tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-280322692024-03-22T05:26:39.493+00:00SheExploring the infinite aspects of the GoddessErichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comBlogger195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-53842713005796358572008-10-28T18:52:00.002+00:002008-10-28T19:04:00.595+00:00Presence<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPIPb5zTfNhuT2WzJjLyRB1nCQUiDDd8mAdw9Px0bnFKlLQmjEsOi5VHMwWoPQQ7wXkwusMEzTrQcRMf5UyNBqy-DClFbwjEoTqqfqqPrq9O0b43qwgjdBp9QtiJ032j4tUoz/s1600-h/Goddess+Pemona.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262279925175150658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPIPb5zTfNhuT2WzJjLyRB1nCQUiDDd8mAdw9Px0bnFKlLQmjEsOi5VHMwWoPQQ7wXkwusMEzTrQcRMf5UyNBqy-DClFbwjEoTqqfqqPrq9O0b43qwgjdBp9QtiJ032j4tUoz/s400/Goddess+Pemona.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p><strong>The weight of the Goddess is in me<br />Her warmth is inside the inside<br />Where there is no “inside.”<br /><br />What is She?<br />She is a thought of form,<br />An urge to go inside<br />Where my eyes<br />Go blind in Hers.<br /><br />Where is She?<br />I hold Her at night<br />I carry Her<br />Like a hungry child<br />In my belly.<br /><br />Joy and light<br />Joy and light<br />Joy and light<br /><br />But also a dark radiance<br />A breath shining in my breath darkly.</strong></p><p><strong><br />This wanting<br />This urge to sink<br />My teeth into Her blood<br />And taste<br />Her eternal need<br />For me, myself.</strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p></p><p><br /><br /></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-52130555407646707642008-10-10T20:18:00.003+01:002008-10-10T20:22:30.969+01:00She Comes to Me in Waves<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeiHjZaKj2ax6XE3R2DspCI7AHS6H0vq73YT2kJORDjdGLkNGCIwXRn1vjtdH6PDfIbSK8SS7qZsJoX7gtghUpMl_J4hscY_WcSN2M2AIC4iZMgd1H2Ao3CI_7QJ622IWl7zX/s1600-h/Goddess+Waves.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255607489875075554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeiHjZaKj2ax6XE3R2DspCI7AHS6H0vq73YT2kJORDjdGLkNGCIwXRn1vjtdH6PDfIbSK8SS7qZsJoX7gtghUpMl_J4hscY_WcSN2M2AIC4iZMgd1H2Ao3CI_7QJ622IWl7zX/s400/Goddess+Waves.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She comes to me in waves<br />yet like the sea itself<br />Her salt is in me always.<br /><br />She comes for me<br />Her body convulsing,<br />wanting my presence<br />inside of Her<br />as if I were really someone.<br /><br />I know, at times,<br />She holds me at arm’s length<br />just to look at me,<br />I know She likes<br />to play the game of two<br />but<br /><br />when She comes for me<br />like a wave of myself<br />I feel the crest<br />of this world<br />topple<br />into Her.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-70979522830340322462008-10-02T02:41:00.001+01:002008-10-10T20:17:22.174+01:00Flickr: Your Photostream<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30006154@N04/">Flickr: Your Photostream</a><br /><br /><br /><br />Please take a look at my Flickr GalleryErichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-78876336669585385412008-09-27T11:37:00.001+01:002008-09-27T11:40:10.213+01:00A Golden Prayer<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwnBe0_fXFp_iPRmsaNux322MN-GqA-L8SNEI6pn4Ed5T-dZDTqO5FMcJRuN768o0GLzgTBoBFAD0Ta9rT1x7A8RzsG040qYXIkIPn_HwjVLQDLUygqEJ05O_uYMFKK6H8Add/s1600-h/Tantra+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250648874226481602" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwnBe0_fXFp_iPRmsaNux322MN-GqA-L8SNEI6pn4Ed5T-dZDTqO5FMcJRuN768o0GLzgTBoBFAD0Ta9rT1x7A8RzsG040qYXIkIPn_HwjVLQDLUygqEJ05O_uYMFKK6H8Add/s400/Tantra+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>The Goddess</strong></div><br /><div><strong>is not any woman</strong></div><br /><div><strong>She is: Woman.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>When She dances</strong></div><br /><div><strong>you become</strong></div><br /><div><strong>a flower in Her heart</strong></div><br /><div><strong>and a bloom between</strong></div><br /><div><strong>Her legs.</strong></div><br /><div><br /><strong>If you dare to love Her-</strong></div><br /><div><strong>want Her,</strong></div><br /><div><strong>She will</strong></div><br /><div><strong>turn your lust</strong></div><br /><div><strong>into a golden prayer.</strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br /></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-75788496425989193582008-08-22T16:29:00.009+01:002008-08-22T19:06:45.500+01:00Dawn Voice<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPFd2Xj93qNg7MbRajMcHg-14nR_7xi-JVWSKxwUnss8B-EP8T8OZlT2WWagkl4BiD2D0h6NVxtN5w29Kr3vczEfcJxOEchbXS4MHDcgWgQ2loXqDfF3zr5QhyphenhyphenBmf6iOypnTB/s1600-h/Dawn+Voice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237365587192699378" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyPFd2Xj93qNg7MbRajMcHg-14nR_7xi-JVWSKxwUnss8B-EP8T8OZlT2WWagkl4BiD2D0h6NVxtN5w29Kr3vczEfcJxOEchbXS4MHDcgWgQ2loXqDfF3zr5QhyphenhyphenBmf6iOypnTB/s400/Dawn+Voice.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Did you hear what the light said?<br />Did you hear the breeze<br />shake old stars out of new trees?<br /><br />The Goddess speaks<br />and words become birds<br />birds become sky-<br />the sky becomes an auditorium<br />for whispers of the heart.<br /><br />She runs ankle deep<br />through a drowsy promise.<br />Her voice a flicker<br />of small white moths. </strong><br /><br /><p><strong></strong></p><strong>Do you now </strong><strong>hear Her </strong><br /><strong>rolling this world </strong><strong>around </strong><br /><strong>like a drunk</strong><br /><strong>inside </strong><strong>a drop </strong><br /><strong>of morning dew?</strong><strong><br /><br /></strong><br /><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><br /><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-9816119219017354502008-08-17T13:20:00.003+01:002008-08-19T17:32:42.680+01:00Make Me Real<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvq7EqCP276hXkWC6cjG_qRbLAfEkdEhdA5DkmuIUiwu58lGjSzgMvNIsBPqlhIVuBi7P8wfv3jc13Y3DuT2RoUG4wg5ssSe194vYC8hXi8yyhlU4ElOf_tzatBYayOM2R4fL2/s1600-h/sandy+flower+image.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236267534306434354" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvq7EqCP276hXkWC6cjG_qRbLAfEkdEhdA5DkmuIUiwu58lGjSzgMvNIsBPqlhIVuBi7P8wfv3jc13Y3DuT2RoUG4wg5ssSe194vYC8hXi8yyhlU4ElOf_tzatBYayOM2R4fL2/s400/sandy+flower+image.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><p></p><br /><p><strong><br />I found You one day</strong></p><br /><p><strong>on the tip of my tongue</strong></p><br /><p><strong>on the fine hairs</strong></p><br /><p><strong>of the back of my hands,</strong></p><br /><p><strong>on the margin </strong></p><br /><p><strong>of what can be heard and seen.</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>"Make Me real" You said.</strong></p><br /><p><strong>"Make Me your love."</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>And I did.</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>I pulled You into me</strong></p><br /><p><strong>through the flesh of my words,</strong></p><br /><p><strong>through the subtle channels</strong></p><br /><p><strong>of every hair on my body.</strong></p><br /><p><strong>I consumed You like air.</strong></p><br /><p><strong>Drank You like wine.</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>No scripture has written of this</strong></p><br /><p><strong>but each moment</strong></p><br /><p><strong>my spirit composes You.</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>You enter through the endless </strong></p><br /><p><strong>doors and windows of being.</strong></p><br /><p><strong>Sometimes You come through </strong></p><br /><p><strong>the dancing molecules of self,</strong></p><br /><p><strong>sometimes just as light</strong></p><br /><p><strong>through a crumbling wall.</strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong></strong></p><br /><p><strong>"Make Me Real" You said.</strong></p><br /><p><strong>Each day our poetry</strong></p><br /><p><strong>surfaces above</strong></p><br /><p><strong>the skin of the world</strong></p><br /><p><strong>as real as any sunrise.</strong></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-87898176837410679492008-08-16T16:38:00.003+01:002008-08-16T16:49:17.693+01:00Instants<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC-IRPbglngz7TLGO7Xtjz1Qbw-HgTA1YWNKnQULVnljGsdgM97SSWo84ifJzLsYWTQBKG57E4id4KU6l4S54U3P4StOFLnoWR5V2_SqOxpANe3ckGdAOnye_dG8FDY_FO0MU/s1600-h/goddess+(instants).bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5235141325634747218" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC-IRPbglngz7TLGO7Xtjz1Qbw-HgTA1YWNKnQULVnljGsdgM97SSWo84ifJzLsYWTQBKG57E4id4KU6l4S54U3P4StOFLnoWR5V2_SqOxpANe3ckGdAOnye_dG8FDY_FO0MU/s400/goddess+(instants).bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p> </p><p><strong>You cried out</strong></p><p><strong>as we came together.</strong></p><p><strong>It is not that you come and go</strong></p><p><strong>but some instants </strong></p><p><strong>are closer than blood and flesh</strong></p><p><strong>closer than breath</strong></p><p><strong>closer than sexual union.</strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>Sometimes I find you</strong></p><p><strong>on the tip of a finger</strong></p><p><strong>or in the plasma of being</strong></p><p><strong>You emerge as a part of myself</strong></p><p><strong>drowning in a part of You. </strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>Some call these moments, bliss</strong></p><p><strong>I don't name them</strong></p><p><strong>but when they rage up</strong></p><p><strong>like sap, upwards </strong></p><p><strong>through the stalk of life-</strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>when mind falls wordlessly</strong></p><p><strong>into Your eyes</strong></p><p><strong>You so expertly catch hold </strong></p><p><strong>of what is left.</strong></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-55049250276511149382008-06-11T18:27:00.000+01:002008-06-11T18:29:37.052+01:00Doors & Openings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtvAMW4YOnRsD0Qq2Gyl56GKjWM6bjHg0tx8QtNzJTQTVj7KXMMMvdbHCL_LMQmISLB_L_Ddp6mjlrGrHzwgdSTX1NySd1WwXcdVo5N39EMDLc_d2E5G7qtQh-YlRyxPf88bx/s1600-h/DIGITAL51.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210677081556499170" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtvAMW4YOnRsD0Qq2Gyl56GKjWM6bjHg0tx8QtNzJTQTVj7KXMMMvdbHCL_LMQmISLB_L_Ddp6mjlrGrHzwgdSTX1NySd1WwXcdVo5N39EMDLc_d2E5G7qtQh-YlRyxPf88bx/s320/DIGITAL51.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><strong><br />I have dropped my guard<br />I do not even<br />open doors for You.<br /><br />You are the door<br />and I am the opening<br />and even though this is the wrong way round<br />I can’t see an inside or an outside<br />so both ways are the same.<br /><br />What’s the use of yoga?<br />What’s the use of meditation?<br />I have one position to practice<br />and that is to be the flow of Your heart.<br /><br />I have let my guard down.<br />Raised hands only get in the way<br />of Your fingers<br />and my movement in them. </strong></div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div><strong></strong> </div><div> </div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-76979121675142111112008-06-07T17:16:00.001+01:002008-06-07T17:19:29.697+01:00Your Beauty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28PcCDVuVLVCO3uac_SZs5p1_HthNMuAHRTC2iW1l4ydV-4-iPN3hIp67lyZ6BwslYS_pPhqOWqu5ZXP3GWSnBaFlKnholcx_GGl5Lh2yyD5pPIveQvj-cZ_tAAoMbkIEJSAJ/s1600-h/Goddess+of+Dawn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209174659795184130" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh28PcCDVuVLVCO3uac_SZs5p1_HthNMuAHRTC2iW1l4ydV-4-iPN3hIp67lyZ6BwslYS_pPhqOWqu5ZXP3GWSnBaFlKnholcx_GGl5Lh2yyD5pPIveQvj-cZ_tAAoMbkIEJSAJ/s320/Goddess+of+Dawn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong><br />Your beauty<br />pulls minds like babes<br />out of each grain of sand.<br />It conditions flowers to bleed light.<br />It dances in the blood<br />where every cell is a shoe<br />for Your steps.<br /><br />I don’t think I am You<br />I don’t think of You or I.<br />I feel.<br />I feel the breath of Your beauty.<br />I feel the lightness of Your flowers<br />opening under my skin<br />where the void arises.<br /><br />You are not a thing to paint<br />or to compare.<br />Your beauty<br />is a flare of radiance,<br />a glimmer<br />only the heart can see<br />or remember<br />as the eyes dream. </strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong> </p><p><br /></strong> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-84314302370279572232008-05-13T17:57:00.003+01:002008-05-13T18:04:30.587+01:00Waves<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZ7eYZyC7BGO2XVOurFRCBfZ2TsYXgYYBJqsDYnc31vhYDgIXXQjmNTJRQtfbE5GG2y8L88hjwnphP0FtYP1kqXoNmObp5BwCjnrDjc6xHrAOfYfFnXvbaVpMcN5GxPX2BS9S/s1600-h/A+Goddess.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199908251283307954" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZ7eYZyC7BGO2XVOurFRCBfZ2TsYXgYYBJqsDYnc31vhYDgIXXQjmNTJRQtfbE5GG2y8L88hjwnphP0FtYP1kqXoNmObp5BwCjnrDjc6xHrAOfYfFnXvbaVpMcN5GxPX2BS9S/s320/A+Goddess.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p><br /><strong>Mutual waves tumble together<br />breaking open<br />the way water breaks open<br />into itself.<br /><br />I have nothing of my own anymore<br />unless one can claim<br />this surf and tide of passion.<br /><br />Pillers and eddies of lust<br />have no name.<br /><br />The ocean has no eyes<br />but knows every molecule<br />to be itself.<br /></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-69562603271827998682008-05-05T17:02:00.000+01:002008-05-05T17:05:10.483+01:00Body Reading<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkw6JNUbDt_NtbrfOjC2De9dsb5GPdYnj7GML3FY1Hix0tJWbvAsxhd4hk2fRuvxEB8pNFsGVQuOKEuFe9ZqmmA2ArANhss7hLGH3giuJFYhaEv4BfWwUthGR5yZ37Ac1DfYMK/s1600-h/Erotica-3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196925113246929778" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkw6JNUbDt_NtbrfOjC2De9dsb5GPdYnj7GML3FY1Hix0tJWbvAsxhd4hk2fRuvxEB8pNFsGVQuOKEuFe9ZqmmA2ArANhss7hLGH3giuJFYhaEv4BfWwUthGR5yZ37Ac1DfYMK/s320/Erotica-3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>We don’t sneak up on each other now.<br />This passion<br />is a slow dance<br />in the heat of a moment.<br /><br />I know what You are saying<br />because I speak with Your hands.<br />I am that part of You<br />that lip-reads flesh.<br /><br />I carry<br />the scent of desire<br />on Your fingertips.<br /> </strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-35511362152806528222008-05-04T17:06:00.001+01:002008-05-04T17:09:45.929+01:00Morning Goddess<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPrM90gklgh9IyMCHo1_8yl6oSlpghl8kMyGAxiy38LmR5_wUH2_HTxhb83XP-VNXcZKVCIet_ot1WdsyZaWJUt2m3zRADf3k7n1_8wnCIFZzPnoaCNbNrFfEMGlWm-0AmsN_/s1600-h/oriental_kimono_Goddess.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196555346627515234" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPrM90gklgh9IyMCHo1_8yl6oSlpghl8kMyGAxiy38LmR5_wUH2_HTxhb83XP-VNXcZKVCIet_ot1WdsyZaWJUt2m3zRADf3k7n1_8wnCIFZzPnoaCNbNrFfEMGlWm-0AmsN_/s320/oriental_kimono_Goddess.jpg" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><p><strong></strong></p><strong>
<br />
<br />A morning
<br />grows out of my eyes.
<br />She sleeps with my heart-
<br />She curls
<br />where my legs part.
<br />
<br />If I turn over
<br />I might bruise Her delicate skin.
<br />I might fall in
<br />to Her melting dreams again.
<br />
<br />Within my surfacing mind
<br />I watch Her rise
<br />into a silver kimono of light.
<br />I watch Her prepare to bathe
<br />in my life.
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<br /><p> </p><p> </p>
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<br /></strong>
<br /></strong>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-31039981577780149382008-04-19T22:59:00.001+01:002008-04-20T14:45:47.332+01:00Her Speaking Soul<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurWUB9nlBqWDCJrhTKUpUDBEFVbbgQflbXdGqkS-sf7-a2ofRIcSCwpJ4SpsZMbWo9iThxEufY94F8KLVDI4qWswVyIiv-cSC7E6kR2F1Q0gnQSHpmt-JRYGAYE2nFHmxOUl3/s1600-h/Divine+Force.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191323229347016594" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurWUB9nlBqWDCJrhTKUpUDBEFVbbgQflbXdGqkS-sf7-a2ofRIcSCwpJ4SpsZMbWo9iThxEufY94F8KLVDI4qWswVyIiv-cSC7E6kR2F1Q0gnQSHpmt-JRYGAYE2nFHmxOUl3/s320/Divine+Force.jpg" border="0" /></a>
<br /><div><strong>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />She loves you.
<br />You are a taste upon Her lips.
<br />The afterglow of Her desire,
<br />a memory She relives
<br />as poetry
<br />
<br />-try to feel Her
<br />loving you out of yourself
<br />as a word
<br />birthed from
<br />Her speaking Soul.</strong>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br /></strong>
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<br />Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-79558968121218109622008-04-11T14:10:00.002+01:002008-04-11T14:14:22.716+01:00She Will Come<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcVY-bTUFChMsVQ-QpfzoQAIu29epKDseeiD4ZJ0FY5OGraapMSiVAeCDbocaA71tMQsC8ZfXUzLttnwiU-KmzvDzHHh50Eq3V_J01HGRdM_gBZg_G4JQ-Bl05hSXGCQhC2Ej/s1600-h/Ecstacy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5187974636773074946" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcVY-bTUFChMsVQ-QpfzoQAIu29epKDseeiD4ZJ0FY5OGraapMSiVAeCDbocaA71tMQsC8ZfXUzLttnwiU-KmzvDzHHh50Eq3V_J01HGRdM_gBZg_G4JQ-Bl05hSXGCQhC2Ej/s320/Ecstacy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>When your fingertips<br />become pure devotion.<br />When your skin<br />opens its prayer book<br />She will come to you<br />half-dressed like your hands.<br />She will fit the shape<br />of your longing<br />like a flower<br />becomes a glove for the sky. </strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p> </p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">Image-</span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">Medium: pencil and ash on paper</span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">Artist: Pushkaraj Shirke</span></p><p><br /><strong><br /></strong></p><p></p><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-1609840834949403032008-04-07T16:09:00.002+01:002008-04-07T16:17:01.052+01:00The Painter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNOtI0Sfx3dAtj8gQDso-zhUgqqsk2_aO_9R9HFdhq_yjhk3lJ1HIFywCsexNgdQL2nbwT-VXaG0YAoDPqJVzqcNoCQH7nQ4i4NwJ7yDjiN_p4lrr0Bhy92xNntM8VHf4Oek4/s1600-h/The+painter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186521967423731874" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNOtI0Sfx3dAtj8gQDso-zhUgqqsk2_aO_9R9HFdhq_yjhk3lJ1HIFywCsexNgdQL2nbwT-VXaG0YAoDPqJVzqcNoCQH7nQ4i4NwJ7yDjiN_p4lrr0Bhy92xNntM8VHf4Oek4/s320/The+painter.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>It is late at night<br />but I am doing my best<br />to paint Your picture.<br />Hands fly away<br />come back with Your scent.<br />Eyes go blind<br />then return as the light<br />behind Your face.<br />It is late at night<br />the fire of the world<br />is an ember within my breath.<br />I am painting Your presence<br />with my body<br />rolling within the waves<br />of a single pulse<br />daubing beautiful suns<br />onto the darkness.<br />I am doing my best<br />to picture You<br />into a space<br />that can be held<br />in the heart<br />like a portrait of love.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-51377703917885714892008-04-07T15:29:00.001+01:002008-04-07T15:35:10.130+01:00Stars & Fronds<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQX4LEbaGoJmjQMGxqSvgKATk2hDrqlNvPtfrPKos8plccTXx4BQJ0wXZhHWpsDBio0TKrm6wTHyvbkI90d05Bq9EEbRWVPFFb96W0BD01ugJVKVgm30VZx-nPbtdYjZwK7TvD/s1600-h/goddess+cosmos.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186510877818173586" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQX4LEbaGoJmjQMGxqSvgKATk2hDrqlNvPtfrPKos8plccTXx4BQJ0wXZhHWpsDBio0TKrm6wTHyvbkI90d05Bq9EEbRWVPFFb96W0BD01ugJVKVgm30VZx-nPbtdYjZwK7TvD/s320/goddess+cosmos.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>She comes out of the flesh<br />where a million sea fronds<br />swim together as a mind.<br /><br />When the Goddess steps back<br />into the world to look at you,<br />you disappear from yourself.<br /><br />Inside the universe<br />there are endless stars,<br />each one is an atom<br />of consciousness<br /><br />but when She steps outside<br />of all there is<br />what you become<br />is Her looking-<br />only Her looking.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-54821388141160323272007-06-06T23:47:00.000+01:002007-06-07T00:03:07.982+01:00A Glancing Blow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAzSEd6B_i6ozW_6e8D8p7bsb9WSer1cTywANbzHjoq46NfdIHiM0SCdtR2ey3lZoQJiKL74weg9GV4TlalshbxSOMSVw_Z-EJxD-lub0qCc733-PCMoEafyO-JWiytRyWJn_/s1600-h/closeupbluebutterfly.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5073087325402467346" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVAzSEd6B_i6ozW_6e8D8p7bsb9WSer1cTywANbzHjoq46NfdIHiM0SCdtR2ey3lZoQJiKL74weg9GV4TlalshbxSOMSVw_Z-EJxD-lub0qCc733-PCMoEafyO-JWiytRyWJn_/s320/closeupbluebutterfly.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong>It happened again<br />Your glancing blow<br />made the sky tremble.<br /><br />My body flowered<br />within a bright raincloud<br />as if You had touched me<br />in-between my life<br />and Yours.<br /><br />And because there is nothing<br />between my life and Yours<br />we both said:<br />My God!</strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /> </p><p></p><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-63234467494076148942007-02-15T09:11:00.000+00:002007-11-21T13:53:13.111+00:00Drumbeats of Creation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAA8CapahVCy2uZoXHjstHUiREoyfHr-zWdas8c_y_spmqPc0wljQ3lbJL7nazVnlHk0OxvV1DTEkuWIbVj6cqKxuNgkMNwpONb2s7BFQdYmpP1FvkoOSFzzozC6msFiK-KBKV/s1600-h/creation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031686071098961650" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAA8CapahVCy2uZoXHjstHUiREoyfHr-zWdas8c_y_spmqPc0wljQ3lbJL7nazVnlHk0OxvV1DTEkuWIbVj6cqKxuNgkMNwpONb2s7BFQdYmpP1FvkoOSFzzozC6msFiK-KBKV/s320/creation.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>My fingertips are<br />deep wells in Your body.<br />That place where passion<br />shapes longing into form.<br /><br />Who is the creator here?<br />Do I sculpt or am I<br />shaped by Your imagination?<br />My hands image You<br />then You compose me<br />as a poem<br />or as drops of blood.<br /><br />The bell ringer<br />has become the inside of the bell <br />The drum beats the stick.<br />Birds nest in my eyes<br />to give birth to You.<br /><br />Who is the Goddess<br />when every flower paints its face<br />with Your presence?<br />Who creates thoughts and feelings,<br />then wears them to be seen?<br /><br />I am a depth for You<br />to pray within.</strong><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-18143339189649975292007-02-13T17:05:00.000+00:002007-11-20T23:06:34.979+00:00The Magdalene<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9gQTO6a4MXx1_4TrgsDsrVHXqn9J-khw-EHkwHLpg1MLADs_IFCXrpxTfwqy0jEsE4GHzEj1wW0yxlm1LDx-7z1Z0lGCb9yEByRlvG-2PjMCEEWhOb0QZ0psddOKRWkwyvsP/s1600-h/cave+of+magdelaine.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5031066345972854450" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB9gQTO6a4MXx1_4TrgsDsrVHXqn9J-khw-EHkwHLpg1MLADs_IFCXrpxTfwqy0jEsE4GHzEj1wW0yxlm1LDx-7z1Z0lGCb9yEByRlvG-2PjMCEEWhOb0QZ0psddOKRWkwyvsP/s320/cave+of+magdelaine.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>The Magdalene takes you to Her cave in the sky:</strong></p><p><strong>you are taught the scripture of Her body</strong></p><p><strong>its starry gaze, its dark blooms</strong></p><p><strong>where rooms open to become heavens.</strong></p><p><strong>She lays you down in Her, </strong></p><p><strong>She invites</strong></p><p><strong>and bids you enter. </strong></p><p><strong>Mary anoints you.</strong></p><p><strong>Mary washes your feet with Her hair.</strong></p><p><strong>She leads you into Her bridal chambers,</strong></p><p><strong>She teaches you the mystery of poetry</strong></p><p><strong>how the holy words are inward and female</strong></p><p><strong>and must be dressed to be seen.</strong></p><p><strong>Then like a seed too full of the sky</strong></p><p><strong>you break open to form a mouth for Her prayers.</strong></p><p><strong>She speaks to you like mist and sunlight</strong></p><p><strong>Her voice releasing</strong></p><p><strong>one delicate frond of passion after another.</strong></p><p><strong>She sheds two thousand years of tears for you.</strong></p><p><strong>You hold her close not daring to speak</strong></p><p><strong>daring only to be human enough.</strong></p><p><strong>You hold Her like a bee holds a bloom</strong></p><p><strong>gathered intimately around as taste and scent.</strong></p><p><strong>She tells you that you are Her Jesus</strong></p><p><strong>She holds your hand</strong></p><p><strong>reading the pain of your life across its palm</strong></p><p><strong>a life spent walking away from the Magdalene</strong></p><p><strong>away from the Goddess</strong></p><p><strong>until you remembered</strong></p><p><strong>until your heart opened at last</strong></p><p><strong>like a flower in the cave of Her love.</strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-85274456816914430732007-02-13T09:35:00.000+00:002007-11-20T03:28:12.683+00:00Love Letters<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T7nJK5PxWBRJk7dnfXJtCa1551xpQxxLFdbEV4UYVXBoGnfpUCc1uTUXR3LB2G3NHtToKNPfuJiso-yCUi3lRlCT_V6ptLIexB0F0etfwJsb3x0VPJVK_KggX3-1C50h25-L/s1600-h/Love+Letters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030950076913184402" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T7nJK5PxWBRJk7dnfXJtCa1551xpQxxLFdbEV4UYVXBoGnfpUCc1uTUXR3LB2G3NHtToKNPfuJiso-yCUi3lRlCT_V6ptLIexB0F0etfwJsb3x0VPJVK_KggX3-1C50h25-L/s320/Love+Letters.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><strong></strong><br /><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></p></strong><strong><p><br />Her love letters<br />stay unopened<br />until you find a poetry<br />to translate their words.<br /><br />She writes in green sap<br />in first light<br />in the dark blood of passion.<br />She engraves Her flowers<br />over moonlight<br />where hands melt to touch Her.<br /><br />I write.<br />Words come flying in<br />like crows<br />some are crippled by the light.<br />Some are hobbled<br />by a grappling darkness<br />but they come.<br /><br />I return Her letters<br />in bundles of self.<br />I scratch out a poem<br />and while it is still bleeding</strong></p><p><strong>offer it to Her lips.</strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p> </p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Painting: The Unopened Letter. (c) James C. Christensen</span></strong></p><p><a href="http://www.jameschristensen.com/saintsandangels.html" target="_top"><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">www.jameschristensen.com/saintsandangels.html</span></strong></a></p><p><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-74022812096715406492007-02-12T11:40:00.000+00:002007-11-19T12:28:37.203+00:00A Fierce Love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrumCEuMSW207jGs3RxdD3BowDZ4ccLRhatqyvp0WrDYjyvpRRRVeLkRfBM7LJ2t4jnMPWNPPOSc4zDqqddTrLIH2h6PS0mfrQB8MLtD261c_uqmm6OSQI_1KNu2uRoSejaTW-/s1600-h/Radiance.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030611212583464546" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrumCEuMSW207jGs3RxdD3BowDZ4ccLRhatqyvp0WrDYjyvpRRRVeLkRfBM7LJ2t4jnMPWNPPOSc4zDqqddTrLIH2h6PS0mfrQB8MLtD261c_uqmm6OSQI_1KNu2uRoSejaTW-/s320/Radiance.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><strong><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I am addicted<br />to Your dark flowerings:<br />Mysteries that can only bloom<br />under craving hands.<br />A fierce love that intoxicates<br />and drinks the wine<br />of its own substance.<br />I am Your finding fingers.<br />We play hide and seek<br />with our souls.<br />We mask ourselves<br />in each others shadows.<br />We love that wild kind of light<br />that can be broken down<br />into taste and feeling;<br />into sensual blooms.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></strong></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Image: Radiance. (C) Christine P. Newman</span></strong></div><div><a href="http://www.pbase.com/eb2005/image/48955593" target="_top"><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">www.pbase.com/eb2005/image/48955593</span></strong></a></div><div><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></div><div></div><div></div>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-37167808913079332672007-02-11T11:01:00.000+00:002007-11-18T18:01:58.405+00:00Thriving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBWQKNKphiXYX7GwTTKUPHGzecpRs89mZmm9oJwonzoQXzfTrxdmULoSOiT6UW-V5Q4y7B3YGkpCXVhe8EZVQ29gvIv6nJFJ09zr08h3O0gEfKTVOn5MSCaklR1hQyxUg3KuE/s1600-h/Freya.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030229944041631282" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBWQKNKphiXYX7GwTTKUPHGzecpRs89mZmm9oJwonzoQXzfTrxdmULoSOiT6UW-V5Q4y7B3YGkpCXVhe8EZVQ29gvIv6nJFJ09zr08h3O0gEfKTVOn5MSCaklR1hQyxUg3KuE/s320/Freya.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>I thrive in You<br />I flourish as the lips<br />of Your mouth.<br />The folded roundness<br />of Your love has a shape<br />within me<br />that I now curl around<br />as Your own limbs.<br /><br />There was a time<br />when I knew<br />nothing of the Goddess,<br />and how She lives like a hand<br />in the glove of being.<br />I did not flourish<br />I would sift my life<br />through a withering mirage. </strong></p><p><strong>Then You stole my body<br />and took it to live in You.<br />I slipped easily<br />into Your secret places.<br />Gardens of delight<br />where both of us<br />thrive.</strong><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-26062025142167514642007-02-10T12:58:00.000+00:002007-11-17T15:53:42.254+00:00Near & Far<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZHO2oSpFz6Xip3Ee908jaVCOlO0dgBF3536aROl0_z7Z93QDPqUfSR612-DouIlyQ1zFFEN_kHYqvbtujxsGZX1PEWvhuD8zbckmkydvc4TkGa0wWfTXqbd1GYRJNBfRhlf1/s1600-h/Body-Language-IX-Print-C10313534.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029889061077282322" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioZHO2oSpFz6Xip3Ee908jaVCOlO0dgBF3536aROl0_z7Z93QDPqUfSR612-DouIlyQ1zFFEN_kHYqvbtujxsGZX1PEWvhuD8zbckmkydvc4TkGa0wWfTXqbd1GYRJNBfRhlf1/s320/Body-Language-IX-Print-C10313534.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>We part like waves<br />that break still joined at the hip.<br />I become Your mouth<br />while You remain<br />this molten language of blood.<br />We have to keep moving in and out<br />of this nearness and distance<br />to make room for speech.<br />Not a talking, but the sound of desire<br />as it sings in the throat of an infinite longing.<br />The prayer of one hand beseeching another<br />to clasp where its fingers ask and open.<br />The connected and adjacent speech<br />of this body of our love<br />as it turns this way and that to make words<br />for the one heart to utter.</strong> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>~~</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">Body Language IX<br />by </span><a class="pDetailsLink" href="http://www.art.co.uk/asp/display_artist-asp/_/CRID--2131/AlfredGockel.htm?ui=35861A4BCEAD4EB19D3DD66692D6D14B"><span style="font-size:78%;">Alfred Gockel</span></a></p><p><a href="http://www.art.com/.../sp--A/Body_Language_IX.htm" target="_top"><span style="font-size:78%;">www.art.com/.../sp--A/Body_Language_IX.htm</span></a></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-62807489131607114172007-02-09T17:30:00.000+00:002007-11-17T14:59:59.252+00:00Painting You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssxbAdANy465suL7o2ikLhorkU87bM0O55XCEM3KfEaAAQ0xwqJnIwceZfuKCWSBLvuDr3BnVFtiVSD3hJqHPQDcKySg5D6swlHSvO8gRC-ChF3qL73xrcpnLeFCdvhKzJwkk/s1600-h/nud-3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5029588052589309426" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssxbAdANy465suL7o2ikLhorkU87bM0O55XCEM3KfEaAAQ0xwqJnIwceZfuKCWSBLvuDr3BnVFtiVSD3hJqHPQDcKySg5D6swlHSvO8gRC-ChF3qL73xrcpnLeFCdvhKzJwkk/s320/nud-3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong></p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong></strong> </p><p><strong>I know how to paint You,<br />how to make myself a color<br />to be melted down<br />in the bloods cloudy cauldron<br />until I become sheer enough<br />to be Your image.<br /><br />I have no artistry<br />I simply supply the vessels<br />of light and dark<br />with their open mouths<br />of desire<br />where Your presence<br />can be mixed.<br /><br />I know how to paint You,<br />how to be a canvas<br />so soaked through<br />with heavy tones and textures<br />that its fabric falls apart<br />painting a shadow<br />of Your beauty.</strong> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>~~</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;">Chinese Painting On Xuan Pape-Nude Beauty W/Tiger 27"Lx27"W</span></p><p><a href="http://chinesepaintingonlineartgallery.com/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=10" target="_top"><span style="font-size:78%;">chinesepaintingonlineartgallery.com/index.php...</span></a></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28032269.post-67392517116107897802007-02-05T10:16:00.000+00:002007-11-16T13:45:55.748+00:00A Melt of Intimacy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMuTWAQTKmbPlAnCR7_EBKHSuAswl1w7FjfeDS9xETq58nieXkSdlYGTAykzXQnvF5DS1GUDxYgTh_-sdCUfG0PW1Figlp2Aw0kFyjzxqSytIp37-C6wtX2eeB7LHA22TBc0h/s1600-h/Solar%20Evaporation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027992056772376786" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMuTWAQTKmbPlAnCR7_EBKHSuAswl1w7FjfeDS9xETq58nieXkSdlYGTAykzXQnvF5DS1GUDxYgTh_-sdCUfG0PW1Figlp2Aw0kFyjzxqSytIp37-C6wtX2eeB7LHA22TBc0h/s320/Solar%2520Evaporation.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>We dance together<br />in-between the thought of bodies:<br />An evaporation of beauty into passion<br />that reappears<br />as a single bloom of lust.<br />This equation of flesh and breath<br />becomes a flow of adoration<br />a sexual prayer for hands to drown within.<br />Water and heat create a tongue<br />that dissolves and shapes dreams<br />with a labile language of love.<br />We lay folded into each other<br />like wet towels by a pool of stars.<br />There is a heaviness<br />that we feel deeply like air.<br />There is a ribbed bud of ecstasy<br />that tastes the void.</strong></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09104205535815572834noreply@blogger.com