I Want

To feel, the pain

In your pleasures.

Taste, the pleasure

In your pain

I want. You.



Streams of Today….

I️ sit here in thought as the world spins around me.

The mom and her son running back and forth to the soda fountain and her coffee making station

The countless conversations at the tables encompassing me into their world.

I’m at peace here. Alone. Just my mind scrapping words from my veins.

I’ve been consumed with work. So much lately I️ nearly drowned in a sinus infection.

However, now I️ breathe freely. I’m ready.

I️ may not be the best friend, I️ may not reach out and say hi as often as I️ should.

I️ think of you often. And you. And them. And us.

I️ live in the moment. For the moment and that moment of emotional distress, internal success and yet pure bliss.

It’s who I️ am. The man I️ have become. The man I️ was. The father I️ still am. The grandfather I️ will forever be.

My eyes are dams of tears. Filled to capacity. For many reasons lately. Micheal. My friend who never said good bye to.

My daughter who held my hand when no one wanted to.

My daughter, my baby girl at the time. The one who cuddled in my arm. Rode in the front of the car and listened to BB King and Eric Clapton. She always said “I’m riding with the king daddy”.

That little girl who has grown. Blossomed into a woman, a mother and in three days to be a wife.

He is good, he commands attention. Yet steps away from the limelight. He loves her, he’s told me. He shows it in their state. In their little girl.

May some internal force give me the strength to lead that special little girl of mine down the aisle into her sunset of happiness.

I’ll step back and watch. Observe as I️ do so well. I️ will listen. I️ will be silent into the night. I️ will shed that tear at her beauty. Her insight. Her will to make happiness right.


The Fog

lake-bled-slovenia-by-marko-trebusakFog hovers; paints;

strokes; color into skin.

Warmth as the morning sun,

a gentle dew, Is where it all began.

Explosive nerves;

eruption; corruption;

passion consumes restraint;

fingers paint;

ecstasy into the soul;

where kisses lose control; hands scroll;

grab, gash, grip, grope

the purity;

the hope;

devour, empower,

the need;

the ache;

within wherein,

blood pumps, throbs, sins;

as lips begin and two lovers collapse in a grin,

stripped, licked, sipped,

drunk like shots of gin,

intoxicated; fixated;

until that urge is sedated;





an urge, a surge,

where two bodies merge

emotions let go,

release; carnal feast;

hypnotic, erotic, vignette

sewn without regret,

psychotic pleasures,

hidden treasures,

into the fog,

two lusted lovers;


that the fog; will always hover


*lake photo was taken from the Internet
**repetitive photos ~ADayDreamWriter

A Memory

This morning was a beautiful start to any day. The sun shined from the mighty heavens above. The calm silence holding back tears as I drive with the funeral procession. Flashing car lights as the hurst strolls by the stopped motorists. The countless memories that will remain, just that.

Life was lived to the fullest. Just not the longest. I already miss your friendship, your laugh, you. The things we accomplished can never be undone. Halloween will never again be as fun.

Taps begins to flow across the headstones from the lone soldier beneath a mighty tree. The notes summon tears from the loved ones who stand still. We listen in awe of the precision that each note from the horn echoes a picture in our thoughts. Those memories are the only thing we have left.

Soon the skies above will begin to cry. A steady one that will build on the questions left at our feet. The heavy rains will await our exit from here and remind us it’s ok to cry. As we stand motionless to a flag folded and given in honor. Micheal. Today we say good-bye.


He Wrote Her

Once upon a naked canvas
words whispered across skin;
penned with a creative hand 
defined by his lusty wind.

Incoherent sentences 
branded upon her curves;
methodically composed 
pleasure she deserves.

Dipped in the puddles of her heart,
he wrote her,
by the ink of his lips.

Page after page
chapters without limit;
lines without structure 
clearly making her submit.

Enchantment was defined
sequels and a demand for more;
he engraved his signature
precise details to this folklore.

Dipped in the puddles of her heart,
he wrote her,
by the ink of his lips.