In bed, half asleep
I listen to you moving
“to and fro”around.
Hardly Poetic
Hardly the Grace of Gesture
or is it the gesture of grace?

They are rhythms, and yours:
Clean, efficient, with a style
I’ve come to recognize

They Move Me More Than The Sound Of Many Poems.



I ran across this in a folder of poems, and I honestly cannot recall if I wrote this or not…I always include info about the author as a footnote when I save someone else’s poem, and I did not with this one…and yet I just do not think I wrote this.  It is in my style, yes, but some of the words are words that surprise me…but then again that often happens to me.

At any rate, this poem is about me and my inner woman who longs to be set free…and also about my inner eternal self, encased in this carnal cap waiting to manifest the metamorphaeo that is ongoing, and soon to show forth.


She is more
Than the
Chrysós of
Her word shaped

Swivel behind
Each syllable
And feel the
Moving segments
As she atones?

Is she soundless?
In her Chrysallís
Or simply
“along with,”

She is mine… not mine
She is pupa to imago
In each split-second
I wrestle with her between
Each wing expansion
Sharing the veins
Of Pure (H)ellenian