Searches are common.
God knows what they’re looking for!
Mary-Anna? (we are unisex)
£-s-d? (sorry, we’re all broke)
A sharp wit? (every one here has arrested development)
What do they search for so intimately?
They searched me today.
All they found
was this poem.
We turn to the little accouterments.
In a world where love is expensive.
But a broken heart is forever free.
The things that make you intimately know.
That circumstances are not what they seem.
That the hardships are opportunities.
And a warrior knows of the violence.
How to right wrongs and defend innocence.
To assume all our ancestors teachings.
And develop the techniques of goodness.
So everyone knows where they stand today.
When sunset explodes in technicolor.
And All that has been is all that will be.
When a man can say he's finally free!
Roses are a challenge to
capture --
I adore texture and color;
flips and curls, licks of
light -- scent that crosses
borders of night, here on
canvas preserved, for
treasured recall. Though
art cannot say it all –
one must allow the heart
to be inscribed, indelibly
brushed with what is vivid
and soulfully alive.
Performers play best to a captive
audience...our appreciation
are what blossoms seek,
why rains irrigate and seas
peak, the eye of a wave
an attention getter – my palate
seeking to intimately adjust
and transcribe -- Nature often
an illusive sitter --
The flowers bloom in the sunshine
As your love's appetite becomes mine
The soil settles down as it gets so wet
Your body absorbed my energy as it climaxed
The trees protect us from the heat of the air
Your kisses fulfilled my lust for you with a mighty stare
The moon starts to light up the sky at night
As we lie down together and hold each other tight
The morning dew makes the grass so, so green
As I lie intimately between your legs, while you cum in between
In the afternoon, we rest from the morning heat
The sexual arousal comes again as we lie between the sheets
The sunset amuses our eyes as it starts to go down
The night falls to perfection as we go another round.
What I recognize as art, of course,
Is only seeing that which surfaces
from likeness already inside of me –
we physically and spiritually relate
at least tacitly sense before
we can begin to grasp. Even when I
inquisitively imagine
were I oblivious, on all levels
of consciousness, it would be no different
than a concept of God to the Atheist.
The Atheist reasons…people of faith
intuitively accept. The future mother knew
the blessing in her womb, before the
ultrasound. Christ connects intimately
through legacy of Love.
Your heart and my heart
Were meant to meet at a time like this
Your lips and my lips
Were meant to meet in a lingering kiss
And when love is the way we sway
Love is more than the words we say
More than the motion of the ocean
It comes together our way
Intimately Intertwined
Each other's host
Wanting to be as close to you
As The Holy Ghost
Carving our names in a tree (in a heart)
As if it were meant to be
And under the sky (which is God's Big Blue Eye)
The unveiling of your muliebrity
Winter trees reach stark into the sky
Branches filled with treasured emptiness
Nerve ends intimately touching nothing
Drawing effortlessly light and life
From the ever reappearing source
Their structured intention always to bring
Energy and beauty
To the waiting world.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
Colonel loomed large with his lieutenant
solid chunk of life kisses death intimately
blue aura of woody smoke rise
flashing across mental screens wise
Solid chunk of life kisses death intimately
an instant adjusting lens and memory
flashing across mental screens wise
meeting with Ministers of State dies
An instant adjusting lens and memory
arriving long before appointed time
meeting with Ministers of State dies
waiting equals patience eating pies
The catching up began steady
tiny portals of Light descended
beams directed heavy bags ready
cigarettes and gaffes lit discomfort
Tiny portals of Light descended
blue aura of woody smoke rise
cigarettes and gaffes lit discomfort
Colonel loomed large with his lieutenant
(“Ascending Triptych aka Shape Shifter”, 2011, original oil)
The human condition is both vast and simple
Both lofty and hard to grasp and
Immediately at hand
And intimately knowable.
Everyone is different
But everyone is ultimately the same
In our basic elements, in our source
At our core.
This is who we really are; the divine made flesh,
A completeness of wisdom and compassion,
In every cell,
And yet our condition is also ignorance of this.
But since our most basic level of being
Is the divine
It permeates all our works
All our traditions, religions and spiritual paths,
Since there is in truth nothing outside
The sphere of utmost purity and light
No matter how muddled and dark
Our experience of it is.
(11/19/25)
his arms of tunes reel with most tender tones
reaching into depths of my senses
caressing night’s rhythmic flow
and my thoughts waltz intimately…I’m drawn.
as passionate timbre
drones from his heated wisps
I sway with night's soulful music
hypnotized by his velvet drools.
A sentimental card
Some candy and a rose
A dear hug from a child
A puppy's lick
Expressions of love come
In many shapes and sizes
Though some may seem
Erroneous for strange intimately
The heart knows them all
He lived in chilly, damp London
at the intersection of Medieval
and Modernity
We know little of his life
Some indeed question
if he even existed at all
Yet this mysterious figure
known as Shakespeare
Wrote of events in Ancient Rome
in Africa, Denmark and medieval Italy
across space and time
As if he had experienced them intimately...
I don’t know about you
but as for me
I can only write of what I've experienced
~ personally
holding onto last traces of ego
we retain the form sconce that holds the flame
the light of Self we intimately know
dwelling here, love enablement its aim
whereafter our soul’s no longer the same
with this goal in view, as bliss beats renew
we are on earth, a spirit passing through
Cuddle with me, darling.
We are like two ice cubes.
Still, we are like twins
in a fetal position.
And warm, we shall be
soon, but cocooned
in sleep, not knowing
at what hour we warmed
each other, but we do
remember how we laughed,
light flickering in our eyes,
as our lips touched in the morning.
The ice cube joke between us,
intimately humorous.
Ode to Erato
“Hear, hear!” What’s this poppycock all about?
“Get rid of St. Valentine’s Day… you say — I say naught!”
Brave Britannia, are we losing our faculties?
I’d give my life for God, king, and country,
but to give up St. Valentine’s Day? “Preposterous!”
A night with Erato is an experience like no other.
Painfully erotic, overwhelming, and barbaric,
or tenderly smothering, so Oedipal complex,
as passion guides your heart’s desire in words.
'Tis to die satisfied, knowing the utmost pleasure.
So, to this chicanery, I say, let us sing
out in an overture, from soprano high to basso low,
with mid-range baritone in between,
to fragile Eros’s joy in avoiding Chronos’s eye,
and follow Erato and not be dismayed by Thanatos,
but let the sexes engage intimately
in the propagation of the species.
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