No wonder each tickle is seismic
There are mountains in your fingerprints
Tiny topographic maps
I want to sculpt a range of them
All peaks, plateaus and lowest points
All jades and pines and shades of you
And epoxy brooks will pool
Where swirls of myself etch the plaster
For if I touch you,
I thirst to water you
I thirst to water you

You don't find writing,
Writing finds you.

Lips being chewed
eyes glued to a screen,
I can't unsee the things
I've seen
the underground's a
waking dream
and not a very good one

He's asleep
keeping wolves at bay?
Friday is the shepherds day
to stay at home.

She's got her life in
a Lidl bag
screaming 'Quality'
tag me,
gag me
plastic bag me.

I'm wandering in the maze
Friday's are always weird.

all poetry is personal
some more than others

to just spread out your private feelings
     in your verse
may not be everyone's delight

but if you choose words
so that the many find their voices
    in your own
you may be lucky
to achieve all poets' dreams

your personal voice
becomes the public

Between a human and pet.
Opening hearts.
Healing wounds.
Revealing the Light within.
To grow,
To renew,
And to shine
In relationship.
Yes, a beautiful bond,
Indeed!

She was neve going to be in white,
              neutrality was never

going to be her hue.

She was telling the world a message..


Her gown, was onyx silk woven
                 like Cinderella had told the
arachnids  to create beauty in the night
unbridled
            it fell entrapping on any who gazed

upon its woven radiance.

She walked down the isle and with each step,
                                at least five were captivated

in the webbing of her beauty,
                       walking beyond there view.

All entombed within the elegance
             that captured them.

She was the spider weaving a web of beauty
           that captured every eye.

And the man was her prey, he smiled
          lost in the moment of her captivation.

I do, I do,  and both were entangled
within the
                             eyes of each.

This moment was silk ropes tied to each others
          wrists,
         and now they'll weave them every step
              

                          they collect together.

When the Cockerel  doesn't awaken


our slumber..

              We shall know that the world
is but a memory.

And we shall never awaken,

                               to the sunrise once more.

We ponder outside,
                        where luminosity is dulled,

but no matter the dullness.

                  The beauty  of our view isn't stagnated.