Princess of the Night

“Are you a princess?” I said. 

She replied, “I’m much more than a princess, 

but you don’t have a name for it yet here on earth. ”

 ― Brian Andreas

themurdershewore

The wind took her hair, black and flowing, tossing and spinning it in the late evening breeze like a child with a favorite toy. With the ambiance of crashing waves, the night took on the deep color of a precious jewel, as each facet of the raw and innocent exterior of a man and woman were cut away to reveal the hidden colors of love. She had the regal features of an Indian princess, with a curious mischief and passion sparkling in her eyes, and a gentle voice that cut through my defenses, whispering my name with subtle beguilement. Possess me my native flower, let me breath your essence deep into my waiting abyss. In the giving there was as much pleasure as in the receiving, never before had I lunged so completely into the unknown. With her gentle touch guiding me through corridors of pleasure, I knew this flight of my soul could take me through the nether worlds of ethereal desire and effervescent delight. I only stopped at one point to ask myself, “do you want to love her?”. I felt the challenge to leave the pains and brokenness of the past to fly with her. With one decision, the natural way became a supernatural journey that would leave me wounded but happy with my sacrifice and let me spend the rest of my days listening for her siren song calling my name.

You Are Not – A poet’s revenge against the Cliché –

“My life as well as my writing are guided by creed in lieu of clichés” ― Carl Henegan

 

progguy1

 

You’re not like every cliché
repeated often till meaning dies

You’re like brilliant truth, 
revealing my weakness for your body

You’re not like a rose whose fragrance and beauty
are but an honorable mention

You’re like the smell of a thousand pines 
calling and seducing me to lay in your arms

You’re not like an angel whose wings
carried you to me from afar

You’re like mischievous devils 
whose temptations take me from reality to fantasy

You’re not like a song,
sung endlessly while children clap their hands

You’re like the sound of waves, 
crashing your sexuality over my beaches

You’re not like a gentle swan,
perfect beauty so many times compared

You’re like violent lightning, 
striking the lies of men and melting my soul to yours

You’re not like the ordinary,
the common seen on every poet’s page

You’re like the grandeur of space, 
possessing the beginning and ending of my life

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine

First published in Opinionsofeye.com

02142012 

Prophecy

 “Together, they would watch everything that was so carefully planned collapse, and they would smile at the beauty of destruction.” ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

 

maelstromcycle

Inspired by my dream the night before

Pulling back into watery heaps, the plan is set

Leaving the crowds gathering in a storm of wonder

The coast changes and that for eternity

The waves swell and crash, hands of the potter

Brightness from the sky enlightens the new land

Flames peeling off like leaves from autumn trees

Eternity waits for another world to collide,

A ricochet leaving its destruction

the fearful people hold their mouths and wait

Rhythm Of Wings

 

“Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.” – Marquis de Sade

“I think my passion is misinterpreted as anger sometimes. And I don’t think people are ready for the message that I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of violent love.” – Charlie Sheen

Alight with you my love I float among the cloudy waves

On the wind a fevered fear that prolongs my only days

Not to see or to swim amongst the damp and fallen dew

But to glide along your endless shore and stroke the plain of you

Winds they blow and change their course to challenge my fancied flight

Only a protest against strong wings in this long and primal night

Starry witnesses show the way to this floating passionate soul

Earthen desires abandoned forever to wrestle in this stranglehold

Guile’s Subtle Creature – Pain and Fear are my defenders

“Full of wiles, full of guile, 
at all times, in all ways, 
Are the children of Men”
Aristophanes

kingmc81

Free me from guile’s subtle creature of passions hateful exile

The allies to my rescue will come quick as the dawn and just as sure

Wrest me from the chained facade of my minds deceitful succubus

Burdened with feigned troubles provoked like mist from the crashing waves

What guards me from the charms of a women not so innocent

Fear and Pain lead me away from this captor with the demise of dreams

Teach me my dear brothers with your wisdom gleaned from eagles sight

Deliver me from the lies and deceit that hate has born on its wings

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

A Broken Seed

 “Some of us look for the way in opium and some in God, some of us in whisky and some of us in love. It is all the same way and it leads nowhere.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

wehaveforgotten

Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine

                   

A Broken Seed

 “Some of us look for the way in opium and some in God, some of us in whisky and some of us in love. It is all the same way and it leads nowhere.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

wehaveforgotten

Me, the living dead, a zombie of a man, a tortured and near empty soul made void by the very thing that I sought to deliver me from the pain of existence. I sought Them. The caretakers of darkness, who, pawning their wares to this little child, made sure their victory. Taking their empty promise, I swallowed the hook and ran. They, laughing, knew it was a matter of time before they would pull up hard on that line and watch me struggle valiantly, but in vain, against the taught leash. I jumped, thrashing against the line, but into their hold I fell. In the misery of the company around me, I saw I wasn’t alone in my plight. There were many who, in an act of innocence, in an attempt at living, took the camouflaged snare, and, like myself, struggled to retract their explorations and be safe again. Years have passed now, a blur of feigned life, an echo of songs long since expired. My hands reached out of their cage many times, hoping to connect with freedom. I found my release, unexpectedly, born on the wings of tumultuous circumstance. My cage was thrown to the wild waves, into a deep sea of desperation, leaving me, in heaving labored breaths, to struggle against the inevitable. Death. Cold and final. Release. It wasn’t my end, but my beginning. Spring, bringing tender green shoots and a fresh vitality, broke me from the seed that bore my soul. In a dance of liberty that only those who are long held captive can know, I spun around and around in delighted exuberance of the death that brought life. Captured and prostituted soul, find your open door through a death. But not a death, a door. For how can it be called death when you live again? It is a door, not an end, but an eternal beginning.

Also published in Life As A Human Magazine