The Smallest and Most Precise of Circles Felt

Breathe deep as
Fresh morning air fills grateful lungs
Spring rains on parched desert plains
My mind still fond to trace
Memories of hot breath on your soft sleeping neck
Fingers move through
Sharpened spines
To smooth cactus skin beneath
The space between

For once I felt
Your hands to flow
Amongst settled careless hairs
As I lay beside your resting thigh
Soon to be followed
By hours spent
Trading mortal moments
Beneath luminous strings of beaded threads
Arms in knowing embrace
The smallest and most precise of circles felt
The small of my back
The curve of my spine

Taking it back
All back
Way back
To hours spent in bed with foreign bodies:
Not yours
Shapeless sand replaced by
Beds of olive green
Not sleeping
But rested just the same


Not Wild, Neither Frantic

Oh star ’round which I turn,
Don’t you know by now
That whilst I am captured by
Your luminescent gaze
You own me
But even washed in white
We cannot ever hope to remove
The intrinsic flurry of shadow life that resides behind
These azure eyes

In the same way I
Can never hope to capture
To properly reflect from
The pitted plains of praiseful prose
Even the smallest trace of
The rapturous, enigmatic natural beauty
You harbor in your
Every breath
Every curve of your soft hands
Every swaying motion of your flowing skirt

We are born as we are given
All the world watching but
Not waiting
Not shaping but guiding
Our path forward

I stand before you
All that I am exposed
My veins pulse with
The beat of all who stood before
But not without agency

Late at night
As the crescent casts
Shade and shallow shimmer down
I bay and
Break free

Bonded not
Untethered of
The expectations cast by
Unobstructed beams

In moonlight masquerade
We show our fangs
Not bared, bare still
Not wild, neither frantic

So Many Senses Through Which to Sift Sentiment

Inspired by the writing of Maggie Lawson, of the blog The Art of Chewing Crayons.

Original post at

Words, weightless, echo in cave carved in mountain hill side: a heart; a home; an amber chamber of sordid solitude unearthed and bore witness by all creation
Ears and eyes accustomed only to serving as guardians for a mouth full and choking, scalded still by its own tepid embers expelled to cool in calm but careless currents

Continue reading “So Many Senses Through Which to Sift Sentiment”