A few words for April


Cold shivers slide up
visit those place you’ve been
sleep captures after


Remembered promise
a green chair in the corner
winter into spring


Fly south for winter
learn to live, laugh and to love
no longer afraid




Along the Edge of a Dream

He skates along the edge of her night-dreams,
veering in and out of shadows, silent
and full of a contagious energy
she finds intriguing – and yet frightening.

In the morning, she finds he’s slipped away,
perhaps into some other woman’s dreams;
perhaps to recharge and wait for night fall
when he can again tantalize and taunt.

Such imaginings make her wish for sleep,
that time of evening when beneath covers
she escapes reality and loses
herself in fantasy with the unknown.

Such moments, elusive at times, make life
the passionate adventure she lives for.


Solar Flare

Energy disruption passes through her,
igniting a maelstrom of emotion.
Unexplained, memories bubble upward
and sit on the edge of her awareness –
she is unable to reach in and pull
them to the top, out into the open
for examination… explanation.

Blame, a power she does not care to give,
surfaces; the source of it eludes her.
Deep in her belly, the familiar tugs –
passion and desire – mingle with fear.
If she could isolate the sensation,
analyze its impact, she could perhaps
relax its hold on her and find release.


Aching to Hold On

You write politics and I drink the wine;
my thoughts on sex while you pontificate.
The right-wrong of the world surrounds me –
your ideas swirl in my wine-soaked mind.

You talk and I am still thinking of sex…
of the long, lean body of that man
two tables over – blond brown locks rakish
across his eyes, the kind of blue I could
drowned in, forgetting until the morning
we occupy this place on different planes.

My body is aged with life, waist thickened
with experience; thighs parted in birth
and pleasure, my arms ache to hold on to
where we have been… and where we want to go.


As Is

The smell of paint hasn’t faded; the pinch
of cleaners wrinkles the nose; still it’s not
bright enough, fresh or new enough. It is
as is and nothing more – or even less.

She rolls her shoulders, no hands nearby to
rub away the sore, ease out the tension
of holding a roller, repetitive
strokes, the covering of the old with bland
to create a canvas for someone else.

Her legs ache from standing atop ladders,
hard wooden floors, something she knows she will
pay for in the wee hours when the pain
wakens her from sleep and unfinished dreams.

The house remains – as is – and so does she.


That Moon

Foot sore, she teeters on heels to the end
of the driveway tonight, ready to roll
the garbage can back into the garage
then stops mid-teeter to glance at the moon.
Clear, star-bright sky peers back at her, its wrapped
around the crescent, cradling it in
a midnight blue blanket against the chill.

In one split second (that lasts for hours)
she is caught in the light of memories  –
images of him somewhere watching
that same moon, wishing on one of those stars.

As quickly as it came, it’s gone; she’s left
behind, to stand and stare up at the moon
alone now and teetering on the edge.


Unshaven  Legs

She runs a hand down the length of her calf,
feels stubble begging for a razor’s touch
yet ignores this plea. The rough sensation
somehow more intimate than the smooth silk
of freshly shaven skin, lotion-softened.

An act of premeditation, shaving
to prepare for the art of making love,
annoys her. Losing spontaneity
for the sake of vanity becomes her
barrier to pleasure. She wants to feel

his hands caressing her without judgment,
lost in spur of the moment, caught up
in the existence of shared desire
not caring about her unshaven legs.