Ravensong Poetry And Writing Blog by Donovan Baldwin

By Donovan Baldwin

body full of love
she dances to ancient tunes
carnal melodies

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our words wrapped round us
we become old poetry
read by young lovers

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There were times and places,
Moments of mad exhilaration,
Headlong slides downward,
Into deep black depression,
Yet, soldiering on, I moved,
One step at a time into,
This future me that I have
Become, made by myself
And those deadly things
Nietzsche warned about,
Which could not kill me.

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to hear wind and rain
the timpani of the storm
playing percussion

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words pressed to bosom
she speaks back to me with looks
that tell me she knows

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glimmering pearl beads
resting on her rising breasts
inviting my gaze

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my thoughts are of you
even though so far away
your caressing words

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we shocking lovers
innocently indecent
affectionate lust

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dance with me once more
our warm bodies tightly joined
feet barely moving

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Poetry copyright 2020 by Donovan Baldwin
Art: The Muse Terpsichore by Johann Heinrich Tischbein

Labels: bosom, caressing words, carnal notes, dance, dancer, donovan baldwin, haiku, mad exhilaration, old poetry, poems, poetry, wind and rain, young lovers

By Donovan Baldwin
Her bosom heaving from the climb,
Up the hill of winds, or,
From the crushing embrace
Of her lover emerging from
The mist of the woods into
The light upon the heath,
To take her in his arms
Parting the reeds of the pool
To drink the waters of love,
Until all is silent and
They rest in joined slumber.

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i write poetry
caresses meant for your heart
touching more than flesh

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my love a blanket
comforting not smothering
you wrap yourself in

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hands do more than feel
they trace runes upon our skin
rituals of lust

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My mind is restless,
And cannot settle.
It drags me from novel,
To poetry,
Philosophy and essay,
Back again to
Medieval plots,
The love affairs of kings,
And murders by monks.
My mind,
Restless,
In search of
Its own words.

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I remember the shore,
The sea, listening to
The high wind which
Blows in from
Somewhere,
With a story it
Might be trying to tell me...
Or, am I making up
A fable of my own,
From a hundred books,
Innumerable imaginings
Woven
From sun, and sand, and sea,
And the unceasing voices
I hear in the wind?

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Copyright March 2020 by Donovan Baldwin

Labels: bosom, donovan baldwin, love, lust, poems, poetry, skin, words