Master Shaman

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I don’t know how to describe the way

you beckoned me

with the subtle gestures

of your dreaming

back to you,

back to your tribe.

I just know

that you showed up one day,

in your black pick up truck.

You came for me,

feigning shyness in such a genuine manner

that it matched my own.

I greeted you in pale pink.

You embraced me, grasped my hands in yours,

and your wrists were adorned with silver and turquoise.

Your voice was soft and worn

as an ancient whisper,

gravelly with desert sand

and the language of the mesas,

the rhythmic intonations

of your native tongue.

I was struck

with the strangeness

of how familiar you were,

even despite the fact

that I had never really known you

that well.

Yet I felt the presence of my old love

lingering inside you like a shadow.

He was there with you

even as he wasn’t.

Like a father and son,

like Er and Judah

with Tamar.

I knew

about your powers.

I knew

you could see,

with eyes of

visionary artistry,

the invisible threads,

the divine loom,

the sacred weaving

that holds this mysterious tapestry

of life

sewn together,

as I do.

In your letters,

you described to me,

with exquisite detail and accuracy,

the adornment of my own inner corridors and rooms,

the delicate landscape of my imagination.

You journeyed with me

inside that realm,

a Master Shaman.

You were an unexpected gift,

a medicine

for my heart.

I did not imagine

that my past

would return

to claim me,

that I was still

so cherished.

When you held me close,

I breathed deep

of the warm depths of my personal history,

feeling your love,

enveloping, expansive,

doubled by its hidden twin.

Like an old lover coming back for more.
Just what fits.

Counting Coup

In anticipation of Valentine’s Day, I am sharing some of my poetry that portrays different aspects of love. Yesterday’s was the lighter side of love. This one today shows a darker side. Beneath the facade of a loving relationship can simmer war-like intention and harm. Those aspects are usually relegated to the subconscious or unconscious side of our emotions, and yet they are present in a discernible way nonetheless.

eroticapoetica

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You kiss me

and our lips melt into each other like smooth wax.

Your warm spit enters my mouth like a gift,

luscious and wet.

You are inside me,

outside of me,

all over me,

the urgency of your desire

a thick veil wrapped around me.

Your wanting body

pressed flush to mine,

so hard against my softness.

We rock together in syncopation.

Our dreams complexly intertwined,

like a lattice pattern

similar to the black lace trim

lining the edges of my panties,

the boundary of which

you have pushed aside

to enter me.

You penetrate me to the depths of my being.

You touch me,

touch me

TOUCH ME

so deep…

Rolling and flowing over me in sensuous waves,

surfing and riding me,

cresting,

peaking,

you are all pulsing and fluid,

crashing

until spent,

you retreat again,

like the fading of the tide.

Then you are gone.

Again and again,

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Counting Coup

photo-99

You kiss me

and our lips melt into each other like smooth wax.

Your warm spit enters my mouth like a gift,

luscious and wet.

You are inside me,

outside of me,

all over me,

the urgency of your desire

a thick veil wrapped around me.

Your wanting body

pressed flush to mine,

so hard against my softness.

 

We rock together in syncopation.

Our dreams complexly intertwined,

like a lattice pattern

similar to the black lace trim

lining the edges of my panties,

the boundary of which

you have pushed aside

to enter me.

 

You penetrate me to the depths of my being.

You touch me,

touch me

TOUCH ME

so deep…

 

Rolling and flowing over me in sensuous waves,

surfing and riding me,

cresting,

peaking,

you are all pulsing and fluid,

crashing

until spent,

you retreat again,

like the fading of the tide.

 

Then you are gone.

 

Again and again,

you count coup on me, body and soul,

harming me with this terrible pleasure.

 

It is not possible to emerge unscathed.

 

Counting coup refers to the winning of prestige in battle by the Plains Indians of North America. Warriors won prestige by acts of bravery in the face of the enemy, and these acts could be recorded in various ways and retold as stories. Any blow struck against the enemy counted as a coup, but the most prestigious acts included touching an enemy warrior with the hand, bow, or with a coup stick then escaping unharmed. — Wikipedia