
lifting the veil of the voyeurs uncertain
washing their ***** feet a humbling servant.

My Jesus
In the crowds victim to the zealots' decree
Widens his arms in the wake of their hypocrisy
He calls them all to him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I am yours
All I owe to you
Humble you came
Glorious you ascended
Righteous you will return
This I know
For your love is the current in my veins