The Answer

there – the whisper
calling her name
there is the silence,
no need to explain.
there’s the faith
she felt deep inside
there is the answer,
she knew she’d find.

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Essence of Her

she covers herself in blankets her Mamma made whether twenty years ago
or just last week

the thought of safety comforts me

every morning there’s a whistle at eight o’clock sharp
in this town where she
was raised

the example of reliability soothes me

And then, just like that

there’s a ceiling fan she cannot figure out how to shut off
its a reminder of her inability
while in the bedroom

criticism flows far too easily for me

stepping out into the world with nature surrounding her senses
there’s a peace released
acceptance implied

worthiness arrives to remind me

Onward

gripping flocculent monochrome thoughts
like grass tuffs in summer
now willing their release,
i know not what will become of me.

coolness of springtime
wearing off inside my palms,
as deep down the warmth of earth corrects right side,
my defeated revered thumbs.

dark corners of the woodlands
beckon hither
my soul hinged upon true light,
sprites leading in delicate whisper
don’t go for fear of what might…

chase winter with abandon,
fragile heart,
much yet to be loved
like melodic hums chasing snowflakes on tips of tongues.

so come old man winter
blazing frosted cool crisp air,
however I am treasured,
stripped tree my protector,
expose of me what you dare.

Exposed

She’ll wonder how

Many hairs are grey

If your heartbeat

Feels the same.

Consider the new

Wrinkle by her eye,

And which stress

It was cause by.

Crisp morning air 

Will cause her 

Red curls to dance,

Would it affect

You, by chance?

First blush will arise

Around her,

Comforts of home:

Ground, she clings to.

Simple house shoes, worn

Her toes content

Ankles exposed.

Behind fawn wool,

A woman’s desire shown.

Frozen concrete steps

She sits upon gracefully

Allows for silence,

Awakening a quiet

Reflective dawn;

Her serenity.

Each timed breath,

Causes movement

Beneath her 

Heaving breasts,

Proving control:

A lady’s weakness.

Yet you’re aware,

Her day has begun

And still,

She’ll want, require

The comfort

Of you,

Her Eastern Sun.

I Offered Myself To You

Thoughtful and creative words
Full of thankfulness,
Reflect me, as a woman
Appreciative of being heard.

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These gifts
Are nothing in comparison
To my submission
As I offered myself to you.

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I waited a long time to be seen
Through your poetic eyes
Read my poetry, and find clearly
I felt you long before you arrived.

***
Thank you for listening,
Aud

Here

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All I keep thinking
is I took you home with me,
from here: my world.
Inside me,
there is a rhythm,
a melody and a presence
I recognize.
Weakening into a strength,
inside this cool air,
allowed me
to breathe, to feel
and be myself.
The quietness,
awakening my core
as I heard the sound of love;
pure devotion, nothing more.
I keep this spirit,
this lead, and confidence,
close.
You’re thriving,
more than simply alive
behind my breasts.
You’re beating continuously,
effortlessly wild,
yet, this isn’t enough.
I belong with you, here.

I’m Not An Italian Poetess

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Typical Monday, it seems. Tried making lunch, while writing my feelings. Epic fail ensues, as thoughts continue to pursue my mind. Forcing me so easily to forget the time.

Poet’s are always lyrical, definitely this one, it seems. I can’t get past writing this as poetry. Stick a knife in my side. Please, won’t you abide? My friends, don’t write and bake, unless burned pizza is all you’re willing to take. My wishes sincere, once again, don’t do both while planning to eat, you won’t win.

Thankful I have a few other attributes that keep you coming around. Like maybe my smile or even my frowns. Tears shower plenty upon these walls, oh God, stop her before she continues to pitfall.

Laughter begins, oh look, a grin! Yep, tis possible, she’s drunk again. No, my friends, it isn’t so. I’m just handling a Monday, so far as this one goes…

Loyal followers, stay with me, please. This is only going to hurt for a minute. Slap happy grins is how I’ll spin it, you’ll see.

***
She’ll never be an Italian chef
and poetess, too
just look at what
wandering thoughts
can do…

Writer’s multitasking summer,
kitchen’s a wreck,
lovely ideas interrupt
baking, for endless possibilities,
if only I would’ve stopped to check…

This homemade pizza now crisp
and slightly burned, tis true
thankful, in the end
this treat,
is simply a vessel for brew…

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I should go back into the Houston sun. It’s just delightfully hot and humid here. Yeah, I know, I’m almost done. The end is near…

Yours,
Audrey

On Her Own

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Watching,
her flourish,
pink, shy blossoms,
all on her own.
anticipating,
an open view,
settling,
on a front row seat,
through slats of a fence.
longing to touch,
desiring,
a position at her attempt,
yet, you’ve refrained.
seeing her beauty unfold,
with the rhythm of yours,
acceptable,
this morning.
for I see the hesitation,
feel the need,
and witness the control,
you have within yourself,
to let her approach,
innocently.
knowing,
eventually a fragrance will,
settle upon your face,
and you will breathe again,
as the sigh of her submission,
honors you.