I’ll take it to the grave,
all the secrets I hold.
I will not live and tell
such sacred memories.
They ogled a bombshell.
I’ll take it to the grave,
coral lips tightly sealed.
That taste of seventeen,
one night at thirty-five,
the best waits to be seen.
I’ll take it to the grave,
behave like a lady.
Hiding stains on satin,
what a splendid charade.
Urban legends fatten.
I’ll take it to the grave,
this is worth repeating.
My mantra will not shift,
loyalty’s never loose.
I’m okay if you’re miffed.
as aliveness innate
we just rest in being
at peace feeling no lack
content the way we are
knowing God’s got our back
as aliveness innate
we watch the dance within
of divine magnetism
Divine Mother’s caress
igniting body prism
as aliveness innate
living in the moment
one with the universe
we play out our life role
with no need to rehearse
as aliveness innate
we feel love’s benign burn
transforming feeble form
as we remain centred
in the magnetic storm
The poets always say,
whatever they want to.
Brilliant facets chosen
with a great deal of care.
No stanza’s saccharin.
The poets always say,
it’s written in the stars.
Kismet and wanderlust
transform us everyday .
In the process we trust.
The poets always say
complex lines so clearly.
Fifty cents or a dime,
words will fall in order.
All that’s needed is time.
The poets always say,
the Muse will inspire you.
Tears allow ink to flow.
Plant poetry in clouds
words transform into rain.
Adrift across the world,
I dreamt of black waters.
Flat sea from long ago.
Journey inside my mind,
choppers pick up that flow.
Adrift across the world,
opaque lisp on high tide.
Can’t quite get it all out,
I’m bitterly hindered.
A princess with a pout.
Adrift across the world,
calling from my belfry.
An ache inside my throat
is so raw with shouting.
It’s best not to emote.
Adrift across the world,
strange stories come alive.
Murky surf pulls me in,
every forgotten land
chooses my voice again.
The tools to let it flow,
salt is good for healing.
Breezes carry the sea
swirling around my waist,
what the water gave me.
The tools to let it flow,
take a more placid pace.
Sweet determination
is brought to a hot boil,
rolling with such passion.
The tools to let it flow,
truce tumbles in and out.
Tension can go sky high,
sometimes the answer is
to let things slide right by.
The tools to let it flow,
smooth the craggy edges.
To control this temper?
I can go off and walk,
bringing me to center.
the after burn lingers
as kundalini moves
its centred everywhere
spine holds all energies
at all times self-aware
the after burn lingers
feet too radiate bliss
nose chakra also glows
above head’s a bliss blob
bubble that slowly grows
the after burn lingers
space flickers, we look on
our shoulders seem like wings
with forehead now aflame
spiritual heart sings
the after burn lingers
noose of oneness tightens
as we metamorphose
although the world rotates
we remain in repose
Pure instrumentation,
a dance for the senses.
Full pit orchestra eyes.
This sounds so cliche’..
You give me butterflies.
Pure instrumentation,
touched by a silent song.
Facing complex rhythm
you have a sweet timbre,
flashing like a prism.
Pure instrumentation,
the more the merrier.
Nuance is the turnkey
to charge an ensemble.
Each note joins seamlessly.
Pure instrumentation
arranged for all to shine,
I cannot look away.
You dangle a hard hook,
all I can do is stay.
Night pays no attention
to love’s secret meetings~
a flowering bower
and ecstasy when two
hearts find one another.
Night pays no attention
to the ache of parting,
to tears overwhelming,
of hearts piecemeal breaking,
to loneliness swelling .
Night pays no attention
to day’s sudden dawning~
the night will rise again
to loneliness swelling
in life’s foolish fast lane.
As my mascara ran,
a fake smile was plastered.
I cannot keep trying
to wipe out every word.
The skills to mask? Plying.
As my mascara ran,
its streaks lit up my face.
Shattered cage now collapsed
set me free to find me.
Not once have I relapsed.
As my mascara ran
it was pure catharsis
that mixed with renewal.
Done with perfect poison,
going my way’s the fuel.
a crowded glass bottom
sobbed empty on a vine
flowered look is stopping
pain's time for telling time
Lambrusco's weight mopping
a crowded glass bottom
circles make more circles
another one tastes you
metaphor lies shingled
its pass with my sinew
a crowded glass bottom
part they, my countenance
ruby shadow filling
falling through the chalice
it spills like heart would freak
a crowded glass bottom
when empty your bouquet
the dehydrating drink
in my dripping grape play,
the pressure of seeing
God dwells in every form,
including ours of course,
which is what we must see
but we look at the shell,
not at roots of the tree.
God dwells in every form,
as breath of life itself,
thus this practice begin,
holding firm our focus,
look deeper than the skin.
God dwells in every form,
which without Him is dust,
so feel bliss magnetism
that makes us feel alive,
aglow in body prism.
God dwells in every form
and so we can find Him,
deep in the heart centre,
where we may sense His touch,
as bliss that does canter.
Gasoline on roses,
such an acrid odor.
Unfulfilled promises,
inhaling bitterness
releases hostages.
Gasoline on roses
is floral and severe.
It will not dissipate
made over into ash,
a truly ghastly trait.
Gasoline on roses
wipes a raging fire out.
Nothing to believe in
leaves behind agony,
immune to medicine.
Gasoline on roses
gentle petals remain.
Vulnerable’s a fight
that easily keeps you
lying awake at night.
I’ll write it out for you,
can I be your secret?
A whisper in stages
ripples with every line.
It’s hidden on pages.
I’ll write it out for you
to hold on to at night,
as the fan softly spins.
Where reality ends
another dream begins.
I’ll write it out for you,
so you’ll never forget.
In a way that’s tender
my handwritten letters
will warm you forever.
I’ll write it out for you,
feathery on your neck.
These lyrics will enrich,
each touch luxurious.
You’ll never be a snitch.
If peace could only be
more than a fleeting wish
a dream that dare exist
through stamina and strength
It's provenance persist
If peace could only be
a fateful crush we'd court
a cherished lifetime gift
that war could never thwart
as spirit shall uplift
If peace could only be
a source of wealth and greed
that humankind did crave
whose riches spilled and shared
did keep souls from the grave
If peace could only be
the jewelled jealous queen
that all who saw desired
that love would praise and preen
and every soul admired
Loud sparks that go pop,
beauty clicks on my ink.
Blood orange collision,
my stanza’s becoming
a sumptuous vision.
Loud sparks that go pop,
the heat throws me a bone.
I’m writing by the fire,
playing a game of words.
Smoke’s spiraling higher.
Loud sparks that go pop,
a fresh line comes to me.
I’ve worn this rhyme before,
just without lines of ash.
The style’s mine to explore.
Loud sparks that go pop,
now I’ve got a feeling
this may just resonate.
Warm verses woven could
hold them past clickbait.
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