Wild and Unrelenting

I still borrow your image in the darkness
laying it across the proficiency of my fingers
weaving a fantasy with the loom of longing.
A wild and unrelenting storm I am
in the quiet that awaits dawn.
Satiated with satisfaction ;
a spent frame quivering like a bow. You
play me to perfection with my own touch.
In spellbinding creating you wave your ebony magic
across my ivory intention and I spill the rain
of long overdue tears.

Trembling I am
calling the black hand from the lake of midnight.
Moon shadows and mad meanderings
awaken dark mysterious depths,
prying open my yesterdays
with the creeping hand of secrecy,
crawling along the flesh of my imagination ,
the rawness of my need.

Come, I call you, come to me, my hand is waiting.
Wild and unrelenting fingers aching.....
Let me borrow your image in the darkness
One more time.

In Spooned Satisfaction

by Pam L. (aka mysticgamekeeper)

He nudged against me with remembered movements,
sliding himself unto my small frame
fitting perfectly into the familiar spaces
on my receptive skin.
Awakening me with the warmth and the weight of his need.
Heartbeat to heartbeat
as mine sped up to catch his galloping rhythm;
flesh to flesh
he pulls me from my midnight sleep
with a white hot hand of slippery heat...
Motion melds me to the sheets,
need pounds itself against each crease.
Spent
we rock each other back to sleep
in spooned satisfaction.

copyright 2008 Pam L.

What Poets Do......

Your words prick me with pen,
And sword and scalpel.
They tear the flesh from my heartache;
They raise welts on the horizon of my humour.
You leave your mark, droppings of meaning
Amid my quiet mornings and my lazy midnight meanderings.
The cohesion of syllable and song.
Two spirits aching experience found lingering on the same note,
hidden in the branches of nouns and adjectives, the leaves of metaphor and imagery.
You make me smile;
force weeping upon me like rain.

Penetrating me with the phallus of a pen's power
Your flowing sounds swollen and running with
the rushing blood of your heartache,
a pulsing passion, grown enormous with a need I understand...
I lay back and take you in letting the organ of your heart
ejaculate its life giving issue all through me.

We are raw aren’t we? Poets and dreamers,
clouds that gather and burst
With a ruby rain of regularity.
And we are scarred over like dried meat hung in the sun;
leathered and stretched, then beaten with the
Drums of earth’s rhythm until our flesh either sings
Or bursts with resistance and reward of release.

Your words prick at my raw center,
And raise pustules on my crust.
This is what the poet does......
He grabs the entrails and twists.
He breathes on the loins forcing lust....
He sings the soul's kindred song granting peace...
He skips across a page with laughter and sarcasm bestowing smiles.
He plucks at the heartstrings, fashioning lyrics mimicking love....
And he does it all with the phenomenal power of his words
The swollen organ of his greatness scrawls out
The mysterious markings of his particular muse.
The poet seeds the earth with the showers of his soul’s storms.

(by Pam L)