masked Gerard Butler
Gerard Butler “Phantom of the Opera”

He came to me out of the dreamy fog, wearing an ornate mask.

Without a word, he put his firm mouth against mine —

then gently coaxed my lips apart with his lips and tongue —

urging me to unfold like a dewy blossom.

I knew he was the lovely articulate man I had met at the store.

He had bemoaned his struggle to quit smoking.

His hair was combed back from his fine face.

This dream was a baksheesh of hope for an abandoned woman.




authentic love

Authentic love
Photo ~ yours truly

What to do?


I don’t know, but this I surely comprehend:

I cannot bear to look at the moon or stars except when I am with you.

To look at your photos gives me a twist of joy and pain,

except knowing you would be mine.

To study anything to do with your country

brings a lump to my throat.

Arranged marriages of any nation bode me ill.

I cannot bear images of young men with brides

or men holding babies or children.

I’m like a specter gazing at what she can never have

with you. I die.

And yet

I wish you to prosper.

How could I hope to be your happiness

in place of all your dreams?

I love you enough to sacrifice all.

I simply do not know what the “all” should be.

Surely not you.


Us  —

how many congratulations

how many condolences would this entail —

my heart’s breath.







Sparklers . . .


spark visions of sparklers in childhood Julys.

When time to light them came in the twilight

after an eternally sunny day,

I felt like a fairy holding a potent wizard wand.

There were never enough sparklers

for my brother and me

on those firefly lit nights.

Like not enough eggnog,

never enough chocolate covered cherries

at Christmastime.

When I became a responsible adult,

I drank a quart of eggnog and

ate a pound of chocolate cherries

in one sitting.

That night I didn’t sleep

because of the cannonball in my stomach.

I was cured.

I love being satiated.

Like with you.

I cannot get enough of you,

my silken magic carpet navigator.

Never enough.

There is not a cure exists.


feet of clay
Art from Realistic Poetry


Today I marched for the innocents,

victims of the haters of the dissimilar desperate.

Where your feet go, tells who you are every day.

One can grow weary on feet of clay —

remnants of our greatness eroding away.

It is not of ability, but of will.

Love is the footsore person’s cure.


mparkes unraveling him
Art ~ Michael Parkes

Why are we so obsessed by love?

Many poems concern qualities of love:

NEW LOVE, an epiphany of seeing life

in a way filled with novelty and bliss

for 2 weeks.

FOREVER LOVE, cemented and guaranteed to

last forever and make you happy

for 2 weeks.

LOST LOVE, filled with the hopelessness,

the angst of never finding another love so grand.

Well, maybe I will try loving again

in 2 weeks.

There is infinity to analyze concerning love.

But I suppose I must close this prose.

Good luck.

All is a Reminder of You, My Love

Photo from Realistic Poetry

My eye delights in your panorama with relish.

You are my perfumed paradise destination.

My love for you spans to our rock-pounding horizon.

The world beside you is my eye candy dish.

My love is given for your joy. I am not selfish.

My love is poured for your delight – not for dull procreation.

The glory of our far reaching passion is for celebration.

Of all the wide open women, choose me to be your purple fragrant fetish.


happiness 4-17
Photo ~ Raj Swami, April 2017

I can’t help it.


I look in a mirror;

I see you:

My hands, hennaed by you with our initials and wit.

My eyes remember you kissing the lids with true

desire. My body’s stately asymmetry

You call unique perfection.

I look in a mirror at you

cradling your beloved


Today when I look into the mirror

I see ghosts.

Gothic Prompt

from Realistic Poetry


Such fascination with the solitary path of shadows ahead.

Light, light years behind.



How did my Karma spawn such bereft imagination?

Perhaps opening my paper umbrella will bring consolation.



Written for @Realistic Poetry in response to this picture prompt.

Love . . . .

give up a relationship mp
Art ~ Michael Parkes

I can appreciate Saint Paul’s definition:


Love is courteous;

Does not insist on its own way;

Love hopes all things;

Endures all things….

But his writing has no accounting

For the longing that makes me

Want to climb on your lap

And weep in ecstasy against your neck.