Her breasts bounce
in step with each
step on the step
master they bounce,

Like over-filled
water balloons
on a string, they
bounce.

Sweat drips slowly
between her crevasse

We lick our lips
like on a hot summer
day, standing before
a merchant’s stall
of freshly cut water
melons, full of thirst

She steps.

Process notes: I was looking for inspiration this morning.  I saw the word desire and thought why not write a series of poems about our base emotions.  Leaning back in my chair, I started to day dream about desire and immediately I thought about the lady I saw in the gym the other day working out on the cross trainer.  She was wearing a very low-cut white tank top that concealed very little.  Now I would be less than truthful if I said I didn’t steal a peak like every other guy that was there at the time.

It isn’t nice
to be naked.
Two live wires,

hot, exposed,

to dangerous
to touch together
under the night sky.

Dark, unyielding,
no moon to light
the way toward
salvation and bliss.

A kiss delivered
on velvet lips
awaiting the
morning dew

to deliver parched
lips from a thousand
nights of thirst.

Process notes: I wrote this piece after reading a poem by Langston Hughes called March Moon.  In it, the moon is naked after having been undressed by the wind.  Hughes ends the poem with a question:

Don’t you know
It isn’t nice to be naked?

I turned the question into a statement.  This made me think about how some people are ashamed to be naked and prefer to hide their nakedness from their lover under the cover of darkness or dimmed lights.

P.S.  I picked up the idea of adding a short commentary behind the inspiration of my poems from Dana Guthrie Martin over at her blog My Gorgeous Somewhere. Thanks Dana.

Thomas Moreton said that there was no point in keeping a journal if your life didn’t change significantly each day. Well trying to write this journal daily highlights the fact that on a day to day basis my life is pretty much the same or maybe I am just not attentive enough to the details of daily life. My dreams were interesting last night. I dreamt of sex, of chopping a python in half, of friends moving to northern italy and me being envious of their move, and of our white kitten headless.

III.  in search of peace

I searched for peace
but could not find her
on the troubled city streets

I climbed a mountain seeking
peace in the clouds, but saw only
gun-smoke rising from heated barrels

I listened by a babbling brook for
peace’s soothing song, but heard only
the drowning voices of the thirsty cry

I sort solace in the desert sands
but found only the broken bodies of
those who died for the promise of peace

I hid in the jungle seeking peace amongst
the humid leaves, but found only the guerrillas
in the mist fighting for freedom, not peace

And now I lay my head down to sleep
and pray to God my soul finds peace
if not here, then somewhere beyond the grave

I know this guy who is wandering lost in the modern world.  He has desires.  He has dreams but his dreams fall victim to the noise of every day life, drowned out in the din.  I’m trying to find my way through to  his-story.  I think it is a search for identity story, a love story, a story of redemption and absolution.

He has spent many years wandering in the desert chasing one mirage after another.  He is tired of chasing mirages.  He wants something real to hold on to in this world. He can’t wait for the afterlife to claim his prize. They call him a seeker.  The Who wrote a song about him. Most of the time he has no idea what he is searching for.  Is it peace?  Happiness?  Love? Purpose? Meaning?  The subject changes as often as he changes his underwear.  And he has been known to change underwear at least twice a day.

I’m not sure if he will ever find what he is looking for.  How sad to have to search for something and never find it.