Burning Certainty

this is no whim,
no ‘what if’,
no passing role they are playing,
it is their foundation,
their brick and mortar

he is the fire
pumping through her veins

for him, she is pure energy,
eager phosphorous, 
aching sticks of porous pine
waiting to bend,
a book of possibility,
resting in his hands

and he hungrily strikes her,
again and again and again, 
helping her to unlock her freedom,
to savor his conviction,
allowing her to feel trepidation,  
but matching it with
the encompassing smoke of trust,
true ignition

burning certainty,
never allowing her
to fade to ash

Letting Go (limerick)

With all her heart, she wanted to trust,
To clear away the layers of dust;
Locked up behind guilt and shame,
Abandonment cruelly maimed,
To truly let go, be free, she must.

-shared in response to Mind and Life Matters limerick challenge, trust

-image found on Pinterest

His Shadow


Strong, work-hardened fingers gently move the dark brown curls away from my face, pulling it to a bunch behind my head in His fist, and resting my right cheek on the ottoman. Instinctively, my eyes turn down toward Him as he speaks, kneeling behind me. “Watch My shadow,” He commands lovingly, His open palm pinning my head in it’s position.

Illuminating the room, the light seeps through the crack in the laundry room door, just bright enough. My eyes do see. They see the silhouette of a man, it seems.

Against His palm, my jaw opens in an involuntary inhaled breath, as my eyes watch that Shadow’s hips plunge forward, impaling me, reaching my end with one deliberately slow thrust. Then, it pauses.

Do you like that?,” I hear, in my Sir’s voice. “Yes, Sir,” I reply, breathy with desire. “Tell me you want more,” that same compassionately stern voice demands of me. And I tell him. I tell His voice I want more. And more. Oh, please.

Keep your eyes open and watch My shadow,” my Sir’s voice directs me again, and I see the Shadow’s jaw move as He speaks.

Then, Shadow begins His dance with me. His hips move in a fierce rhythm, back and forth, as Sir’s palm continues to pin my head to the ottoman, ensuring my eyes must continue to watch. Warm, gripping fingers firmly hold my hip bone at the same time, pulling me back in sync with the thrusts, quick and deep. I feel every inch of Him, smooth and warm, to the end, then back again, until the ridge of His swollen head catches on my entrance, momentarily threatening to leave it’s home, then plunging forward again. A few swift swats land on both cheeks, a radiating burn on top of those stingy welts made with the crop and the snaps and slaps from the brown suede flogger.

I feel Sir’s shifting body behind me, the warmth of His skin on mine, those swats that take my pleasure to a realm I never knew was possible. Yet, all the while, it is Shadow I see, moving against me, moving in me, with me.

Sir’s hand no longer holds my head in place, but I don’t dare move it. I’m mesmerized. Hands which I know belong to my Sir hold my shoulders, His fist grips in my hair, His hands deliver strikes and His fingers dig into my flesh, gripping and pulling as He pleases. Yet it is Shadow who throws his head back, his back rhythmically arching and straightening, coiling all his strength and desire into each fluid, hungry movement.

Behind me, I hear the grunting through clenched teeth, heavy sighs and guttural breathing. I know those sounds, I’ve heard them all before, so many times. But, it is Shadow making them, my eyes can’t be deceiving me. Shadow means to consume me, I can hear it. I can feel it in the air around us.

Please, may I come for you?,” I ask, over and over again, my voice, shaky with need, pointing directly at Shadow, begging. “Yes, you may come for for me,” Sir replies, every time.

And then the awe overwhelms me. It registers in me that they are one in the same. This man I’ve loved for 23 years has transformed, his hidden, primal nature finally out in the open, in control.

Devour me,’ I think to myself, He and His Shadow hovering over me.

*Trying like hell to articulate something which feels profound as I compose a post in progress, and took a break to read and get some inspiration. Gave this one a quick face lift, thought I’d share.

-image found on Pinterest


the sweet glow of summer rests,
ripened to golden on cheeks,
as fastidious fingers tug and pull
that which is not meant 
to take root

a curious breeze blows welcomed secrets,
as deliciously sore muscles 
and hard-earned sweat 
unearth truths once hidden 
beneath the now upturned
soil and rocks

anxious leaves rustle a whispered concerto in the tree tops,
as she gathers herself in handfuls,
piece by organically grown piece,
leaving behind for fertilizer 
that which is no longer useful
above ground

and when the work for today is done,
she rests,
under the blue light of the August moon,
ready for the change a’comin’

-image credit Pinterest

Reposted today for dVerse Poets Open Link Night. Have a look!

Also shared as part of Mindlovemisery’s tale weaver #83. Check it out!

too much

taking up all the space 
a stifling flood of

too much

and not enough 

to let go

an ugly current
of auto-repeat
if I allow it

I am the nothing damn
holding back the flow
of everything 

waiting for release

-image credit newsday.co.zw


lying in wait
trapped in quivering skin,
petechiae speckled
from holding it in

prickly-thistled thoughts
and white-knuckled sheets,
as her mind replays memories
of their consumous heat

desperately, she craves,
but she dare not say,
her patience an offering;
surrendered prey 

-image credit Maria Concepcion via Flickr

Perpetual Fine-Tuning

M and I have plenty of miscommunications. Yes, still, after three years of growing thisdynamic together, and almost 23 years together. 

As the follower, I need M’s directions and expectations to be clear. I need to understand what he wants or expects from me, and I want to carry that out; I want nothing more than to please him. As the leader, he needs me to understand what he wants and carry that out. He needs me to follow without interjecting my own assumptions, rationalizations, and intentions into his directions and expectations. 

I’m not proud to say that I do that fairly often. Instead of asking clarifying questions when I don’t understand, I assume. Instead of being patient, I assume. Without a clear understanding, I assume.

M also sometimes has a difficult time being clear, communicating himself in a way I wholly understand. It’s something he freely admits. Verbal communication is something he struggles with. 

Many of our miscommunications happen because I take his initial communication at face value. I assume that no matter what, it will be carried out precisely how he vocalized it or wrote it. Except, life rarely allows for absolutes. Life doesn’t always allow for things to play out as he intended, and I may not be privy to the intentions. I only have the wording or the verbally communicated directions/instructions/expectations. And what he means and what I think he means may be two entirely different things. 

I thought that knowing M’s core intention was good enough, and to an extent it is. I KNOW he values me, he’s proven that over and over again. I trust that he never intends to hurt me. He knows those same things of me. So if something does hurt me, or hurt him, we can talk it through and move on, with no residual negativity. Unless we keep doing the things that hurt the other. Unless we’ve talked it through and talked it through, and it keeps happening. 

We both know there’s a learning curve, and that it takes communication and effort on both parts. Growth takes time. If a rule or expectation has been written or vocalized, it is M’s responsibility to vocalize why it can’t be followed through. He expects compliance from me; I expect follow through from him. If I don’t comply, I’ve communicated to him that his rule or expectations didn’t matter, that his wants/needs didn’t matter. If he doesn’t follow through, he communicates the same to me. I know that it may mean some adjustments of expectations from me, and it often does. It may mean asking clarifying questions and accepting answers, even when I don’t like or agree with them. It means accepting when something can’t or doesn’t happen, and appreciating his intentions and commitment to following through by communicating that it can’t or why it didn’t. He knows it means addressing the changes verbally on his part. It may mean that the rule or expectation needs to be revisited, rewritten, or even scrapped because it just isn’t working for us. We know these things, and we still sometimes struggle. We aren’t perfect, nor will we ever be.

We also know that it means never forgetting that forgiveness is the highest form of love and trust. It means knowing that it’s unrealistic to believe that the other is going to meet every perceived need we have in the way we envision it, and maybe it means they won’t at all, that the need is something we must meet ourselves, that we must master that on our own with loving support. 

It means listening. Really, listening. It means hearing both words AND actions. It means not being afraid to ask, share, talk. It means not being afraid to need. It means never forgetting that neither of us intends to harm the other, that love and honor are our highest priority. When we honor above all, we know we can fine-tune and continuously delve deeper to understand one another, to appreciate one another. And that’s all we’ve ever wanted.

When I Write…

I am alive when I write.

When I write, I’m a butcher. I dissect my thoughts and feelings, I carve until I pinpoint my motivations, I find my truths. 

When I write, I’m a baker. I take those dissections, those thoughts, feelings, and truths, and I whisk them together into words, into phrases, and sentences, paragraphs and stanzas. I pour my creations into forms and watch them transform. I share them with you.

When I write, I’m a candlestick maker. Whether those creations are reflections on the past, ruminations on or celebrations of the present, or hopes for the future, they are intended to be a beacon of light burning to forge the way for the future, for me and for others to follow. 

When I write, I am me. I take my essence and I weave it into words. I crack open my ribcage and invite you in. I welcome you. I need you.

When I write, I am alive. 

-image credit couldronsandcupsakes.com