Silver Mansion

comments 10
Poetry
S   l   o   w   l   y ,
yet oozing danger,
a spider trail-blazes
the path to her 
silver
mansion

The one I, 
yawning and
weary-eyed,
visit on
sleepless 
nights

I shout—
but there is no point
in getting bewildered—
I’m just 
tripping

                                          / I n  t h i s
                                          i m a g i n a r y
                                          i m p l o s i o n
                                          o f   m y
                                         s l e e p l e s s
                                         m i n d /

Slowly,
but
fearlessly
I approach
the light with
cautious 
steps

I can’t sleep,
I shout—
yet my loving cuddle
keeps escaping
her kiss
of death

                                   / I  d r e a m  o f
                                   a  l i f e  o f  w o n d e r
                                   b a r e l y
                                   h i d d e n  b e h i n d 
                                   h e r  s l i m y
                                   w a l l s /

Truth is
spiders
were never my
chosen companions
in day-dreaming
adventures

Still,
she seems
quirky
enough
to become
my nocturne
muse

As I,
yawning, and
weary-eyed,
follow the path
into her
S  i  l  v  e  r 
M   a   n  s   i   o  n

Wild One (Collab)

comments 5
Collabs / Poetry
grayscale photo of person s hand leaning on window
Photo by Mateus Souza on Pexels.com
By Secret Bree and Vintage Black

With a piercing 
stare 
and unquenchable 
appetite—
 
I’m one  
of the wild ones
captivating 
and 
fierce

Slowly 
ever so vigilantly
you approach 
trying to 
embrace 
me with 
velvet 
sounds 
 
—Casting that 
wicked 
magic 
of a  
wild 
cat 
whisperer— 
 
Yet I’m
not falling  
prey 
to your 
taming 
charms 
  
Inevitably 
you’ll fall 
in lust  
Everything else 
turning 
to dust 
against 
my 
sensual verses
 
Sweaty, 
playful- 
breathing, 
s  l  o  w
 
Will you join me 
when I start  
to  
lick 
and 
lay down 
l  o  w
 
rocking my hips— 
begging you 
/in verse/ 
oh, please 
come?
 
Foxy 
feline 
needing
fun
 
Sighing
feeling 
outstretched  
back 
 
Wild one 
ponders
when 
to 
a 
t 
t 
a 
c 
k 
 
I know 
you enjoy 
watching me 
wild and free 
but remember 
from 
my bedroom 
there are 
no 
escapees
 
You better 
be careful
I tease, 
and 
I bite
 
But do not fear— 
it’s
ever  
so slight
You won’t get hurt 
 
I rock my hips— 
so loud 
you sigh— 
you welcome me 
with arms 
open 
wide
  
I’m one of the
wild ones
captivating
and
fierce

With wild 
anticipation, 
all sweaty, 
untamed, 
in thrusting tempo, 
in pleasurable 
pain 
 
We tease 
we lick 
we sigh 
it hurts 
 
But just  
ever so 
slightly…. 
 
Wild play 

B u r n i n g

comments 15
Poetry
Devil player
faded charm
mindless trickster
she dared fight, 

One fair combat—
all she wanted
yet, the truth is,
he,

       d
       e
       c
        l
        i
       n
       e
       d

Biding adieu
to his wonders
such a let down
ice rock heart

She kept weaving
her wild verses
while she smoked,
she drank, 
she laughed

Yet he fired 
treason bullets
thinking he’d 
just reaped
her heart

He believed
her wounds
were deadly—
lousy honour,
crumbling Bard!

Yet the stars, 
my friends,
just wished
that night,

For old-time
cheats
to burn
to ash

And with fighting
all abandoned,
on forged devil
with a mask

She poured 
unforgiving lava,
blazing verses,
flaming darts

Biding adieu
to his wonders
while

s h e   
F i r e s,
L  o  v  e  s , 
a n d
W  r  i  t  e  s

Stoned Verse

comments 12
Poetry
Silver songs 
and sombre sounds 
like silent stories— 
stoned, profound 
 
Writing, boldly, 
of wild, wild dreams, 
this page all soaked 
with bright, red ink 
 
My tears pouring 
down that page, 
just drowning words
with startled rage 
 
While smoking, 
writing, 
dreaming, 
stoned, 
 
Those letters 
blurring— 
poems 
I owned 
 
My silver  
song 
so stoned 
it fades 
 
The story 
inhabits 
dark,  
stark caves 
 
Yet writing, boldly, 
of wild, wild dreams, 
that nearly burst  
with bright red ink 
 
And those 
stoned letters 
cast long
shades, 
 
All dripping, 
bloodied, 
verse  
cascades    
 
While smoking, 
writing, 
dreaming, 
stoned, 
 
Those letters 
blurring— 
poems 
I owned 
 
My ire blazing 
on that page 
just burning words
with startled rage 
 
And writing, 
boldly, 
of wild, 
wild dreams, 
 
This silver  
song, 
 
so  
stoned—  
 
It fades. 

Broken Mirror

comments 14
Poetry
I strived to collect
the shattered 
pieces of your 
broken 
mirror

The one 
you bought
to catch a glimpse
of your ailing 
soul

I’d slowly arrange 
those 
crystal pieces 
into a living
puzzle

My hands
got scarred,
my heart, all aching—
fearing
one high toll

My mind 
all floundered,
just picking pieces 
off the cold
ceramics

My feet all naked,
as I kept walking 
on that
unswept 
floor

*

You yearned
to collect the
shattered pieces
of your broken 
mirror

The one 
You bought
to catch a glimpse
of your unmasked 
whole

Yet your aid, 
guarded,
while it was wanted,
you just kept all 
secret,

For hell,
lightened,
may have 
one day granted
your long-wished 
parole

Forever silenced,
while it was wanted,
it remained a secret,
a living puzzle
a shattered mirror—

a sight 
so 
bold

*

I’d try to arrange
those 
crystal pieces
into a living
puzzle

The one that
would once
brighten such 
a dim-lit
gaol

Yet my aid, 
guarded,
while it was needed,
you just kept all 
secret,

Those empty promises
words void 
of meaning—
a death 
foretold

Yes—it was wanted,
those shattered 
pieces,
a living 
puzzle,

Which you kept 
guarded,
forever silenced,
an ailing
soul

Rare Waters

Leave a comment
Poetry
Rare words,
Wildly
Running
Through those
Full lips— 
Untimed

The ones you
Didn’t dare
Open
When trying
To speak 
Your riveting
Lies

Rivers 
of sound
Reverberating
Through
Silence,

Flying arabesques
Of the mind—
In your dreams,
So far away
In that gloomy horizon

Silent
Words—
Wildly pouring 
through
Tearful
Sights

Soft mounds,
Rare waters—
Some eerie
Arabesque
Light

The one you
Wouldn’t dare
Shed—
While plotting
Your riveting
Lies

Silent words
Soothing waters—
And ghostly
Dreams of
Might

f r o z e n l a n d s c a p e

comments 7
Poetry
W i t h  h o p e,
      they paint
their lucid
           dreams
               o f  
y  o  n  d  e  r

                         f    e    e
                             l    i 
                                n  g

                f      l     u      i       d  ,

S p r e a d i n g
a r m s  in 
d r u n k e n 
      c o l o u r e d
        s    n    o    w


Unspoken fantasy—
melting into
a madman’s
f l o r i d
         l   a  n   d 
                  s   c    a   p  e

Their heart,
f r o z e n , aged —
yet still moving to
the beat of this
        f r e e
           f    l   o   w 


*

W i t h  h o p e,
      they paint
their lucid
           dreams
               o f  
y  o  n  d  e  r


Naughtily stirring
the  s o o t h i n g
c a l m n e s s
of  s u c h
         w   o    e 

As, from afar,
they look
at this
f r e s h l y
                   p a i n t e d 
                l   a   n    d 
   s    c     a    p    e ,

                       f    e    e
                             l    i 
                                n  g

              f     l     u      i       d  ,

Their minds
a l i g h t
   w i t h
        d  r  u  n  k  e  n 
               
                      c   o   l   o   u   r   e   d
                     
                                     g         l         o         w

Stifling a yawn (Collab)

comments 14
Collabs / Poetry
By Secret Thoughts Within and Vintage Black 

I am so tired
so very, very tired
of not feeling comfortable within myself 
I am so weary
so very, very weary
of putting my heart back on the shelf
 
Tired 
        tired tired
Weary 
        weary weary
 
Comfortable with nothing
and weary with so little
my shelf life (patience) expired
and my honest thoughts
are cracked and 
b    r    i    t    t    l     e
 
Feelings in disguise,
yet naked to my eyes
tired of dried tears
words stumbling 
in my mouth
 
I’m comfortable 
with nothing
I keep wearing
this sad face,
walking through my life 
feeling barely 
awake
 
I am so tired
so very, very tired
of not feeling comfortable within myself 
I am so weary
so very, very weary
of putting my heart back on the shelf
 
Tired 
        tired tired
Weary 
        weary weary
 
I open my eyes 
stifle a yawn
allow my heart to take some chances
Some friendly hugs
Some cheeky words
Some flirty engaging glances
 
Still 
      so tired,
and so weary 
               I am
 
Yet I know, 
with a smile
a verse
a stream of thought,
a nice coffee
under the sun

I’ll awaken from dreams
and all I have lost
and slowly 
but surely discover 
my heart's still beating—
s  o        s   t    r    o   n    g


*Third piece I write with the lovely Secret Thoughts within - always great fun collaborating with her

dyed verse

comments 11
Poetry
Where is her tiny
Black dress?
The one 
She wanted to
Wear that
E v e n i n g

A dress of
Fancy,
Bitter,
Sweet and
Dark-tinged
V e r s e

Prose-dyed,
Vague-styled,
But, still,
Written with
Her,
I n   u n i s o n

Neither 
Of them
Wanting 
To die
A verse-less 
D e a t h

For this, 
They together 
Caress,
An achingly

                D a r k , 

                            —  B   o   l    d


     B   l   a   c  k

                   —  D     y    e     d


                                                    D        r         e        s       s
   
   —     V               e                r              s                e

PoemStormer

comments 9
Poetry
Fragments of deep verse
Washing ashore
Yet the lyrical tempest
Hasn’t even
S t a r t e d

In this rough and
slumbering,
Wetly dry and
Wicked,
Late summer 
of slow
w o r d s

                Wake 
                              up, 

            W o r d S t o r m e r

Have you ever
dreamed of
such a late,
And furious,

Timeless,
Fateful,
Somber,

Fearsome,
Word
S t o r m ?

             Wake 
                           up, 

         W o r d S t o r m e r

Sedimented stanzas
Washing ashore
Yet the lyrical tempest
Hasn’t even
S t a r t e d

Far removed 
from Self,
Far removed
From Other,
Far removed 
from
Poets—
Far removed—
Smothered

In this rough,
slumbering,
Wetly dry and
Wicked,
Late summer 
Of slow
w o r d s

        Wake 
                     up, 

     P o e m S t o r m e r