A Glancing Blow

It happened again
Your glancing blow
made the sky tremble.

My body flowered
within a bright raincloud
as if You had touched me
in-between my life
and Yours.

And because there is nothing
between my life and Yours
we both said:
My God!

Drumbeats of Creation

My fingertips are
deep wells in Your body.
That place where passion
shapes longing into form.

Who is the creator here?
Do I sculpt or am I
shaped by Your imagination?
My hands image You
then You compose me
as a poem
or as drops of blood.

The bell ringer
has become the inside of the bell
The drum beats the stick.
Birds nest in my eyes
to give birth to You.

Who is the Goddess
when every flower paints its face
with Your presence?
Who creates thoughts and feelings,
then wears them to be seen?

I am a depth for You
to pray within.

The Magdalene

The Magdalene takes you to Her cave in the sky:

you are taught the scripture of Her body

its starry gaze, its dark blooms

where rooms open to become heavens.

She lays you down in Her,

She invites

and bids you enter.

Mary anoints you.

Mary washes your feet with Her hair.

She leads you into Her bridal chambers,

She teaches you the mystery of poetry

how the holy words are inward and female

and must be dressed to be seen.

Then like a seed too full of the sky

you break open to form a mouth for Her prayers.

She speaks to you like mist and sunlight

Her voice releasing

one delicate frond of passion after another.

She sheds two thousand years of tears for you.

You hold her close not daring to speak

daring only to be human enough.

You hold Her like a bee holds a bloom

gathered intimately around as taste and scent.

She tells you that you are Her Jesus

She holds your hand

reading the pain of your life across its palm

a life spent walking away from the Magdalene

away from the Goddess

until you remembered

until your heart opened at last

like a flower in the cave of Her love.

Love Letters

Her love letters
stay unopened
until you find a poetry
to translate their words.

She writes in green sap
in first light
in the dark blood of passion.
She engraves Her flowers
over moonlight
where hands melt to touch Her.

I write.
Words come flying in
like crows
some are crippled by the light.
Some are hobbled
by a grappling darkness
but they come.

I return Her letters
in bundles of self.
I scratch out a poem
and while it is still bleeding

offer it to Her lips.

Painting: The Unopened Letter. (c) James C. Christensen

www.jameschristensen.com/saintsandangels.html

A Fierce Love

I am addicted
to Your dark flowerings:
Mysteries that can only bloom
under craving hands.
A fierce love that intoxicates
and drinks the wine
of its own substance.
I am Your finding fingers.
We play hide and seek
with our souls.
We mask ourselves
in each others shadows.
We love that wild kind of light
that can be broken down
into taste and feeling;
into sensual blooms.

Image: Radiance. (C) Christine P. Newman

www.pbase.com/eb2005/image/48955593

Thriving

I thrive in You
I flourish as the lips
of Your mouth.
The folded roundness
of Your love has a shape
within me
that I now curl around
as Your own limbs.

There was a time
when I knew
nothing of the Goddess,
and how She lives like a hand
in the glove of being.
I did not flourish
I would sift my life
through a withering mirage.

Then You stole my body
and took it to live in You.
I slipped easily
into Your secret places.
Gardens of delight
where both of us
thrive.

Near & Far

We part like waves
that break still joined at the hip.
I become Your mouth
while You remain
this molten language of blood.
We have to keep moving in and out
of this nearness and distance
to make room for speech.
Not a talking, but the sound of desire
as it sings in the throat of an infinite longing.
The prayer of one hand beseeching another
to clasp where its fingers ask and open.
The connected and adjacent speech
of this body of our love
as it turns this way and that to make words
for the one heart to utter.

~~

Body Language IX
by Alfred Gockel

www.art.com/.../sp--A/Body_Language_IX.htm

Painting You

I know how to paint You,
how to make myself a color
to be melted down
in the bloods cloudy cauldron
until I become sheer enough
to be Your image.

I have no artistry
I simply supply the vessels
of light and dark
with their open mouths
of desire
where Your presence
can be mixed.

I know how to paint You,
how to be a canvas
so soaked through
with heavy tones and textures
that its fabric falls apart
painting a shadow
of Your beauty.

~~

Chinese Painting On Xuan Pape-Nude Beauty W/Tiger 27"Lx27"W

chinesepaintingonlineartgallery.com/index.php...

A Melt of Intimacy

We dance together
in-between the thought of bodies:
An evaporation of beauty into passion
that reappears
as a single bloom of lust.
This equation of flesh and breath
becomes a flow of adoration
a sexual prayer for hands to drown within.
Water and heat create a tongue
that dissolves and shapes dreams
with a labile language of love.
We lay folded into each other
like wet towels by a pool of stars.
There is a heaviness
that we feel deeply like air.
There is a ribbed bud of ecstasy
that tastes the void.

Something Left

I have something left to give You.
I have this deep space
where You planted darkness
like a seed. A germ of the sun
hidden in my long night.
I have this depth
that was born to wait
like soil waits to be turned over.
That is what I have left
and just what it is,
what can be found
in this crushed cosmos
of self
You alone can discover
as you plunge fingers
of light
into my earth
with the ravishing patience
of loveseeking its own face.

Night Flights

I am carried like a song
in a nightingales mouth.
Lifted over Your sensuality
trailing feathers of darkness.

The moment is a crucible
an arcane ecstasy
squeezed through
a thousand channels
of desire.

I am spread like honey
over honey
melted into a language
only the alchemy of taste
can talk of
as it dissolves.

And though it is dark,
though the night is very deep
you thrill me:
You move me like a tongue
in a songbirds mouth-

a throated sky
where clouds speak
and raindrops learn
the meaning of tears.

Flow

The night has a skin
as deep as the ocean
for those who dive into themselves.
If I lay still
and naked of thought
I become a shell
for Your waves.
A memory of the future
that must be recalled
out of the past.
If I sometimes leak being
over the rim of You
it is because
I am a blind edge
of the sea.
I must flow
like water
being tipped out
of a shell
deep within Your ocean
or pour like the night
out of its hollowness
as a light inside
the flow of us.

Who Speaks?

What is real?
This hand I hold up in the dark
is Your mirror
I see You as real as light.
I am naked
You are naked
but whether there is less
or more of me--I cannot say.

This body is as real as Your breath
this flesh as empty as my hands
but I hold You
I feel Your desire to be held.
I tremble where You reach.

What is my heart saying?
Does it chime Your presence
or mine?
What reality clasps me to its breast
afraid to speak
least one of us is missing?
I lift Your dress
with words and poetry
but Your nails rip my soul
to shreds.

Why do you say Yourself
so rapturously in me?
Your limbs grip,
Your mouth crushes essence
into wine
as we both struggle together
wanting to speak beyond two
but failing even
to speak for ourselves.

If I or You are unreal
who moans to be killed
or brought to a climax
like meat to the fire?
Who calls my name
so sweetly
as if it were
the very taste of love?

Dawn Goddess

Dawn is a place
to awaken to Her
last breath.

A pause trembles
as if you had surrendered
a deep blood flow
for a trickle
of twilight drool.

An unclasping
turns into empty hands.
You are turned over
like a stone
until your face
like moss
fades into appearance.
Rolled over
into the intimate light
of Her darkness.

Dawn finds you
reaching for Her,
but before you can pull
the sky further inwards

you must sew Her being
around you,
each thread of longing
must be stitched
into your soul
before the blind day
learns to see.

Interior Positions

I lift Her into me. I do not know how:
A cradle of breath
woven from longing.
lends me power.

I am walked through Her.
Eyes look into their own windows.
I am hunger
but She eats me like salted butter.

We fondle interior positions.
The art is to be always moving
into each other
like water to thirst.

Dark blooms open
only when touched into light.
The shadows
under the lintels of thresholds
pull the outside in
through inner recesses
like fingers.

I don’t know how
but you can feel love
moving into position
you tremble when touched
by an interior kiss.
The how does not matter

only the when.

In-folding

Let others talk of scripture
we write our own.
I trace myself over
Your untraceable body
feeling each curve and cleft
every sensual curl
of Your secret revelations.

I fold within You
but inwards or outwards
are meaningless
when all there is, is the folding.
The taste of You
blushing into forms
that only love can see.

There is no doubt
who is here.
You lead me into You
to a place where I am a thought,
an idea you undress

and then wear
as Yourself.

Until Features Merge

I am brushed through You

Washed over Your face

until features merge

from in-between appearance.

You keep a negligee

of light about You.

You paint the suggestion

of a curving softness.

A plush eroticism

as tactile as velvet.

Ravens wings

fly over my skin

as if the night were Your kiss.

We pray together

hands reaching

for their own fingers.

Sometimes I break down

before I can speak;

I must chew the silence

just to taste

what You have said
within my words.

Painting: Twilight in the garden

by Dan Goozee (C) 2005

Artist and mage can be found at-

www.californiaartclub.org/.../goozee.htm

A Gleaming Child

A gleaming creature
as angelic as the night
involves within us.

We are a mutual flower
of its conception.
Its harbor is the void
of a fathomless radiance.

Our child
feels its way
through starry limbs.
It explores
this space of itself
and the unleashed
flesh of its love.

I hold You to me
like the earth holds the sky.
Your womb is full of my rain,
my breath grows deeper
into Your labor pains.

Dialect

We talk.
A mouth in the heart speaks
while the mind falls
like rain into silent pools.

A darkness converses
with its own glossy tongue.
It is a communion
at the summit of words
where symbols
learn to fly.

We talk, in moth flights,
in glowing embers,
in the painted feathers
of choral symphonies.
One single flute
finds its hollow voice
and gives it to You
to breathe through.

We also listen.
We listen
to the whispers and moans
of a bottomless chasm
as it forms a mouth
for words
only the wordless
can utter.

Born Twice

Being born again
is not such a difficult thing.
You need only die slowly
to all that you know
and to all
that you cannot carry
any longer.

Then you return
like a clear day in Spring
to be the blush
upon Her cheek,
the grace of Her eyebrow,
the dew of Her speech.

You become Her work.
Her poetry,
Her hands and feet.

Simply breathing
becomes an erotic dance,
a prayer between your left side
and your right.

You run inwards
seeking this body of love
you inhabit
but all you find
is more
of Her soul.

Dragons

We form an opening.
A dance half clad
like a wanton circle.

I am deeply rooted
in You.
Dragons soar
with a fluid sap.

We are the burning portraits
of all images
where only full red lips
remain.

I am the gravity and light
of Your words
as they speak
of a need
we both
must feed upon

like air
uttering flames in the
mouth of love.

Image: Birth of Venus (C)

Jonathon Earl Bowswer

www.geocities.com/heartland/lake/3483/venus.html

Because

If I pray like a bud in my own darkness,
if I am still and wanting;
then I can feel what the night feels
as shadows undress
their desires together.

When shudders are winks,
when boulders of silence
melt into tangled limbs,
when I am the passionate wound
of Your own womb:
Then I am for an instant
a flavor you choose
for Your taste.

Because I am an empty bone,
the croon of a phantom song,
because I am a hollow drum
for Your beating breath:
I can only become
this shimmering rain
within You.

A falling ripeness,
a drop of You alone
in the darkness
of my bud of light.

Feeding Lips

When dark flowers bloom
You are the light that feeds them.

I share my moments like candy.
Vision melts away
to be recovered again
as a casualty of passion.

We grasp the light and dark
like flesh,
like the dusky petals
of night blooms.

We do not speak in pairs
or in opposites
not in Oneness
for we are real lovers
and not a concept
of what can be.

I purse my whole body
unwinding into you
like a green stem curls
giving shape
to the space of the sky.

You moan
or is it my skin
talking under
your feeding lips?

(c) Image may be traced to this link

www.the-wild-flower-trilogy.com/flowers_of_th...

The Goddess as the Muses

Aoide (voice)

Together we make the tongue and its cave.
The same hand that caresses Your breath
is our intimate flesh speaking.
I hunt You where You chase
Your dancing heart.
You are the song and the singer
the regalia of worship.


Melete (practice)

As a ritual of space and occasion
I plant my soul in Your presence.
With the meek hands of passion
I form the prayers of Your love.
A practice in the fecund openings
where invocations are the movement
of one place within another-
a daily ceremony of the light
as it learns to speak again.


Mneme (memory)

I am recollected into pools
for Your water.
Areas in which to bathe
to be made whole
as You empty Me out.
You paint the past
and with every heartbeat
hammer eternity into sound and vision.
I am unfastened from incidence
as You remember Yourself in me.

Where She Breathes

I love Your delicate shadow
its weight upon my breath
in the evening.

At such times
I am consecrated
like the earth at sunset.
I am given over
like a maiden to a wise lover.

But come the ravenous depths
of the hunting night
I am a passion too heavy
to be held by flesh alone.

I must be the air
You draw within You.
Taken into Your blood
and ardently trampled

into moans of light.

Night Gardens

The night has rooms
of breath and presence.

There are gardens
where silence
is a nightingale.

There are alcoves
where we can pause
to be each other.

You lead me inwards
into a bud of twilight,
an enfolding
of our living-space.

Within my eyes
You wash
the ruby blossoms
of passion.

The Night Garden: Roberta Weir (C)

service.foliolink.com/Image.asp?ImageID=24404...

If You Let Me In

If you let me in
I will push my soul
like the root of the sky
into you.

Geisha,
crone, street girl
only you
can pull me into
every door of desire.

I am a love-poem
You write
on a kimono of light.
A mystery told
through ancient eyes,
the white thigh
within your dark stockings.

Pull me into you
through the narrow
or the wide.

I will become
the shape
of any door
that is a threshold
of love.

Photo: Eolo Perfido

www.eoloperfido.com/portfolio_decadent.htm

Wrestling the Flame

Why do we still struggle
like famished beasts together?
Why these striations of passion
this inner bruising
where Your thighs crush?

Sometimes I am a gender
so blended into desire
that male and female
become just one flower
we hold in our hands.

Your lion is in my skin and flesh.
This grappling with the void
spills over into saline prayers
that climb to heaven
as ravishing angels.

Endless Flight

If I am out of myself

being one feather

in Your endless flight

we brush against each other

like the wind and the waves.

Then there is the

entering and becoming

when You and I

are the flying away

of everything

but the dazzle of astonishment.

You do not come to me

and I do not receive You.

This place where we meet

is tidal, like a lunar womb.

When a bud opens to the sun

that perfume

is the essence of One.

When lovers grasp

that inner kiss

only bliss speaks.

Sea Goddess - Acrylic Prints by Brandy Saturley

members.shaw.ca/solsugar/Orig.htm

Weaving

We are together
like the satin whispers
of darkly reaching minds.
You are pregnant
with my life.

Hands have flown away
to become the erotic tales
of lesser gods.
We use a tactile water
that overflows into movement;
its soul and sensation
is Your body.

This dance we arrange
has rounded vowels
that journey into their own mouths.
A singing silence
moves sound around
like legs and arms.

We keep running to the
water fountain
to taste the pleasure
fluids have
when they seep out
of one form into another.

We are together
like the silken threads
of a woven starlight.
I am what You spin
into a web
of Your own passion.

~~

Image (C) Bard Judith: Expectancy.

www.santharia.com/religions/jeyriall.htm

Demons of Bliss

We talk in our sleep.
You dream
and I become
words in Your mouth.

Under the cover
of this night
that is our dark flowering
we share passions
that only demons of bliss
could ever imagine.

We throw away
every useless morality
to hear
each other speak
of love.









Passion by Rabi Khan
Link to print gallery-

www.art.com/.../_/pd--11769455/sp--A/Passion.htm

and

artfiles.art.com/images/-/Rabi-Khan/Passion-P...

My First

We are an implication
something suggested
by the heaviness
of thought.

Then suddenly
You become
a swish of sensation.

Your hem lifts
and I am revealed
before Your eyes.

It is as if
the world
had never seen
smelled or touched
such a love.

You are my first.

Passion-Play

Silence undresses
to become Your breath.
We mind-dance for a while-
some romance
on the rim of vision-
a little flirtation
with active volcanos.

This passion-play
is dangerous
ants and anteaters
hunt together like this.
Lions lick their
freshly killed hearts
like this.

Glass grinds under the sky
everything shatters
even blood and dreams.
You open a window
into a room where I am not
and You find me there.

She Paints Over Her Own Beauty

She comes fully clothed
like snow painted
on deep blue.

Immediately
I am
much too heavy
for my heart to bear.

I jump out
of a green pool;
a seal remembering
drowning eyes.

But let me talk of before.
Of reflected images
in the sharp blade
of Her loveliness.

I recall
mounting a wild horse
all night and day
until She offered up
Her meadow to be flooded.

Now wherever
this bud of desire opens
She forms the fragrance.

She paints over Her own beauty.
While I have become only snow
falling into Her deep blue.

From A Trembling Branch

Cupped hands under thirst.

I reach for You

from a trembling branch-

from an arched spine of prayers.

You have become the concealed sky

of a deep planting.

Everywhere there is succulence:

The interior mouth of silence and honey.

No one saw us disappear into each other.

No one saw spring-time

lift its green skirt up in anticipation

but we feel the damp thighs

of this want as it speaks

for our stunned hearts.

Prayers & Gloves

I am curled around You
like a vine

but this sap we
drink from
has no name.

If I go out
into the world today
You will be gloves
for my thoughts.

You will be coated
with my breath
where nothing is seen
without breathing into it.

Later
I will take You home.

We shall
come together
inside a green fountain

with prayers and gloves
that are also hands.

Webs of Light

We wash in the same water
a water that is not apart
from our eyes and ears
and the birth of waves.

We are a frenzy of light.
Movement choreographed
in the chaotic ecstasy
of struggle.

When one molecule of love trembles
connections form fresh tears
to string us together.
I do something with my tongue
that You have taught me
the night spreads open
to wets my lips.

We are a web of light
for limbs to spin
their blood and bones upon.
A drop of Essence
and a thousand flavours of love.

Where Hands Bloom

Hands come together
as You fill that space between
with the heat of intimacy.

My nervous system
is a map of Your body;
a body unknown
until it is felt
in-between
a modeling fire.
Your light demands
to be fed.

You are a
yarn of longing
winding around my hands.
You make
a soul for me

where hands bloom.

robes fall apart

I gasp and awake
feeling You turn over within me.

Robes fall apart
that were woven
with our blood and breath.

For a moment I am bereft
of my senses

only a howl of separation
slaps my head to the pillow.

I cover my heart
with a protecting palm.
I hear You whispering
out of my darkness:

Come bind Me quickly
to your flesh.
Let your hollow bones
be My voice

My life and love.

Trinity

There are gaps
between our fingers
where we hold, not each other
but a lover
we are both faithful to.

This other beloved
looks like our passions
melted over snow.

Rose wine
has been spilt
and it has mingled
with tears
and the breathless gasps
of intimacy.

Our bodies
dream each other
and that dream weaving
has fashioned
a new form to illustrate love.

A persona
that could not
have been created
if we had been only content
with the dance of One.

For Me

She paints Her image
over an infinite landscape
but not for me.

She sculptures light
into obelisks and pyramids
to reflect
an ageless beauty but
not for me.

For me
She enslaves Herself
to be a candle for my flame.

Whatever happens
will happen with us
together

in small bright ways.

Rooms

You follow me through myself
from room to room.
I become
your living space.

Windows look inwards.
A folding intimacy
forms pillows and cushions
of presence.

This mingling cohabitation
makes its own rules
of perspective and design.
The ergonomics of One
can bend light
as well as form.

I hold Your hand
but my fingers slip away
to be You.
Like wind writing on water
movement is our love

our soul.

Shapes

I am a tendon You flex
in the flesh of thought.
Where You lean over me
I become
Your smoothly muscled back.

Of course
You know about my hands
how they are always forming shapes
to hold You
How my mouth
has become
a place for You to dance.

When You move
You turn under me
like satin sheets,
or the suave sleek music
of falling silk .

And did You know
that whenever I speak like this
I know now who
moves these words around?

Rose

Night-doves drive light before them like gauchos.
I breathe through my heart with Your lips
and a hundred fingers dance with flavor.
There is mercy in all that glimmers
a glamour in the dark moist falling apart
of musk and wine.
I bathe where we meet in this rose of passion.
You are cupped like a mouth,
a tangible palpation
of Your longing to be known.
I am the drunken prayer of a wild gaucho
driven by the light
of a softly darkling dove
to the chasm of Your tavern.

Her Milk and Honey

I wake up
in the curl of the night
pushing your breasts into my emptiness.
Buttery lips kiss rosebuds-
my mind blooms red in Your heart.

Sometimes I travel
like unaccompanied luggage
to that hinterland
where Your hands can collect me.

At other times I curl up
in the foetal dampness
of this need
and beg for nipples
to feed my darkness.

Stretching Muscles of Light

You feel a sexual shiver-

an abrasion of shock and delight

as your mind pulls your spine

up into vision like a rainbow.

You have just stretched a muscle of light

and like the arc of a waterfall

you can fly measurelessly

into stillness.

You can reach inwards now

to touch the purple flower,

the trembling stigma

of the Goddess

or you can plunge

like a spear of ecstasy

through the roof

of your heart.

crone

The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.