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Circular steps advancing to the threshold
the curved cliff-face,
the lee shielding the soft flesh of the hill.
Waves caught in permanent stasis
never rocking that rounded sail on the horizon.

A softness that bites my lower lip,
caressing my chin
dancing down the curve of my throat,
where you rest between my breasts
sparking excitement, a loving challenge,

Purple echos on an upper arm
in prints that sculpt a loathing
for your unyielding flesh
her fear
of what is so perfectly you. 

A Lesson in Poetry for Those Without a Degree in Creative Writing

(Or those who are not currently finishing their Creative Writing degree)

When  readers of my work are those who know me personally or have met me, they tend to confuse certain poetical or fictional elements. Readers who know the author often place themselves within the work or take it on a personal level. Poetry especially needs to be broken down: there is an author, a speaker, and there are objects, situations, or persons that the poem is revolved around. Specifically, the author and the speaker within a poem needs to be seen for what they are: different and separate entities. The author is writing with a voice of someone, or something, in a certain situation. Poetry and fiction are about imagination. Unless those people or places are specifically named, using proper nouns, they are applicable to almost anything.

I know my mother often looks at my poems and exclaims, "Oh dear, that's about me". I may have gotten my ideas for a character from her, from someone else's mother, or from bits and pieces of different random people that I have encountered, or perhaps solely from the imagination. Even if the title says something like: "Ode to My Mother," I could be taking the view of someone else writing to their mother - an egg hatching, for instance; or perhaps even a poem addressing its "mother"which is a pen. These are just examples, but apply to practically all poetry or fiction. Edgar Allen Poe did not, in fact, kill his neighbor and hear the dead heart beating under the floorboards; Poe is the author, the speaker committed murder.

I apologize for this little rant, but hopefully this helped some people who were very confused or perhaps just did not take a poetry class. 

Tired Swinging

Spinning, Whirling

Joining of skin - like rubber

And pavement

Newly scented tread soon

Gives way to beaten black.

Whirling faster

Touching…pulling away

Half of me then

Whole of me

Halfofmewholeofme

Parting, never going back

Quite that way.

Removed

Discarded

Alone…until

we play

And I again am whirling in the wind.

Then forgotten again,

Grass curling through

Around me and I am becoming

Part of the ground

Deflated and curled in a ball

Pillow soaked

Tears still flowing

I could sink – become rolled in this bed.

Until lips find me

Lips and teeth

Leave this mark on me

Leave me dizzy

In this jealous battering

Of love?

Like?

Spinning, twirling

Tossed in the air

Waiting for the hard ground.

(still in the editing process, so please comment and contribute ideas/criticism)