Monday, June 29, 2009

The Call of the Wile

A coy and cozy afternoon,
child-like shuttering
at Nature's peak,
clouds drift without a care
he reads... I play...
Ohhh to capture the gypsy moth-
easier to find a quad of clover... mayhaps?

A little bite to the belly
from an unknown innocent beast,
a stinging diversion...
flit snap, flit snap, flit snap...
then the wile in a drooled trance-
fingers of a leafy sunlight caress
these strangers on an old blanket.

Wiling, an extreme sport for dreamers and poets...

Later in play, entranced in entrainment
the strapping lad subdued
in lascivious snarl and knotted necktie,
we meet in gypsy moth dance
and gyrate in slow sultry intent...
film tap, film tap, film tap...
a minor key of suspended disbelief,
a sacrament of sing in a hologram
of filmy reversal.

Afterwords, the glow reverberates
in a nestled pulsing,
a hunger is satiated,
it's time to graze... can you dig it?

Hmmm, he knows I adore 
mushrooms on my pizza.


  1. Wiling, an extreme sport for dreamers and true..:)

  2. Happy Wiling to you Robert... it sets the dance of poetry in motion!

  3. Thank you for your inspiration! ;>)