Lost

370FFF9B-4540-4E6D-88B9-627D40AD2854.jpegPerhaps I was

cardamom

in your coffee,

scent of cinnamon

after too long;

spice of life.

Yet for you

I traversed

the Silk Roads,

entered tribal lands,

became lost.

Sacred songs

encircled me,

of wildness

and love,

holy longing.

In this desert,

arid and mysterious,

your lips

are like

water.

Are you an oasis

or mirage?

I cannot tell.

Still, I drink deeply

of you,

subsisting on

memories;

your lingering reflection

in this shimmery well

of dreams.

Mother of the Moon

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At night
I enter the liminal realms,
this wild jungle of dreams,
and forget
who I am.

I wake to the thought
of you.
Insistent pain,
the sting of my life’s wounds,
reminds me,
in a way
that comforts.

I do not want to lose this world,
her days,
her nights,
her majestic cycles.

I want to keep my role
as sacred timekeeper,
hugging to me
the vast plane of consciousness,
singing it lullabies
with melodies forged
from the unseen.

I will not be dislodged.

I will grow deeper roots.

Even as the sky darkens
and dips
towards the dimness
of a thoughtless eternity,
I will become
Mother of the Moon.

My Lover’s Eyes

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My lover’s eyes are stony,

impassive,

like the inscrutable eyes

of God

when we make love.

 

And I am a precious jewel,

shining radiantly

in the mirror of his gaze,

my skin creamy ivory,

my lips pink like rhodochrosite,

the hard rubies of my nipples gleaming,

waiting to be polished further

by his tongue.

 

We glow together.

 

Love is a diamond,

multifaceted and rare,

formed from the weight

of extraordinary pressure,

yet exquisite to behold

when all is said

and done.

Nature Falls In Love

Today I am sharing this poem again in celebration of Purim and Nowruz, two festivals of early spring renewal and revelry, that may share ancient roots

erotica poetica

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In Springtime,

all of nature

falls in love.

The air is wet

with arousal,

fragrant with pollen

and the scent

of raw need.

In springtime,

our bodies ache towards each other

like the First Man

and First Woman did,

the first time they made love,

when the heavens opened up

and the gods applauded like thunder

and a million flowers took latin names

and carved their shapes

out of the green pith

of possibility,

blossoming into a full rainbow

of lurid colors.

In springtime,

clouds cry their heavy tears

that seep into the land,

feeding plants, nourishing roots,

shaking off the sadness of death

that winter brings.

The Earth opens

like a mouth

to receive

the Sun’s kiss.

Love shines.

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An Ode to Your Inner Fat Girl

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She is condemned
and disdained
for her girth,
her untamed abundance.

I look at my thighs as they spread across the beach chair at the pool
and they seem as vast
as the Pacific Ocean
to my judgmental eye.
But my silky flesh
is clean and smooth,
pillowy,
inviting.
Men enter
my depths
with a shudder
of pleasurable relief,
like sliding
into a warm bath.

Life is hard
but my body is soft.

In Mauritania,
only fat women
are considered beautiful.
Fat is wealth.

The truth is
beauty is in the eye
of the beholder.

Why not hold yourself
and your loved ones
with a gaze of love?
We only have this one life.

I am not really that large,
but in my heart
I am a big woman,
fat and happy.