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her hands

I thought I knew what love meant
but the universe told me differently.

It's seeing her at the piano,
her long fingers caressing the keys
(as they do my skin),
and the ripple of her laughter
as she watches her children play -
a similar sound to the delicate vibrato of her song.

It's holding her in my arms as she cries.
It's nurturing her tender heart;
the one that devotes and defends her people so completely,
and aches so deeply when the bitter pill of
disappointment (because she's loved so fiercely and so long)
needs must be swallowed.

It's her passion, and it's her fire.
It's the lovely and organized chaos.
It's the shy eyes, the self-deprecating smile
when I tell her how beautiful she is.

It's sleepy eyes,
and limbs wrapped around me.
The morning kisses and
the sun going supernova in my chest
when she enters a room, sees me, and whispers 'I love you'.

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In these moments

Its in these moments
When all I see is red
Its the sound of her voice, the ripple of her laughter,
The sweetness of her tears
Sliding slowly from azure eyes
The creamy softness of her face
The feather glance of her fingertips across the skin of my back
The enveloping warmth of her kiss
These things help me breathe
These things help me begin to remember


Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

This isn't a poem

This isn't a poem, because poetry needs words.
There are so many words, but there are no words to describe this.

My head and my heart are full,
full of her eyes, her smile,
her kisses, and her body.

I don't know, and I'm done trying to analyze it.
I just want to sit and feel this.
I become a part of her when we touch.
It feels like long, lost reunion.
I simply can't keep myself from touching her.

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Peach.

Peach.

She is sublime
velveteen, effluvious and sweet
a fresh, ripe peach

culled from unbending branches
on an effulgent afternoon of orchards
as the pungent dog days pluck away
at the last feathers of an Indian summer

fingers, enclose gingerly, so as not to bruise,
lips and teeth, slipping with purpose
to press firmly to delicate skin
juices dribble over hands and fingers,

the salt sweet taste of her
she is my brave new medicine.

Her lips are mercurial.
Her flesh is sweet and smooth as cream
pouring over her, she bathes me in lust and warmth and light

she is magical,
conjured from inky night,
replete with stars
quicksilver eyes pierce the dusky light
I wear her on my body like Orion’s belt

She sees right through to my center
her fingers dance, pianissimo
flower petals upon my skin

she makes me holy.

She defies explanation.

I worship, as her lips cover my mouth, my body
I taste her luminosity

Sublime,
like a fresh ripe peach.

Copyright 2011 - Mel S. Buckner

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Oltre gli oceani di tempo

Coperto in voi, pulito in vostro fuoco.

Vivete nella mia sangre, sulla mia linguetta.
Io sono con voi oltre gli oceani di tempo.

Io curativo all 'interno dell 'infinità della vostra carezza,
voglio adorare al tempiale del vostro dolore.

Siete il mio vino sacro.
Qualunque questo fra noi è,
so soltanto che è Sacramento.



------------------------
I am cloaked in you, cleansed in your fire.

You live in my blood, on my tongue.
I am with you beyond the oceans of time.

You heal me within the infinity of your caress,
and I want to worship at the temple of your pain.

You are my holy wine.
Whatever this between us is,

I know only that it is Sacrament.

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Sete di I

Non posso resisterle e per questo sono felice,
perché non ho bisogno di.

È semplicemente una donna strabilante bella,
che determina la mia fame,
la mia sete,
Si, il mio impulso stesso.

Il profumo di lei arricciature all'interno di me,
diventante teso come la corda, i nodi, grovigli del mio desiderio artiglia alla mia pelle.

Per lei, sete di I. "


***************

I cannot resist her, and for this I rejoice, for I need not.

She is, simply, a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She drives my hunger, my thirst, yeah, my very pulse. The scent of her curls inside of me, becoming taut like rope.

The knots, the tangles of my desire, claw at my flesh.

For her, I thirst.

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Winged Victory

She is winged victory
and venus de milo
the perfect curvature of breasts
contrasting alabaster flesh;
Her eyes the hue
of morning glory pool

She is the power of woman
of fertility
and motherhood
bound in shackles
head bowed low

She is a single tear
at the corner of the bluest eyes

She is the soft lips
tasting of ambrosia
and powerful thighs
wrapped around my torso

She is stillness
the fullness of breathy sighs
in those spaces
where words simply will not do.

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De ja writing...

Her name on my lips seems to burn,
and I think of her eyes, her hands, her taste on my tongue
and I ask for just one
moment to pass or hour to turn.

I long to feel her beneath my mouth
to feel her on my fingers on my lips
for the grip of her legs around my hips
for a word, a whisper, a sound.

Just to know if she feels the same,
to see in her eyes, the heat of the flame
I ask nothing more than this
to lose myself in the taste of her kiss..

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and i hunger...

and I hunger
to be touched that way

to rise in the air with the hidden power of butterfly wings
the ride the reverberation of waves
caused by petals fluttering down
to the surface of a glass clear water

 
and I hunger,
not only for the feathered brush of bee stung lips,
the romance of breathy sighs,
or the evaporating hours as I lose myself in her flesh.

I hunger
not only for the image of her lying molten and soft before me,
the curve of her breasts,
the delicate geometry at the apex of legs that go on forever
or the ocean of her salty sweet taste,
the aroma of lilacs on the sun kissed drafts in springtime

 
No, I hunger for her,
in whose eyes I am I am made holy
In whose whispered "I love you” I am possessed
Under whose touch I am turned to fire
and within she, whom I become eternity.

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Fasting Journal

So today I got the thrilling experience of juicing under the watchful, inquisitive eyes of 3 year old twins. I think they ate about half my apples, half a red pepper and several bits of beet greens. I repeatedly got the questions 'why are you doing that'.

It took a little longer than usual but I got it done.

I did ok today hunger wise. Getting back on track. I realized today that the last day of my fast will be the 10 year anniversary of my Dad's passing. Seems fitting that I dedicate my perfect imperfection to him since he was the one I got to watch literally defy a death sentence through juicing.

A good day. Better than most.

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