Morn

Morn

His tongue in my ear,

Mornings first breath.

Fingers ripple over naked, waves

Of desperate hands all over me

Aching like cheeks pressed with wine

Savoring each sip they draw

From me. Shakespearian sonnets

And prose, so smoothly sculptured,

Metaphors pushing through

Motionless minutes, sultry soliloquy’s

Moaned over ripe lips, cherried.

He devours them.

Licking at juices

Spilt like droplets of nectar,

God blessed,

Sweet.

I sigh.

(c) A Hannan

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4 thoughts on “Morn

  1. I love your “sultry” style of writing (imagination); so vivid, so full of warmth, wine, life, and water. You cannot but feel the drizzle on your skin and face while “reading.”

    Much too much “poetry” I read is too dry for my mouth, as if they are writing mathematics. Poetry is life and life is raw, unreasoned, chaotic, but not devoid of harmony and softness…

    I like and feel your “breath.” These are but two poems I’ve read; I will be waiting for more (as a stargazer at the northern wall at the hour before dawn).

    • Poetry should be an equilibrium between thought, feeling and emotion… not a calculation of words. To me, it is an untying of the world and the process of binding that up again, harmoniously into an eloquent expression of that moment.

      You humble me with your visit and I look forward to indulging my senses amongst your verses…

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