The moon is such a fickle lover
it draws hot blood to yellow thighs,
drains us free of light-lust dreams, then
vanishes without touch, or tear.
No notes left by the coffee pot,
fragrance to linger on sheets, or thought.
Gone again, ‘til it needs our skin,
we’ll be waiting, we are what we are.
13 comments:
Oh, I like this one!
Just great pat!
I love this poem!
Love the rhyme of "pot" with "thought." Nice!
love the directions this poem can take you! excellent!
the moon is my friend ... i howl at it regularly! thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with us, pat.
Don of Conscious living Blog have been hosted in www.livinginpoetry.blogspot.com
Hope you can share ur thoughts about Don
When the moon is full, I turn into a black '63 Corvette.
great one Pat... and the comments are too. Funny what a pull that moon has.
...as he bays at the Moon...
woooh, nice one, pat!
what to do Pat.. Moon is what it is....
lovely write...
Thanks MB!!
Thank you Margie!!
But, I'm just a 205# weakling. Thank you Kai!!
Thanks Joyce!!
I love options!! Thaks Polona!!
Crazy Ronin, I could've guessed!! Thank you!!
Iamnasra, thank you, I did.
Russell, and I thought you preferred traveling on Death Stars???
Mikaelah, it can be down right scary. Thank you!!
Vaughn, you're peeking again...
Dsnake, thanks!!
Amalendu, it is that. Might as well love it, can't leave it.
Sensual and fickle indeed
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