Poppy Fields

I beg to be naked in a field of fresh poppies,
to dance vibrantly with their aching blooms,
teasing arching backs and blushing red tender buds,
the wind pulling at the hairs deep under the skin of our knuckles,
at the back of our knees, by the nape of our neck,
letting lustful rapture take over,

sparkling rain melting away unpleasant icy residues,
tingeing sweet poppies with a blissful slick moisture
as Adam and Eve expose a bereft heaven,
trickling down our bodies, stroking our primed skin,
enlightening our sense of human touch and we are
wanting, needing and desiring that earthly dance.

Oh poppy beds water your passionate embrace on me,
Show me true pleasure like never before as
the natural earth stands over as voyeur,
watching, waiting until our sin is satisfied
as we dance and lay in poppy fields.

The Writer

A multitude of fragmentary ramblings
Lay scattered on my broken desk
And scribble’s on my soiled notebook.

I’m waiting for that something, that
Divine inspiration
That will seize my fettered plume

And lead it around these barren sheets
With chronicles of war, despondency and lust,
Sweet melodies of adoration, camaraderie

And the rust that lies beneath our lives.
I’m waiting again for the highest order,
Those writers in residence

To scrutinize my works, in suspense
Restless, how much will they abhor?
Perhaps they wont see how I’m swindling

This literary world,
How my verbal skills don’t actually belong to me
Or maybe I’ll be heralded amongst those

Who are indisputably gifted with
Celestial powers of poetic creation
Close to God and closer to those

Who are truly commendable
Or maybe I’ll wake from this lucid dream and
Realise that all I write is stuck beneath my eyelids.