My Apple Pie Guy

I long to dip my feet: just once more
in the pleasure garden of life.
To let them frolic about, peaking under the shadow
of the lily leaves, creating mayhem
amongst the wild life there.
Then to sit back, giggling like a school girl
on her first real date.

To untie my long auburn hair as you once did,
whilst kissing soft, the morning air, caring not one jot
that neighbours may sit to stare.
With my arms full to bursting
riots of flowers –
in all the colours of Jacobs’s woollen coat.
Be allowed to abstain –
from that oh so tedious
work routine, spending time instead
with my, oh so adorable you.

There is this urge in me
to skip to the local shop
buy penny sweets from the large
round jar, whilst standing outside munching in rapture.
That all this and more, once beat a path to my door.

I sit to recall my lovely new red dress, made
from my Sisters old Winter Cloak.
I couldn’t have cared less –
it looked so fine on me.
Then when you come around for your
Sunday tea – only me – did you see.
I spoon fed you my adoring eyes
played footsie, whilst you ate your apple pie.
Praying like mad you didn’t drop your food
because Mother so hated a mess.

I can taste it, like it was only yesterday
if I turn to catch the breeze I swear you are
standing close: fresh linen was always
your essence.
Never did I find truth in anyone else –
I searched under every fallen leaf
Sideways glances had me know that
none could ever be you.

So, I splash in the pond and I care not a heap.
That was then; when good proud men went to war.
This is now – when those happy times
are the sweetest part, I’ll always keep.

Poppy April 2013 ~xx~



I have slept with you over and over again deep within
the contours of my mind.
You chased away all shadows –
they who swathed my dreams of old.
Our tangled bodies lie rooted to earth’s floor.
I like to look at you:
as mouth on mouth, you bring pleasure where
once there was sleep: transparent membranes delve deep
into this, the pouring of your love.
For I am with you – though absent from my sight.
You move through me – in reoccurring
shafts of piquant flesh you play me, as a violinist plays
their chords of pleasured sound.
I am your flowing water, finding her way home.
Fingers like fledglings, linger close, I listen
as your tongue tells me stories, before the
mornings sun, peek a boos absent, all traces of the night.
For what is day if not to revel all –
the night did offer up before me.

I was undone, my flesh turned into dust
forgotten intimate tributaries, drifting far from course.
We found each other hungry – half open seeds
were only salt is pure and bites away the wounds
When you pulled me to you, I did rise my flesh.
All night I have slept with you
between the living and the dead…

Stay With Me...

Stay With Me…