Tennyson says:


” Her kisses were
so close and kind,
That, trust me on my word,
Hard wood I am,
and wrinkled rind,
But yet my sap was stirr’d… “



Jack Vettriano1951Love StoryThis evening,
I’m working on getting
caught up on answering
your kind comments,
browsing my reader,
and digging through
my mailbag,

While I was away,
I started working
on a fascinating post
about something or other….

( I really don’t remember
exactly what it was,
…… but,
boy howdy, was it great.)

A ways back,
and completely
outta the blue,
a terrific WP writer
and friend of mine,
decided to distract …
I mean,
…. challenge
in an email to:

“Flex your sentimental muscle,
and write something
with emotional pathos ” —

I’m not even sure
I have any of those
kinds of muscle,

But, I had been working
on a particular piece
for many years now,
( I could never seem to finish it )
and I decided to post that –
for today’s post.

(I will admit to also
having forgotten that
April had only 30 days in it —
which explains the lack
of organization to the
Muscleheaded queue
recently ….. )

There is sorta a ‘theme’ song
that seems to go along
with this thing,
by Carlos Santana,
that I’ve always played
while working on it.

It can be found at:

I don’t know whether
I lived up to the challenge —

Y’all lemme know what you think.

( if you like it, that is…

…. otherwise, well….
feel free to keep your
comments to yourself. 😀



She could be difficult,
even when in the best of moods.

Her nature was that of a dark, brooding thunderstorm,

…like those that often s
pawned from a Caribbean hurricane.

That was what first attracted me to her.

Rain, and wind, and fire.

She didn’t have to be standing next to you,
…. for you to feel the force of her presence.

Most people ran for their lives.

Not me, though —
I needed the chaos.

And I was willing to be
washed away with her tide.

Your countenance fair,
And the fragrance of your hair

Draws me to your throat
Only then to imbibe a more elusive scent
Its influence overwhelms my patience
And I will have you, Goddess.

I don’t know what she saw in me that interested her.

But sometimes tropical storms do that–

Skipping one house,
….. and reaping unreserved destruction on the identical one right next to it.

Rain, and wind, and fire.

Even though it was against her will,
….. she slowly gave herself up to my vulnerability.

Most people couldn’t care less.

Not her, though —

She needed the adoration.

And she was willing to fill my emptiness.

Your longing betrayed
by whispered gasp,
and your fervent grasp
I am thrown, drawn, pulled apart
My body the eye, and you the storm
But I can hold you, Goddess

She whirled and throttled and howled as if possessed

But no storm can sustain itself forever —

Cooling as with the northbound tradewinds.

Detached from me, as she glided out far from land.

Her rain, wind, and fire

Now, swallowed by a more stronger, violent force

The sea still carries her voice, her face, her memory

Not us, though —

We had that moment in time.

And no other storm could thrill me alike.

I will graze long and joyful upon the nectar
Of your sweet Elysian fields
And we shall surge, roar, and pulse together –
You are ever my Diana
And I am ever your Actaeon.
Come back and do your worst.





Elizabeth Barrett Browning says:

What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.

What’s the best thing in the world?
–Something out of it, I think.

Emily Dickinson says:

I’m expecting you!
Was saying yesterday
To somebody you know
That you were due –

The frogs got
Home last Week –
Are settled,
And at work –

mostly back –
The Clover
Warm and thick –

You’ll get
My letter by
The seventeenth;
Reply Or better,

Be with me

Yours, Fly

Annie Winifred Ellerman says:


Aphrodite of the blue sleep, the bird-black sea,
I thank you that at last my body is at peace.

I toss these flowers from the flowers, your feet,
From the pear buds of your ankles,
The white hyacinths of your limbs.

The love-hour is ended.
Swallow-wings, dreams of a spiked iris,
Gipsy your eyes.

The hollows under your knees are sweet with love.
Your knees are quince-blossoms, bent back by the rain.

Blue of your eyes,
Blue of the Greek seas that has no name,
Am I lifted
To the porch of Aphrodite on your wings?