Asleep in my arms, an angel,
or am I sleeping, in a dream?
The smell of her soft hair enfolds me,
drowns me, holds me,
emboldens me to think she’s real.
Deep in my dream she pushes, rolls me,.
A hot spark rushes,
entwines my spine,
a strong tender warmth, in the dark.
Every move she makes, a stroke,
a touch that tells me she is mine.
Her gripping thighs press hard against me.
My mind explodes. I’m on fire.
Our passion steams up the windows
and still desire doesn’t tire.
I love her in ways my words never tell.
Her breath on my neck, a bewitchment,
I’m spinning under her spell.
She is wild as rushing water,
she sweeps me home and away.
When the rapid falls are over,
she reaches out for again.
She is drenching rain.
She lays beside me,
slumbering in sensual rest,
contented beneath my hand.
I am her first dry land.
The snow outside is piling high.
White blankets wrap up the door.
Poetry
Young Doctors
now that I’m older,
all the young doctors
look like tender angels to me
when they are older
i wish them the blessing
of laughter and care lines
carved into their cheeks
The Visions Nightly Gather
the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she fears to lose the light
she huddles like a child
who needs a low lit lamp
and dreads the lullaby
she hides inside the story books
and keeps the bell at hand
her bedside charms are bastions
against that other land
the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she knows that all her visitors
are shadows of the dead
To my horrified muse
what can you say
when the words go way
and your muse rushes out of the door,
scared by the visions she saw?
you could always pretend
that thought has no end
and your heart is as full as before
but all you can do
is wait for the day
she will turn and look back for you
close your eyes
tell no lies
delay the amen
and hope she comes home again soon
The Door
the door that stands behind her slowly opens
i kick it shut
time after time
each time i look it’s open again
this mysterious haunting door
nothing is visible, nothing profound
i see her longing,
longing for sleep,
i see fear,
a lost look in her eyes,
as i hold her still, warm hand
there are tears in my eyes
i won’t let them flow for her now
the door swings ever wider
and lets in a soft evening light
it’s gentle, that light,
i see that
Tales from the Woods
My children had an uncle.
He took them all out hunting,
they never did say what they sought,
out in the woods, for hours and hours
playing amongst the tall trees.
I stayed home tendling the fire,
baking the bread
and stirring the soup
in the endlessly bubbling pot
I had set to warm with the dawn.
They came back at dusk,
happy and tired
with mud on their shoes
and big sparkling eyes
and when i bathed them at night
and combed out their tangled hair,
sparkling dust fell to the floor,
twinkled and disappeared.
We saw him less and less,
but strange gifts
still arrived at the door
when a wind blew in from the west
(the time i always like best).
As they grew up, he faded,
or maybe he just went away.
The world was never the same after that,
their focus had shifted and torn,
until they had their own children
and told the old stories again.
The Maid of Harlaw
one for Halloween
Sunday With My Mother
She wanders in and out of dreams
and cannot tell the difference.
The people of the night, it seems,
create the day’s agenda.
She follows phantoms down the path
wherever they may send her.
Old houses merge into this house,
old friends, in throngs, attend her.
The door is gone that once stood there,
the chairs misplaced,
the rooms askew,
and only I defend her.
The cellars vanished in the night,
everything is turned about,
she does not know the reason.
Old age has finally found her out,
this is the final season,
but laughter, when I find the way,
battles this confusion.
I feel sad but make her smile.
It beats the blackguards from our gates
and brings some respite, for a while,
and frees me from illusions.
Tonight
sometimes, in silence, stillness seems like a gift
but tonight, like a desert, it’s arid and dry
i look up in hope, i let my mind drift,
i only see darkness and clouds passing by
i remember my travels in strange foreign lands
I remember the days when my roof was the sky
i measure the feeling, as I stare at my hands
the light gone, i sit here and wonder why
i still have a wish to wander and roam
and how did my journeys all end alone
the truth is,
my travels were all seeking home
If Wishes Were Horses
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride
if wishes were horses I’d ride a wild horse
a horse that no-one could tame
if wishes here fishes the world would be ocean
if wishes were birds we’d all fly away
no need for a wish would remain
wishes are made of notions, not potions
people have so many fantastic wishes
but still they prefer to run with the herd
I dream every night of thousands of horses
in my mind’s eye I see them all glide
from the east coast out to the west
but I can’t catch one stallion to ride
perhaps a mare would be best
but then I’d have nightmares
and wake in exhausted distress
how would you use a wish from a genie ?
I’d wish for more genies,
that’s just common sense
and I’d wish for more wishes of course
and then, yet again, I’d wish for a horse
but when will the magic commence?
simply wishing for something is casting wide nets
I haven’t caught anything yet
The Dreaming Path 