Thank you!!

Thanks much Literaryliz!!

Hey thanks Lorena and Liz. I have a Youtube Video Soundtrack I put together with me playing harmonica and narrating the spoken word. We put together all sorts of sounds to go with the poem to make it really stand out.

Many of the folks in that video are musicians I have played with in the Dallas Blues scene. Some nationally known. My friends and Son is in it for a flash. I did all the editing and worked cooperatively in a studio with a sound tech on the soundtrack.

Please go see and let me know what you think. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnCq-IdiVZM

I hope it is ok to post the link here? If not you can search the title and it should show up on You tube.

Thank you very much - that is comforting to hear that from a woman!!

Thanks for that. I appreciate the outside perspective.

When The Sugar Momma Talks

If ever there was a slow
sultry train sensually
bending soul minors,
chugging upon the spine,
taking it'��s riders
from a flooding delta
to alpine woods
where goose bumps
rise, drown, and resurrect
in the forget
of a sexy minute.

Teased just right with soft air
sucked in tight and lazy
on the curl of a tongue,
thin brass wisps
resonate in twisting hips;
pendulum swings,
while a blues man sings;

"She'��s a gypsy with a mojo;
honey lips steal good men away
she'��s a gypsy with a mojo;
honey lips steel good men away

A fool calls her Pandora
I don't call her any day."

Guitar or harp
continues talking where
the vocals stop.
Gypsy vapor sinks
beneath rind; honey
tastes like a
thousand tingles
moving from
soft kisses
between skin and skull,
to restless air
that follows bones -
makes them shake.

We want more
when we hear the sputter
of a turn on the five.
The crawling out
of dark pipes begins,
through steel grates,
along ditches, ally walls
trying to slide in the creep
of a hot blue measure
for another
twelve bars that may
forever hang,
perpetually arousing,
suspended on the one.

Then the sugar momma
may finally speak
and tell us where she gets
her sugar from.

RKL - me...

Thanks Dave!!

I hate lengthy profiles. I usually get wordy and say too much.

Thanks very much!!

Thanks Much!!

The Spill Back

In many ways,
the length of a life
is a slow and steady
evaporation of emotion
through the pores.

The magmaculate want, unsatisfied,
love like sunshine,
often hidden behind storms
starves the land and the child
whom grows in it.

The unseasonal torrents,
perpetual wet of Winter, bleeds
into Spring, Summer, Fall,
and Christmas, the high noon
of Winter, Christmas; an island
where Ark may, or may not land.

Youth is tenacious
is a cope, is a callous,
the blind necessities
build dams where we near drown
before the spill out,
the gush, unpredictable falling,
wild rapid running, and we,
get tired as all war,
find our foot standing on a stone
while the other searches.

I often look back,
and see layers of sediment,
visible lines of a melt
cut impressions on the soul
polished, shaped, and shiny
When all released in the quiet cry
the inevitable giving back,
as much as earth and world
could bear it;

no longer volatile,
but surrendered
no longer turbulent,
now rests in the gravity;
migrating elephant transformations
takes us through lush valleys,
beneath veils of thin cloud,
steep canyons kissed by sunshine,
streams spilling to rivers,
descend, and meander
where remnant flow
gives itself, once and for all,
back from whence it came.

Outside perspective is always valuable. Thanks in advance!!

Midnight stars
infinite spray of light rests
reflective on my eye

The hope of youth
is fragrant
and sweet as Fennel
combed by wind
blowing through
the coastal canyons
near my beloved sea

I am fluorescent and luminous
tossed in a perpetual rhythm of waves
tumbling to no end,
and you are eternal
as the ever changing moon
pulling me where you will,
shining upon me this dark night.

Secret Place

You poured out your heart,
without fears
as if cool rain, giving
in dusty heat.
I wade deep
in those pools
spilling in the harmonious
babble bubbling;
Mirror of your soul;
shades of paradise,
the lotus cupped in His hands,
between us -
white call to greater abandon
where we
take on new meaning;
Tears of joy welling
from the dark tempest
in my core;
souls undressed
as if a sun
cut through clouds;
your giving rain,
the inevitable tears,
us wading there,
in that secret place.

By Doinitagain