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December is the lastDecember is the best
Source: December – LUNA
The twisted dance of love. (written in 1988)
A Poem by Coyote Poetry
A rewrite from December, 1988.
The twisted dance of love…
I lay beside you in the night of the Germany December.
I feel the heat of tender flesh and I look into your blue eyes.
They shine like the shining night stars on a clear night.
You tell me. You are so good to me, so kind to me.
I tell you. I love you. You are my reasons to be alive.
You looked away from me and whisper. I don’t want love. Too heavy a burden to carry for me
and we are too young to lose our thoughts and hope to one place or person.
In the heat of sex, you whispered. I love you Johnnie,
but in the dance of kiss and embrace is where hungry and desperate people show appreciation
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A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Write, write and write some more. Our words will outlast our memory.
Reading and writing, like everything else, improve with practice. And, of course, if there are no young readers and writers, there will shortly be no older ones. Literacy will be dead, and democracy – which many believe goes hand in hand with it – will be dead as well.
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin…
Let me walk through the fields of paper
touching with my wand
dry stems and stunted
~Denise Levertov, “A Walk through the Notebooks”
A writer told me. You are too kind. Never a…
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I came to you with some Tennessee whiskey and a small plant with rosemary trying to grow. I sat on your porch, waiting for you. I wanted to see your morning face, drink the fresh coffee and to hear your voice again.
We were great lovers once and we faded to needed friends. You brought the coffee, wearing t-sheet and barefoot. You sat with me and I reached over and I brought your feet to my lap. I caressed them and I asked. Are you alright?
You smiled and you asked. You miss me honey? I told you many times. Always room for you in my large bed. I called you last night. You sounded somber and I heard the bar songs. Johnnie, you know I hate picked flower and I love the plant of the rosemary. You know my heart, in and out. Johnnie, we must bury…
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