Opening these waves
Have begun to shape
That no light
Within your flow
To touch each
Glass blown teardrop
Melting into the ebb
I will be the sun dripping
Down legs of golden heroes
I will be the crumbling dirt
Amidst each footstep, counted
I will be the wings soaring
To each ebb and matching flow
I will be the wandering nomad
Caught in effortless migration
I will be the passion building
Spring cannot be stopped
I will be the hours breathing
While a hand rests, exhausted
I will be the knot tied
Alert silhouetted cacti
I will be the red ball
Dipped into old red wine
I will be the front porch song
For each moment you are my anchor.
I surprised myself at how passionate I became
And took Willow to bed
We lay there, forehead to forehead
Sharing our hearts and souls
Through our eyes, our breath
Our souls entwined like our very essences
A mixture of meaning and questions
Desire and passion
A giving and taking and listening and sharing
One that we spoke in ten thousand languages
When she kissed me I was at once a victim
Then an accomplice
Then I was the fever incomprehensible
And then just as quickly
Transformed back into the listener.
I experienced an epiphany that night
That I never really truly felt before
And that was the feeling of One
That my thoughts
Were just as relevant as Willow’s thoughts
That she had mine and I had hers
And that we were both at the same time
Quite on opposite sides of the same breath
Her ebb was my flow
But our build was the same
I felt it as I held her
And she moved with me and against me
We began glowing together
I experienced a union
Then stepped back and observed the separation
I learned the experience of true love
Which was both giving and taking
At the same time
Both nothing and everything
Both silence and screaming
Like I said, epiphany.
That night I bowed down to the deep connection
I felt and experienced so intimately with Willow
I thanked my fingers for finding me so
I thanked my breath for filling me so
I thanked my eyes for focusing me so
I thanked my heart for fueling me so
I thanked my knees for bending me so
I thanked Willow, deeply, powerfully
With words that meant ten thousand things
With embraces that held ten thousand meanings
With tears that sprung ten thousand rivers
With motion that turned ten thousand days
Past moons that shone at midnight.
When I crawled to the edge of a forever span
I got so close to a miracle
I laid my nose right down to the stone
And breathed in the dirt that was my heart and soul
When I reached so high from the up most top
My mind was scorching in an unbent sky
With rainbows and eagles far below
I was a full thought in a twinkling eye
When I caused each leaf to rock and sway
From an ebb and flow in my very glow
I sent my prana to behold the world
To return double-fold, with such secrets that’d never been told.
With your heart beat –
Thundering through mountains,
Through valleys, full cities
And Oceans so far
An eye cannot see
But know, undoubtly,
That horizon lines
Only trick us
To believe your gravity is
My heart beats.
With your ebb and my flow
A unity gathers so strongly
That when left unchecked,
A wobbling and teetering
And quivering begins.
Thus, over this floating mass
Of carbon based matter
Quantum does exist,
Qi is your heart,
And my breath like every other breath
Is a slave to your every
Beck and call.
Rhythm is a magic thing.
It takes the heart
And encircles it with
Falling Autumn leaves
And afternoon window shoppers
Late-morning-sunshine-yellow polo shirts
And walked-a-mile shoes.
Rhythm is two steps
For every one breath
On a muggy evening
Along a windy, ocean view
Pedestrians only path
In a healthy city.
Rhythm is necessary,
Just as long steady gusts for big bubbles
And late afternoon naps are.
Because if the heart takes a leap
And forgets which beat
Is flip flopping around deep inside,
Then all mastery of any subject
Is floating lifelessly away
Amidst breadcrumbs scattered for ducks
In a sea of slugs on a hungry Tuesday.
We were like kids, all day long sleeping around in nothing but our underwear and blankets that twisted and rumpled us into our own magic land of wanderlust. Between our carnal moments of pure passion I’d feed her citrus fruits that would sting the sin off our tongues. There was no Western movie script office, no bills pulling at our wallets, no jealousy, no wandering, no eager eyes or the next best thing. We did complete each other.
We were hustlers and lovers. Not gangsters. We didn’t thump our rap in our chrome rimmed mobiles, we didn’t include bling in our vocabulary. We were class that believed in perfumes, curls, a kimono, shoes that announced ones arrival, low light, martinis.
In the evening she’d sit around reading from books like Understanding Witchcraft, Seduction, How to Love a Man, and Being a Proper Housewife. We’re talking stuff straight from prohibition era, when a suit and tie was what real men wore to the bar, not ripped up jeans and a backwards hat.
From time to time she’d get up and stretch the largest stretch I’ve ever seen. She was a Yogini, so it was desire to watch her bend as she did. Her breath would catch with mine and I’d flow with her qi. Mostly I think she was weaving her spells she’d just read about, leading me into a place I really didn’t mind being at. She’d eye me, and flip me that focused kind of smile.
‘Service with a smile’ was her favorite saying. She’d come back into the bedroom with a plate full of some delicacy she had just concocted and beam with those words written on her mouth. I would always laugh, eager to see what my next feeding would entail. Never let down.
She would leave that bed when it was her time to work. It was always a rush because we’d both hold off until the very last minute to get ready, keeping our naked skin touching that so pleased us both.
She was one fine specimen of the female variety. I would crawl up and down just at the very thought of her being. I would coo softly when I’d get to hold onto her hips. It was hard for me to tell whether it was this very act or another more carnal act that pleased me so. The pure thought of it sends my heart into emotional fluttering. Often I’d watch her dancing around the room with transparent fabrics lightly floating around her as she moved [for me].
My favorite time of season was the autumn. The time of season when the fresh bright greens and floral yellows and purples and reds would fade away into earthy tones of death and decay. I’m not sadistic; it’s a time of connection to life and death. Pure. The anticipation of winter’s cold, the preparation for warmer clothes. Closing the windows and sweeping the sidewalk and laying bare all trees that stand in mother natures way. A transition we have no control over. Serenity.
Julia would pull out her old mukluks to wear around the bare wooden floors of the apartment. With these and her panties on I could hardly stop myself from enveloping her. Exploding with a passion aching to jump out of my skin and hunger for more. She knew this, and would smile uncontrollably when she knew this was where I was at. I never left her wondering, she had asked me not to.
Do you know what it’s like to have an unbridled passionate outlet, matched ebb and flow for carnal desires?
[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]