The rolling waves
sometimes quiet sometimes roaring
like the pleasure in my belly
Your hands are soft like the sea breeze
sweeping through my growing sensitivity
Your caress stirs my desire
The millennium longing lips searching for answers
Singing ancient primal tunes to your being
Gearing to the rhythm of clockwork
Dripping sweat melts into the salty sea
The moonlight reflects the burning amber
The trembling bodies convey consuming current
unreserved offer and acceptance
back and forth
back and forth
like waves crashing the rocks
broken in splendidness
rebirth in harmony
A picture says a thousand words
This kind of love
( image from psychologytoday.com )
I could be satisfied with only you
I could say once in a life time
I could allow you to touch my heart
I could tell you ‘you are my world’
I could sleep sweet by your side
I could bundle all my disappointment
I could let it burn in our passion
I could be all in one
( Image from tinybuddha.com )
Violet comes in many shades
Accustomed to how black I feel today
Letting perfect to be its own play
Enter the stage is trespassing
Nothing in life is perfect
Time is certainly becoming my witness
In the remote distance you are my perfection
No smell, no touch, no taste
Euphoria is where wild imagination stays
What time is it in Texas?
Why in that order?
not a conformer
nor a rebel
just quirky a little
What time is it down under?
half of the halves
( Image from buildingbeautifulsouls.com )
It has been a while
her locks are golden brown
were honey amber and chestnut.
I saw her in the mirror
contemplating her glory.
Will I defeat the fear of goth
crown her dark silky velvet?
It has been a while
She is green, indigo and violet,
was yellow and red.
I always wanted to write, always wanted to be a writer, not a published writer, but a writer who just writes.
My life so far splits half China half Australia, being first half in China, later half in Australia.
I wrote madly for 5 years in Chinese, then wrote nothing for 15 years. I started to write in English 3 months ago and I have been writing…something.
Someone asked me yesterday is writing like therapy for me. I wasn’t prepared for the question really, but I answered ‘ when I write, I am me.’ .
Only when I heard myself saying that, I realised writing is part of me. When I write, I am at ease, I feel at home. I make sense of this world and the people in it through writing.
I wrote and posted different flavoured pieces on this blog to explore my personal writing style. I continue to try writing different topics to navigate. When the direction is unclear, I let my muses and keyboard guide me.
I write when curling up in my comfortable bed, sitting in a noisy cafe, on a quiet park bench, in a squashed train carriage, on the picnic rug by the beach…and right at this moment, I am writing as I am walking in a crowded station at peak hour.
Writing is my everyday life, everything is in it and surrounding it…in this period of my life and perhaps beyond.
‘Home is where the heart is.’
Facing a raw wide open wound
I have no magic hands to heal
All that I have I give to dress the wound
in due time
it heals with its own stamina.
Flowing from a pure heart
dripping kind intended words
washing mud, dust and grime
or anything irritating, infecting or scaring
placing tender loving caring gauze
covering with a prayer of blessing
May your wound be healed
with the little persistent gesture I express
I am no nurse no carer
I am a stranger in the cyber space
Only my soul sees your pain and tear
All that I have I give to dress your wound
Cardboard head, that’s the effect you have on me
Cardboard head, that’s the outcome of your torment
The muffling in my brain
The flattening of my occipital bone
The iron board pillow
The tree bark pillow case
The coffin bed
Cardboard head, that’s the punishment you delivered
I rather you punched me in the gut
That way, at least I vomited blood
And I know I am alive.
If I were alive, I would have persecuted you
I would have revenged by snoring,
while laughing in victory.
I would have shouted…
‘Ha! I beat you Insomnia!’
( Last Kiss – painting by Leonid )
Running my finger tip from
your nose, philtrum
Landed on your lips
like a cross
zapped your urge to be funny
Sealing your lips with unspoken words
more gratifying than honey…