my muse

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Grateful for all the warm messages and wishes.  Doing much better now.  Thank you.

Now, let’s get back to poetry………my muse deserves that.

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my muse

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My muse
is a prism
for when she writes
I see the other side of light
As I read her words
I become an unraveling knot
That slowly comes undone
If she knew
how she brightens my darkness 
with her inspiring poetry
my muse would understand 
she is a prism
illuminating a spectrum of love
deep inside of me

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our little secret

our little secret

My love
everyone wants to know
our little secret
can’t they see
you live in my poetry
For every beautiful word
every little inflection
is an alluring reflection
of you
For I never seek inspiration
in the birds or bees
or classic Greek tragedies
This poet writes
by inclination
Don’t tell anyone
of this little revelation
there’s no denying that it’s true
our little secret
My heart beats metaphors
just for you

bubbles of love

I would like to dedicate this to my muse, if I had one, but I don’t.  So, I won’t.   (Wink Wink)

bubbles of love

Soaking in an effervescent tub
of your warm poetry
tiny inspirations
burst all around me
Sparkling suds of passion
cleanse my soul
of the unsightly stains
of dirty lovers
and tainted memories
For you are the nymphet
of my passions
a sensual siren of sonnets
The warm bath
that never goes cold
Now I find myself
submerged in your verses
blissfully drowning
in the fountain
of your never ending
bubbles of love

echo of love

Dedicated to everyone who will be missing a loved one this holiday season.

echo of love

Time has no memory
yet he remembers
when one minute ends
another must begin

That perpetual hand delivers
fooling comfort
for everyone is confident
he will take another spin

He dims our memories
we forget his persistent ways
moving us toward
the inevitable we don’t speak of

Every clock has a final turn
So learn to listen with your heart
For within every beat remains
a beloved’s echo of love

denial

denial

When I vow I will stop thinking of her
it’s because I can’t stop
When I say she is forgotten
the truth is, she is not
Look at me denying I am in denial
and I don’t know where to start
Perhaps I can deceive my friends
but I will never fool my heart
My brain continues to remember
what my heart refuses to forget
so I’ll continue to pretend
I’m not haunted
by the girl I haven’t met

pockets full of solitude

pockets full of solitude

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Pockets full of solitude
accompany me
down desolate streets
as I think of you
wrapped in the silence
of your room

Red lights taunt
Like school yard bullies
Your words haunt
Every step I take
Rushed into a dead end
I should have read
the signs

Trapped in darkness
I find solace
when I imagine
your loneliness
walking hand in hand
with mine

massage of poetry

massage of poetry

The gentle scaffolding of her verses
Construct the sweetest inspirations
As goosebumps blossomed over me

Her words rubbed my hard muscles
Like an inspiring key that unlocked
Every hidden secret of my anatomy

Soft syllables stroked sweet sensations
Sending me to the point of no return
as her metaphors caressed me to ecstasy

My muse is a masseuse of touching balladry
For no man could ever resist her charms
After her sensual massage of poetry