a moon aflame

It is only now when I craving
close my eyes, sighing for
this brightly burning need of you,

my muse, my ever urgently
infusing illumination waxing
gloriously by the light of Serene,

presaging dark before dawn caressing,
plying your hands across my need,
pleading with me for pleasures more,

as probing moonbeams descend
from, my quiet, quivering love, you
exciting eddies over the waters

that warmly pulsing flow through me
from the very deepest source of most
sweetly trembling teasing you,

who, so insightfully imparting
deliciously these whispered moans
of moistly possessing passion,

draws from the dark a light
in me that seethes with desire
and fire and a moon ever aflame.

[Of moonbeams and the dark before dawn.]

there is still time

there is still time, you see
for sunlight to scintillate falcons
floating hungrily through the air
for probing fingers to trace perfect
shamrocks over freshly dented grass

for teasing boys to giggle
at dancing curl-lipped monkeys
for girls in garlands of daisies
to dream of shining pots of gold
at the end of every rainbow

for mysteries to entice us
in meadows blossoming carousels
of poppies and prancing ponies
and choruses of hopping sparrows
eagerly adoring them in song

there is still time, my love
for moonbeams to murmur us
whole, breathing blissful melodies
while hearth fires cast our shadows
flowing like waves on the wall

[Inspired once more–you’ll begin to wonder if I have an authentic bone in the body of this would-be poet. But I can’t help myself. This morning I have been reading here of sun and the dark before dawn and moonbeams, and I cannot help but follow these inspiring words and images shared by your truly inspiring voice.]

A few photos I took in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, back when I was still young and unabashedly romantic and hopeful. (May 1987)