After tears stream,
sensual kisses fall
on beautiful contours
of the neck and shoulders.
Sincere apologies are conveyed
through passionate kisses
and intimate whispers.
She deeply loves him,
and he deeply loves her.
In the height of their
most intimate moment,
they vow to stay
together forever.
Tag: Personal
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How beautiful you are in my eyes.
If only you knew that I see past
what others may think about you;
If only you knew that I see much
more than your physical attributes;
If only you knew your own value;
If only you knew that I refuse
to give up on you;
If only you knew that in the safety of my arms
I want to wrap you;
If you could only see through
my eyes what I see in you;
If only I could take away
the depths of pain in you;
You glow in my heart;
I see the diamond that is you.
When you walk by, they lust after you;
but in my soul I hold your heart—
and the essence of you.
I love you;
Your pain is my pain,
so until your heart is made whole,
I will weep for you. -
The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour. -
When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.
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Blood runs from my crown; my heavy cross is stained.
Heavy head with crown I stand under torrential rain.
Distilled and then purified by fire seven times again I feel no pain.
They seek to destroy me permanently, blind me, and take my name;
They will never take my name.
When the love is gone, it’s gone, it could never be the same.
Pupae in various stages of travail we have all become butterflies of pain.
I weep with anticipation of the day that I shall reclaim.
Though I have faltered, angels with broad white wings
Surround me to cover my shame;
Mortality is often pondered and then pondered again.
Hope wanes in cold winter winds so prayers to heaven I send.
After the heart is broken something in the spirit bends;
Subconsciously I had held back pieces of me,
So to finally mend, the pieces of me, to myself I will lend.
Love sometimes comes and goes, and like a crushed burgundy rose petal,
There is staining and scarring of the soul;
We were all young once hoping to be old,
But now aged men in cold seek warmth for old and brittle bones.
Even the dust of us will retain our essence
With love and beauty, revealing long past years of romance untold.
They had witnessed my previous form but were not privy to see me transform
Into a king with power sovereign in gorgeous starlight reborn.
An orchestra plays with the lead violinist in passionate depths of forlorn;
With a heavy crown in rain, I reign through storms.
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned;
In white linen and fine silk with gold borders I am adorned. -
Venomous words linger even the morning after,
And when even is come, more tears run—
Angered silence constricts the tongue, and words are hardly spoken;
Though remnants of love remain, it could never be the same —
For the heart weeps, and the spirit is broken. -
Though you cry,
you are beautiful.Though you are weary,
you are resilient in your journey.Though you suffer,
you will survive the winter.Though lovers have fallen away,
you have recaptured the essence of your aura.Though you are immersed in anguish,
the fire in your eyes is not extinguished.Though you are ridiculed,
you will emerge triumphant.Though you endure torment,
the strength of your spirit will not relent.Though you have wept for many seasons,
now is the time of your healing.Though you have suffered injustice,
a reckoning is on the horizon.Though you feel unloved,
the universe cradles you in her womb
And Polaris shines upon you.Though you contemplate eternal sleep,
your heart still beats, and you are not weak.Though you are sorrowful,
your spirit will not wither.Though they try to confine you,
you are blue fire, subjugating detractors
and illuminating the darkest depths of deep waters. -
When kindness is taken for weakness, the weakness is in not recognizing the healing light of kindness, because treachery of the heart and degeneracy has long caused blindness.
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Searching for light I plead my cause and plight. The vast darkness of a deep well, my road of suffering is that of hell. I have seen with my eyes and heard with my ears the cries and screams of the afflicted, sorrowful moaning and the deep bellowing of the tormented. The voices of their pain fill the void and ascend to the heavens. The stench of it burns the nostrils. Fear stalks me and apprehension holds me against my will. I must cross over the abyss, or forever I will remain in darkness. Vile beasts wander aimlessly in search of sustenance; a songbird refreshes my resolve. My lamp is dim and my oil is low. I must move faster; I must make haste. In my pocket she sings—again my songbird sings. We are both weary but hopeful. She will cross over to the other side with me. We must make it over or perish here in the land of desolation. I thought I saw the treacherous bridge, but my eyes deceive me. Still we slog on, for we are replete with determination and hardened in our travail. I see the bridge now; that treacherous bridge over the abyss. We make ready for our journey over. Yes, we will cross over, Songbird and I. She peeks out briefly, her beak resting on the edge of my worn and rugged pocket. A new song is sung.
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Blood of the fallen runs on the alter of vengeance
Eyes of fire replay their last moments
The tears that fall are the final expulsion of agony
We cry no more but see the kindling of our glory
Embers light up the dark night
The wailing of grieving mothers is the essence of our plight
Intuition is our vision even if we lose our sight
Last agonizing breaths of our ancestors absolutely indicts
The generations of slave masters
The hell of our lives trivialized through lying tongues and murderous eyes
The wicked intent of their hearts pulling on the woven fabric
Of the very flag of which they hide behind
We are tired but resolved
Hear it in our sighs
For the children have seen strange fruit
With broken necks and bulging eyes as their father’s drove by
Instilling fear year after year each season
Beginning with the commencement of tears
If there is indeed an almighty God
The anxiety of our children will not go unpunished
We have survived many violent summers
And the fire of resilience has warmed us in the coldest winters
In their last moments the beloved stood under the shade of canopies
Hanged on the branches of towering trees
The same place they were whipped unmercifully
The trees left as witnesses with splatter from the blood of tortured bodies
In their deep roots they retained the tormented screams
And did not bear sweet fruit again
They slowly withered with the discoloration of their leaves
Mothers fell to their knees and cried out for their sons
While their daughters tried to comfort them
For everything under the heavens there is a beginning and an end
The ghosts of the oppressed and the afflicted
Roam freely in the vast fields of plantations
And among the aged towering trees where pain was inflicted
The soil where they toiled infused with sweat and blood
If you listen closely their songs can be heard
Hands with many scars and eyes blurred
In unbearable heat they yet toiled under the overseer’s gun
Seeing the blood run from the hands of even the little ones
Their mothers sneaking to tend to their wounds with love
The towering trees witness their sorrow from above
Intimate Compositions 