Again

I want to kiss the words from your mouth

my poet,

pierce the crease of imagination

my artist,

slip past timid inhibition, releasing

through each famished pore

as much, or more

as I empty this brush over and over,

slowly…

quickly, rhythm and stroke.

Squeeze me, mold me -

slender fingers long with lust

hold me.

I will ooze through your eyes and

over nipples polished slick,

rich and thick with the scent of warm clay,

oils congealing on neck and chin.

Lift your slender arms again,

my easel,

spread your fingers,

hold my chest, a taut canvas,

press your pink into my skin,

and when we are done,

I will hang limp, lifeless, still

in some gallery.

But soon, desire wakens…

I want to kiss the words from your mouth

my poet,

again.

end/michael

Hidden in the Dharma

A bus ride with an annotated copy of the Bhagavad Gita,

sunny window seat, I continue my tidy

journey to enlightenment…

I am a student of Myth, the disciple of Books,

the Vicar of Psyche,

greedy for education, for you see

my Dharma is squeezed from cold ink.

But today Krishna met me on the icy field of Kurukseattle,

stranding me between duplicity and truth.

Today I was caught in the tug of ambivalence,

as a woman wandered onto the bus.

Some invisible thread needled us together

as she nodded under a newly inhaled spell,

reeking of an unwashed and over-lived life.

She had mastered the art of sleep-sitting in Metroblivion,

freed from the cold slap of perception.

Some part of me wept for her vacancy,

yet I also envied her successful postponement of consciousness

                         for one more day –

She lifted her slow-motion gaze in my direction,

unblinking, looking beyond my transient mental meditation,

cupped her dirty palm and caught a tender cough,

then rose like a crashing Phoenix,

unfurled her stench and stumbled off the bus.

I watched her drag aimless boots across some train tracks,

her filthy fingers plucked a needle from a sack.

Krishna whispered, "Pay attention, consciousness

always slips up on one like uninvited love."

As the growling bus lurched from the curb

I watched her thread the needle with a slender vein,

together we straddled the seat of time

and pedaled in reverse. I saw her story:

A little baby shed her mother's womb,

slipped unseen into a filthy bed,

stripped of possibility -

the  placenta was insignificant,

she was the afterbirth...

aborted before she took her first breath.

Sad to watch a womb become the grave

before she even had a name.

I reached into my bag for another book

to ice my concern in flakes of inky snow,

oh these words,

so much cleaner than living.

end/michael bogar

Desire is No Sin

Veiled in silk,

she slips into my room,

drifting opalescence,

to the verge of my bed,

ethereal epiphany...

I whisper,

“Please, come sit next to me”.

Innocent, mysterious,

she settles lightly by my side,

eyes reflecting the candle on the nightstand,

a ribbon of shimmering crimson

forms a demure smile

tethering my gaze to her radiance.

I am captive as her eyes prowl,

not content,

need bringing shortness of breath.

The mystery of longing intrigues me.

Her Catholic-curious voice whispers:

“Did you know, Saint Augustine said,

'Desire was a sin?'”

She is somber.

I inquire,

“Yes, and?”

Her kiss

       like a snowflake

                 floats

                        softly

                                to                 

                                   my

                                        mouth...

.

I catch it, let it melt,

feel the moisture, sensual texture,

collect the sweetness with my tongue.

Then, her touch, a single slender finger

drawn along my cheek,

along the rim of my ear lobe,

etching her name leisurely,

carefully across the curve of my neck,

shoulder and firm bicep.

She fans her fingers,

strokes my chest, grazing each nipple,

her palm brushing dark hair,

pressing firmly into the muscle beneath.

She speaks,

“I love to touch your strength."

With an open hand I draw her hair back

unveiling an iridescent smile,

engage her eyes, softly

compress the delicate strands in my fist

and draw her gently toward my awe.

Connecting body to mind, soul to kiss…

her spontaneous confession spills forth,

“I desire you”,

her serious eyes stab the candle light

and she continues,

“But what if my passion is a sin against God?”

Cautiously I respond,

“Lover, what if your passion Is God?”

end/michael

Clepsydra

[NOTE: A clepsydra was an ancient device made of wooden

bowls with holes placed in water and used in the ancient Greek

temples/brothels of Aphrodite to keep time.]

  

Pale Hellenic beauty veiling

her ashen soul, lolling in licentious gaze

through almond eyes of coal.

Raven hair splayed on an ivory pillow,

through a scarlet mouth she hums

my name as softly as Luna's glow.

Reclining under silken sheets

partially concealing small round breasts,

she smiled--genuinely or submissively?

I hungered, then anxiously ate

the wild grapes, dried dates and

licked the honey from her breath.

Aphrodisiacs each, these treats

peddled by salvation-vendors

on the Corinthian agora.

Her waist, lean as the oblique Peloponnese

called my nomadic palms

to a supple Grecian feast.

Yes, you are the Goddess of love,

dissolving the faith of once strong men.

Moans, frankincense and pulse mingled

in a swirling coil above her altar,

gathering like an amorphous cloud

beneath the chiffon canopy.

I gave only adoration to this Cyprian deity,

aflame with approval. It wasn’t long before she exhaled

her musky oracle, and the scent signaled the Gods.

Her  hollow chalice was filling, yet forever

releasing endless libations. Insatiably I sipped

from her salacious Grail, preferring pleasure

to the celibate grace proffered at the Basilica.

Then, the clepsydra dropped, as did my soul.

Time completed, communion consumed,

my countenance now ashen as hers.

I had entered a finite man,

and now knew the desire for the Eternal.

end/Michael Bogar

Autumn Lovers

It’ early morning and the blue Autumn sky,

           Smudged with a chalky red,

Fills my window like a painters canvas,

           Spilling onto my sleepy bed.

In that sweet rosy light of early dawn,

           Lying behind you I stare,

An ivory round shoulder rising before me,

           Draped in tangles of hair.

Nestled into my cottony pillow,

           I trace the arc of your spine,

Vanishing neath the heavy wool quilt,

           Concealing all that is mine.

A half empty goblet of Burgundy wine,

           Sits on the window sill,

Reminder of the love we imbibed,

           Until we had taken our fill.

I study the skin I so long to touch,

           Leaning forward, unable to resist,

Placing in the middle of your silky smooth  back,

           A soft and gentle kiss.

You stir a bit under my lips,

           As I taste you, smooth as cream,

I want so badly to open the door of

           Your current secret dream.

Lingering there I breath you in,

           Feel my soul join with the sun,

Rising to the heights of heaven above,

           Feeling infinitely young.

          

Suddenly, some discourteous crow,

           Screams from his tented tree,

His rude good morning makes you stir

           Cuddling back, and into me.

My right hand glides along your waist

           And gradually comes to rest,

Slowly sliding along smooth skin,

           Cupping your warm round breast.

Indescribable comfort fills me there

           As I pull you closer to me,

Folded together like two rose blossoms,

           My crease tucked behind your knees.

"Good morning lover, you feel so good,"

           You lean and kiss my hand.

"I love the way you press against me,

           The texture of a man."

Inconsiderate crow squawks once more,

           We shift and join our eyes,

I touch each breast with a moistened kiss

           And feel your nipples rise.

Reaching down, you feel me growing and

           Caress me with gentle strokes,

If you only knew the inexplicable bliss your

           Slender hand evokes.

Our kisses and touches on that Autumn morn

           Fell like the floating leaves,

At the right moment, we were both ready,

           I slipped into you with ease.

The wool quilt fell from the trembling bed,

           Delicious sounds escaped our lips,

You held my shoulders and kissed my neck as

           I pressed deeper between your hips.

Possessed by a madness, we wrestled as one

           By that window filled with light,

Rising and falling, then coming together as

           We had on the previous night.

"My God, this never grows old," I whisper,

           "Always something new".

"Let me feel your weight," you purr in response    

           As I collapse on top of you.

It's still early morning, the blue Autumn sky yet

           Smudged with a chalky red,

Filling our window like a painter's canvas,

           spilling onto our loving bed.

Michael Bogar