I’m In Love With Your Face book

I’m in love with her Face book

I found her before me as though by
design.

Miracles will never cease, for
the time I can be alone with her, she
exists as mine.

I see her as purest beauty, the curve
of her chin to her neck, so softly, it
slopes to her shoulders. Ah, what
the heck.

Such marvelous wonders by natures
design, only a madman would deny
wishing she would share his time.

To embrace, to nuzzle, to comfort
or protect; being an understanding
ear when she needs it most.
Treasuring her words, and thanking
her too, for sharing evenings and
weekends, a patient host.

But, her warmth, I can only imagine,
her smell must always escape me,
her hair I can only dream.

Her lips warm and moist, to press
eagerly against my screen, or toy
flirtatiously with the softest of
kisses as I sneak a look at her
tongue, the color of raspberry
cream.

Gentle curve from her head to her
shoulders, what way to honor her,
as a man who can move boulders.

I touch her, my screen of plastic and
fluids. The thin film yields under my
hand, while curious, my mind fills in
the gaps about her skin wondering,
soft, tender, warm. Perhaps
weathered from the love of the sun,
this would not stop me from calling
you hun.

Feeling along soft ridges that make
up her skin, tenderly touching her
nose, chin and eyes; caressing
without shame or guilt. As a distant
lover, am I causing any harm?

You deserve more. It is a better way
that I should learn to care, to
perceive, to mature, to dedicate and
form the moments until like second
nature-instant on, you are there.

Poetry “weird on” Thursday

rain as I kissed you

Rain As I Kissed You

Some hate it they say, in a myriad of ways. F- in rain, piss – in rain, damn rain go away, why did you chose to fall today.

Rain.

Accused and vilified as destroyer of bobs, dreaded by weaves, it mats the hair leaving a tangled pile as though a house were ransacked by thieves.

Stylists understand and stand ready, comb in hand.

I see it as enhancing a woman’s beauty. So to educate all, curse me not, I must defend my duty.

Far above where clouds are forming, barometric pressures are rising as others are falling.

The back and forth of these mighty systems are forming moisture, as ice crystals begin their elegant dance. If you could see things from where I am; know now this is not by chance.

Twirling about like waltzing is a beautiful thing; or milling and hopping as that jitterbug fling.

Layer upon layer, clustering about. Like a sandstorm gathering its minions as it rushes mindlessly out.

Not savagely the eloquent dance of ice crystals begins, holding each other close while being joined by friends. Till burdened by their own numbers, earthward they plummet, sometimes accompanied by an orchestra of thunder.

Meanwhile earth walkers.

Darling, sweet precious gift from the heavens above, every thing about you is perfection, you need never lift a cap to cover the beauty upon your head.

Appreciation is likely due you, your efforts to survive are my satisfaction. This back to natural living I beseech you help it gain traction.

Society demands we conform to a norm, did women every where rage at the storm. It’s life giving moisture is necessary for life, it is time someone stood up for rains unalienable right.

Walking from a salon or perhaps the local mall, new “dew”, or latest shoes what have we become.

Dearest, rain is a nutrient as your body knows, cleansing your body of whatever shows.

Do I lobby in defense of multiple snows, when the wind howls I merely enhance a free show.

Every hair upon your head is beauty defined, a little kiss from me can sometimes change your mind.

Think on this, the first drop is a nuzzle, not much to this; a deluge is unbridled passion, sending you to bliss.

My endless soaking, a continued assurance I will love you over time.

Poetry “risqué” Thursday

Gentle Hugs Tender Whispers

Gentle hugs and tender whispers, make the night pass slowly;
heartfelt hugs and touching warmly help the days pass quickly.

Upon next greeting, lips gently brush aside sorrow and longing do,
until the enjoyment of loves faltering steps turn into passionate kisses.

But, woe upon woe when torn apart by time, love is never measured
by distance but by the moments lost or stolen between two.

Lives seemingly guided and linked as though by chains fettered
joyfully, and in each others eyes the pleasures of time unravel.
Measured until like cloth torn into shreds, lie, entangling each others feet.

Chained as both, to other places and facing separate responsibilities,
when the moment was theirs to capture even for but a brief space of time;
they cling one to another as though the world stopped, as though
a word or gesture or hesitation might stop their pleasure in sharing each others company.

Lips find one against the other, anxious, to panic, to pleasure, to joy finding rapture; then was their time counted as worthy.

He agonized…for that which was not his to hold or caress…while,
she in her grief, but sated for the time and joyful, at the very least could hold that which was hers for the brief moment.

Both chained and separated by time and events.

Infinite Shadows

Infinite Shadows

Passing before my eyes, your hair dark as the depths of the universe. Light fell upon its beauty, bursting forth with colors, each strand dazzling universes with their individual suns living for nanoseconds only to be devoured by the rich blackness and quickly sealing away the mystery within.

My heart stumbled as I drew in this visage as reason melted away in sweet surrender as thoughts of joy while nuzzling with abandon those mysterious tendrils consumed me.
Now consumed with desire might I ask for the opportunity to touch, smell, manipulate and humbly submit to your beauty?

Passions flame emboldened while my reason wavered then slowed, while i ebbed in this sea of logic. Search I did for a sensible conclusion to a play written that might justify why my heart tortured me so.

She did not present herself to me, there was a lack of heroics on my part, we met not as an ocean wave breaking across the rocks, but did as the wave as it returns to sea. Look at the retreating water, notice how it is over the sand but quickly is absorbed until the water is no more and until the wave repeats the cycle.

She was not there, but when I opened my eyes like the next wave she was and I loved her from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. My heart enjoyed my love for her,  and while she demanded nothing of me; we were seemingly destined.

I knew or rather hoped in the coming future this enchantress might reach out for me.

 

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Captured Beauty: Her Face

Just for a moment, the fleeting
instant, when the rarest of events
occurs. She passes, and the mind
captured amidst all manner of
activity; her beauty.

Does she notice her impact upon
those watching, when today we
must shun all manner of appreciation
of the same.

Must she seek loves beauty in verse
or rhyme, when some find solace in
her whispered name.

When the movement of light played
across her face, touching her lips,
and down, then across her chin;
many the wounded heart goes when
the scene is replayed in the mind
again and again.

The foundation of beauty begins with
the jaw hinge, it carries the ramus-
which is the rearmost part of the jaw.
This bony structure is the place
where beauty ties the face, framing
and defining face structure, is often
observed being kissed by the neck.

The dental plate and the chin mound
accentuate beauty. Whether he or
she, sweet morsels seem to drop into
the mouth.

Beauty defines, yet, the dental ridge
and teeth are backgrounds that
establish the overall appearance.

Then, the skin.

Matters not, if hued, pale, dimpled,
narrow, full, loose, scarred, smooth,
finely haired, or tightened.

The effect is what feeds the mind in
he or she as they view each other,
establishing the basis for pleasure,
for the duration of memory, and
recall of the viewed.

Mind locks upon the moment to recall
with delight that brief pause, locking
away details, as the mind replays the
scene in fractionated snippets, so that
frame by frame her beauty, his
handsome features become
inescapable from the mind.

Where else but in human minds will
the very snippets of our daily
experiences form into a historical
newsreel and rewind for us visually
again and in time again.

What determination makes we as
viewers appreciate the gentle
curvature of chin to neck?

What establishes the focus of eye
to that part of the body, when so
much is ado about other parts?

Simply put, the eye that captures
a particular spot of beauty away
from the norm appreciates the gift
of the person as a basis of who
they are, or at least in fairness,
possess the potential to become.

Matters not as acquainted, as
friends, as intimate friends, or as
romantically involved. To the
passersby on the street, or a dip
and a nod to the co-worker who
chances by – all note things of
beauty from each other.

Only the viewer may or may not
be aware of how much they have
garnered in capturing anothers
chanced beauty.

Wayfarers Guide: Seeking Solace

Wayfarer Guide: Seeking Solace

She like many others were proud
of so many young men marching
stiffly erect as the music blended
with the cheers echoed in the great
city. It was August 30, 1914.

How right and correct they looked
and he grinning. She adored his
smile. She remembered his hasty
fumbling of her blouse buttons.

To be closer to my wife to be. To
touch that which is warm, soft and
delightful-your flesh; ours to be
joined after my return.

She had resisted. A proper lady
would not have put herself in
such a position. Thinking about
how long he might be away, she
steeled her resolve and moved
love to the forefront.

They embraced and kissed.

After all, what could happen?
The cowardly Huns would flee
from the brave and determined
French soldiers, then in a few days,
perhaps weeks at most. He would
return to her arms.

By April 25, 1915 he was gone.

Forever.

He was as though a baby had curled
into the mothers womb and
peacefully slept. Hair askew, lips
in a slight pout, his mother thought
him beautiful. She stroked his hair to
right it. Leaning over the coffin, she
tenderly kissed his lips. Cold blue
lips heightened with a soft red ochre.
This to give the illusion of warmth
and life.

How she hated the girl he had fallen
into an infatuation with shortly
before departing for the front.

Had she known, as he died he thought
only of the girl; her scent and beauty
was intoxicating. Her passion, not
even unloosed. His mother would,
approve. But, before he could write
a letter to explain; he was felled.

Ironically, the Yser Canal was but a
few yards away from their trench
line. If he had stumbled to the top.
It’s refreshing waters might sustain
all of the soldiers afflicted by the brutal
gas attacks.

Their own training served to end
their lives. Hunker down, the
artillery is pounding away at your
position. Stay put lads, that shrapnel
will slice you to ribbons.

What is this, the mist, choking, then
blinding, can’t see where to run. The
disorientation and mind numbing
concussions; ack ack, where to go.
I’m so very tired, very very tired.

Many passed out, like her love. If, his
family would grant her permission to
share the loss and then to place his
body in the ground. His family
refused and barred her from his
wake and funeral.

She was devastated and
heartbroken. People thought ill of
her. Bound to be a spinster or
worse a jinx. Men, did not wish to
associate with her, owing perhaps
a misfortune; or even a muster
to duty.

She bribed the graveyard caretakers
and they provided the location where
his body was buried.
Like others during this period, so
many young, innocent women of
of beauty were to trek the cemetery
for solace, comfort, or if they must
companionship.

I was here to accept their final
decision and help from there.

What foolish bravado; a man goes to
fight the Huns – for your freedom,
and the best way to repay his
sacrifice is to flee out of this
World. Think on this, a world he
sacrificed his life attempting to
make a safe place for you, his love
and the people he did not even know.

We can repay their debt, by living.
She could not hear my thoughts,
tied up in this form as I am.

I read the faces of the visitors and
know those most likely to mourn
deeply or those who are not carrying
the slightest intention or desire, of
leaving.

Yet, this trend is not limited to men.
The English medical corps are
staffed by men and women. Both
die when the shells reach that far,
and death soon follows them.

Agony and loss are equal in their
treatment of both genders.
Love/loss, while searing, and
torturous is relentless.

She walked along the gravel road,
and I heard the gravel crunch under
her shoes. It was cold and the light
dusting of snow would not endear
its beauty upon any one.

Her dark coat covered her shoulders
a fell down so that her shoes peeked
from beneath dress and coat hem
with each step she took.

Her cap was winter and allowed her
hair to spread gracefully over her
shoulders like a gift from GOD.

I looked at her face as she noticed
me not. Since, I was situated upon
the swell of the hill as she stepped
around the hedgerow and started
up the hill of Place du Cimetiere
Milita ire, France.

Stoic, vacant, like the war wounded
who walked the lanes and byways
of the healing city of Plaine. Hers
was a chilling reminder of the pallor
of death hanging about.

She did not wear the dark color of
mourning, but of an emerald green
and a lovely royal purple. Highlights
of blue atop crushed velvet gave her
a fantasy like appearance. In truth,
she was beautiful.

Come, are others about. Not, on a
cold day as is this. She had
something else in mind. I must wait
for it. She wept approaching the
grave. He long since caring in this
world, perhaps, waited anxiously in
the next.

Time would tell as she reached into
her pocket.