September 3

The promise of the honey poured
And pulled across my tentative lips...

It’s turning fairly sour and a bit sticky,
Words that smack of such
Passion and Pain...I let them lay
Bound and untasted, sweet but wasted
A tongue talking is too busy to lick lips.

Honey and coffee, maybe…

What holy words of me?
Speak like a fragrance
And long listening would leave
Incense burning, stomachs churning
And golden brown layers under snow.

But what holy words of me!
(I am undeniably impatient to see…)

Come now, come now, move.
Write with a pressure, words with purpose,
Yes! Motivate with scrawled signs,
All dots and lines, all symbols divine,
All pointing the path of my mind to…

You, please! Touch my tragedy…

Your breath my pulse, my motivation.
That feel, that beat, my full emotion.
Breathless when without,
My fingers stretching out,
For rain to end my drought, none falls.

Sit inside a windowless room
And wait for the wind to blow through…

This text tells a promise
Of conversation sweet and leading.
Through which closed door? (I’m pleading…)
Give weight to a movement, give conviction to a thought,
Give flavor to it fullest, and substance to what’s sought!

Be more quiet now…