Tender kisses, slow descent;
eyes overflow in joyous midnight.
Feminine glow is exquisitely
displayed through open window
under entrancing moonlight.
Glistening skin is so beautifully
contrasted against satin white.
Tag: Creative Writing
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He’s a man of a certain age, who is distinguished in his appearance; an only son, who honors and takes care of his elderly parents. He’s come a long way through determination and perseverance. Many were his trials and tribulations, but he is thankful for the wisdom of life’s lessons. He views his age of maturity as a blessing. He was quoted as saying, “My hunger for knowledge is never-ending.” He has wept the tears of suffering — now, the tears that fall from him, are tears of joyous ascension. He carries himself no less than a gentleman. He has many impressive collections of different genres. He finds joy in passing down essential information and wisdom to the young men who inquire of him.
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She is nourished by sunshine and rainwater, like fields of lavender flowers rooted in the rich soil of celestial valleys, graced with the calming sounds of peaceful glistening rivers. She spreads her wings and glides over all that she’s dreamt of. The serenity of her soul is the most beautiful and ancient wonder. The celestial bodies crown her. The intonations of her voice are like refreshing flowing streams in early summer. Her gaze is like the aurora borealis in winter. Her whispers are like breathtaking portraits painted by a master. The colors of her soul are hues of blue, purple and lavender. Astonished minds contemplate the most descriptive words that closely describe the ethereal beauty of her.
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Fearless beauty overlooks the lights of the city. Black hair flowing over black satin bestows upon her the mysterious darkness of a raven. She is vampiric in nature — sleeping all day then at night awakening. There was a time when she held back, showing mercy; now, she slays in heels, conquering all that she can see, flawlessly. No, she will not fucking suffer in silence quietly. She has many lovers, not fucking them all separately, necessarily. She drinks an amaretto sour and smokes a cigarette at an ultra exclusive event. She stalks the secret places where lascivious noises are heard from people fucking with masked faces. If she wants you to know her, you will know her. If not, she will remain nameless and faceless with no traces. The night calls her, and she answers with a whisper. A tempest fast approaches. She is lightning. She is thunder.
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Still, there are words left unspoken years after I thought I had completely purged you from my system. Fucking other women was supposed to be my exorcism. My feelings for you were supposed to end. With every intense release of passion there should have been more distance. I made love passionately and intensely in the rapture of deep intimacy to women who told me that they loved me, but your memory is my prison. In the company of friends and associates I feigned indifference to stave off the outward signs of emotional ruin. Fuck her they would tell me, and I would pretend to agree with them. I’ve never been a man to be consumed by any particular obsession. As a fatherless child, I was raised by stern uncles who taught me to control my emotions in the company of men, and be exceptionally stoic in the company of women. Perhaps they would think that I have strayed from their discipline if they ever heard any of my intimate whisperings. Confessions have been told and tears have flowed before love making at 3:00 A.M. Naked and drenched in sweat saying barely coherent words through heavy whispery breaths, an attempted exorcism is in progress yet again.
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I dreamt of several rows of Ferragamo Oxford plain toe and Square toe shoes in preternatural white marble rooms. With them were perfectly pressed heavily starched white dress shirts, Purple Label navy blue blazers, and black Ferragamo Chelsea boots. There were several large rooms filled with beautifully tailored hand-made suits. My collection was extensive; initial engraved solid gold money clips were used for incidentals and evening expenses. Black and blue Ferragamo Moccasins with bicolor ornaments and loafers with metal tips were in abundance. I employed a dynamic staff of highly skilled les petites mains and tailors with several years of experience. My ateliers were located in the penthouse at Central Park Tower with a breathtaking view of New York City’s lights at dusk. My dream was exceptionally vivid. Solid gold and diamond encrusted cufflinks gleaming at an extremely envied private evening event was exceptionally exquisite. For that particular gathering I wore Ferragamo Oxford with metal tip. The lady that accompanied me wore Givenchy black G Cube leather sandals with gold anklet and a Givenchy evening dress in flawless fit.
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War
I seek not strife, but if it is war let it be war forever. I am of the likeness of my mother, erasing the face of the cowardice of my father. I have sought reconciliation, but now war is in my heart, so I seek reconciliation no longer. I am the son of heaven’s daughter. Instead of sorrow, I would rather laughter. Instead of unhappiness, I would rather have joy now and in the hereafter. The sentiments of my soul run deep through many mighty rivers. To the mighty and beautiful Redwood trees I will read my story aloud then listen closely for the whispers of their ponder. I’ve strived to be a man well remembered. I wade in deep dark waters facing the sinister anxiety that seeks to destroy me; for long I have warred with unrelenting horror. It is when blood runs and tears fall that I have given all that I can render.
—Intermission—
Passion
Beautiful whisperings, crying, and the exchange of expensive rings mean nothing if sentiments of love are not genuine. After love making, so much beauty is found in intimate conversation. There is so much depth and true feeling in the heart of an ardent woman. In the embrace of true love there is room to begin again. When long held secrets are divulged and tears run you will know that a genuine and unbreakable love has come. Endless joy is a spiritual immersion. I take a look at myself, the younger version, and I take heed to the wisdom of love’s lessons. There is nothing more romantic than sincere words spoken of the heart’s emotion followed by kisses of passion. Carnal desire is pleasure, but when paired with true love it becomes blue flames of everlasting fire. Marriage is not signatures on paper, it is the coming together and bonding of one another in passionate love forever.
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Christy Turlington turned around and stunned in a black evening gown. Naomi Campbell walked briskly on white marble and brought the house down. Helen Williams was elegant and demure, adorning white dress gloves, diamond earrings, and white fur. Marilyn came in smiling and graced the crowd with a breathtaking spin. Chrystèle whispered something in my ear, but it was a packed gathering and I couldn’t hear. Capucine set the high ceiling on fire with her red hair. In Dior, Ivy Nicholson shot me a glare as she stood statuesque beneath a beautiful crystal chandelier. Yasmeen Ghauri was absolutely beautiful, wearing stiletto mules with a deep V-Neck cocktail dress, navy blue. Donyale Luna and I danced together wonderfully; I marveled at her beauty when after, she told me of her adventures in Italy and recited passionate poetry. There was a surprise appearance by Jayne Kennedy who happened to hear about the gala in the midst of shooting her latest movie. Vonetta McGee joined the party with majestically curled hair, immaculate makeup, and almond eyes that moved me. Diane Keaton arrived with Pat Cleveland who was wearing Chanel everything for the evening. I had been drinking, but I swore that I saw Marilyn kissing Rock Hudson. Beside me a stunning woman was singing, whose name happened to be Nancy Wilson. Donyale lit a cigarette and deeply inhaled. Linda Evangelista sported vintage haute couture; Cindy Crawford conquered in ready-to-wear Louis Vuitton when she walked through the door. I politely complimented Tyra on her attire — she smiled and said, thank you in a calming whisper.
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We weep, yet we are not weak.
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Again, I take the inventory of me with brutal honesty weighing in the balance what the measure of a man should be, and with sound reasoning I have found that there has been progression, but in terms of significance it has been insufficient. Therefore, I must cast off the weight that pulls me down if I am to make my glorious ascension. I do not sleep because there is darkness, neither do I rise because there is light. There are no adherences to normality, for the eyes of the sorrowful are always heavy. Perhaps I have become vampiric in nature, awakening only because I need to feed — and because my heart is shattered, scattered among the harshness of weed infested infertile soil yet somehow I breathe. Ritualistically, Coltrane’s; A Love Supreme is my steadfast prayer; just before coffee with sugar and heavy cream, I silently shed heavy tears.
Intimate Compositions 