Absence, Inflamed


"Absence diminishes minor passions,

and inflames great ones,

as the wind douses a candle,

and flames a fire."

 - François de La Rouchefoucauld 1650


Shy stare behind fair hair, across the room,

a spark jump starts a heart engulfed in fume.

The rush of blood will flood with smoky plume:

desire, this burning fire - their world consumed.


As fate decrees, the subtle breeze provides,

the means to end or send their flame to skies,

but will their fill turn into their divide?

Or does true love still cause these hearts collide?


Intense and hot, forget me not, tonight!

Now found apart, 'goodbye' imparts a fright!

So, will the wind rescind passions delight?

Or cause a pause, to fuel their reunite?


A test of time designed to find the cost -

of lust, of trust, and what cannot be lost.

A Simply Stated Sonnet


A Simply Stunning Sunset


A story of the glory in the South,

when light hits right above the hillside crest,

that's found on mounds that Nature has allowed,

if you imbue the view it will arrest.


Yet still, I fill my eyes with skies' reprise,

behold as gold unfolds beneath the days,

when other colors have arrived revised,

and fine design is shrined by sunset maize.


When, then the end begins to rouge my sight,

translucent pale prevails to mask the tone,

sky blues diffuse into the blacks of night,

my joy devoid, destroyed, by the postpone.


So I reside, tied, petrified, but strong,

until Port Hills will sing my morning song.

Photogrsapher Unknown - Please contact me if you can help identify the owner!

                  The Agony of the Leaves

                   (Love in 1800’s England)


My horses' tracks click-clack 'cross dim lit street,

while cobbles wobble 'neath their labored cleat.

Pale nights' moonlight lay bright upon receipt,

it finds me seek my love to loves' retreat.


The carriage stops under my crops' command -

black bowler hat, with suit to match, I stand.

I spy her face, such grace encased and grand,

ornate in white, extending tight gloved hand.


My eyes surmise the rapture in her heart,

I say 'I've loved you way back from the start.'

Surprised, she sighs, and fights off tears' depart,

her lips' soft kiss insists we never part.


My palm now calm enough to cup her cheek,

new love deployed, in tears of joy, we steep.

The Dream Weaver - A Tribute to

Martin Luther King, Jr.


Emotions pour as scores beg for his voice.

He takes the stand, his hands command the crowd,

who've come undone from other peoples' choice -

coerced and forced, some bloody but unbowed.


He plants the seeds that lead and feed the mass,

such speech will teach the world to stand and breach

hates' wall - let's all stand tall ignoring class -

so resolute with truth, in practice preached.


A bold proclaim to take joyful daybreak,

emancipate, create, and liberate;

why question 'no oppression' - just partake

to set the scene and live his dream, equate.


In pleas to breathe in parity and bring

hopes' song along, he sings 'Let freedom ring!'

Sounds of Freedom© 2010


                       Sands of Submission

                         Madame Sahara, femme fatale of life -
                  incessant fire, enveloped in ice.
                With promises of warm caressing breast,
              her freezing tease will bring you to arrest.

            Upon the dawn, the rage of light incites
          a brutal change from what remains of night.
        Such peace deceased as morning brings ignite,
      when heat will greet those frozen with delight.

    The Sun, an unrelenting one, embroils
  convection through reflection - Earths' soil boils
and those exposed to such insolate coils
shall dwell in living Hell and all it's spoils.

  When then, midday begins to ease demands,
    extinguishing the flames that name the sands,
      the breeze responds to pleading cease commands,
        with care, the cooler air has spared the lands.

To close the day, the Suns' ballet decides
            to end the trend, and so foregoes and Hydes...

                  This Jekyll's transformation is precise,
                she turns her back, an act that might entice.
                  Her colder other shoulder will suggest
                    you firmly guard your heart from her request.

                           The dark embarks to set without a sound,
                        as winds rescind all heat within the mounds.
                          If lost and caught in her onslaught, inbound,
                            you'll brave to stave the coldest grave around.
                              Her beauty's duty lures and then conceals
                                with wreckless wrath, the icy staff she wields.
                                  Beneath her wings, a silence rings the fields,
                                  a hush of death this lush moonlight reveals.

                                The days' decay has given fade to black.
                              Winds' knife will slice til dawns' concise attack.
                            Evading this berating will enact
                          to move to morrows' queue without set back. 

                        To close the night, the Moons' low flight subsides,
                      then once again, the Sun begins to rise.

                         Her freezing tease will bring you to arrest,
                  with promises of warm caressing breast.
                Incessant fire, enveloped in ice,
              Madame Sahara, femme fatale of life.

In-son-nia (Sonnetarium)


This fight - my plight - begins as I contend

impending thieves against descending night;

inviting sleep to keep with me and fend,

by sending dreams - the means to my delight.


                The twists and turns are indiscernible.

                Unstable thoughts return and then persist,

                resistance sought is fought through vicious duel;

                this fool, he lays awake, the clock insists.


                                Insomnia defeats my chance to dream;

                                seems circumstance has forced this submission,

                                within my mind I find resigned to scream,

                                and deem this time my cognizant prison.





                                                                from nose

                                                                to toes,

                                                                                                I know

                                                                                                my eyes

                                                                                                will still


                                                                                                to close...

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                See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

                O, that I were a glove upon that hand,

                That I might touch that cheek!

                Act II, scene 2, line 23. Romeo


                                Fortune's Fool (Tempestry)


                A shore, for which a ship shall soon set sail,

                with breaking crest whose grip cannot contain

                the breadth and depth of love that will unveil,

                lest breath from curving breast impose refrain.


                How will this fleet pass 'gainst impending wrath,

                in 'tempt to beat such treacherous a sea

                as limerence that paves a drowning path,

                until compunction plays it's piracy?


                While flowing dark abyss absorbs the night,

                with cargo never having known a home,

                though absent of a single guiding light,

                'til last resort, departing port, alone.


                Confined, resigned to drift along, in wait,

                the windless mast has cast his heart as bait.



Beneath a sheet of mystery, asleep,

my thoughts, they drift haphazardly risque.

In search of satisfaction driven deep,

I raise in ways that words cannot convey.


You lay awake, in sync with every stride,

confide that you'd prefer to ride than drive.

As viscous friction forces tight curves wide,

our gears slip-shift while chassis lift, complied.


Addicted to the edge of subconscious,

our drive begins to drift into drunk dreams,

we slide along the ledge of lust, nonplussed,

adrenaline exploding from the seams.


Now beaten back, confined to collapsed heap,

our minds relax, unwind and drift to sleep.

                Rapture, Ruined


I've captured rapture in a single smile!

The wind within my lungs escapes awhile.

Without a breath I'm left speechless, a mess,

euphoric rush, good fortunes crush, distress.


These butterflies, I so despise, haunt me.

The sweat of salt's regret - my hands debris.

With weakened knees, this shy disease confines;

my ruined mind can't find Amor's design.


So why won't fate, comply and satiate

this soul, whose goal is to avoid abate?

And then begin to mend a heart maligned,

fom years of tears forever intertwined?


How to forget this new regret I've caught,

and then pretend as though I'm not distraught?

                 Smoke & Mirrors


High perched under the church of right and wrong,

le Chat c'est Noir shall star in vat of night.

Slight eyes demise insist you'll come along

to forced coerce of tortoruous delight.


How will your will withstand such binding grip

as life that's lived in dance with Devil's grasp,

where scythes reap souls to drain their ruddy drip

'til rivers drown down rope's repenting rasp?


A slave of pride now tied in grave delight,

the purrs infer most should have run along

as claws find pause from light of dying night,

eviscerating waning rights through wrong.


A selfish sip from demon's tipping glass -

though stain remains, the bitter taste will pass.