Skip to main content


Tantra: The Art of Conscious Loving

Your lips soft and full
made for mine
your neck and shoulders
call out to my lips
and my touch
i love your shade
i love the brown
of your eyes and hair
your body is the perfect way
to forget yesterday
the first time i touch you
feels like the first time
i want you like im 17
your shirt rises above your head
and off your arms and falls to the ground
you reach behind you
and your bra falls away
your body perfect
not like a painting
but like a body
the greatest paintings
were made from
i dont feel any rush
i just want to
soak you in
fill my mind
with proof of God
youre standing
and your skirt
falls to the floor
your panties
high on the sides
and so sexy
your legs
small but perfect
your whole body
like a body
should look
you lie back
on the bed
and expose
me to a new
where there
are different
laws and languages
and i speak to you
in tongues
and on my
knees i pray
at your temple


  1. uh - this was hot - think i need some fresh air after reading this..beautiful words

  2. Wow...and wow again :-) Very very nice


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The 5 People Who Make Life Heaven

They listen when you need to talk Talk when you need to listen They know your darkness Let you know theirs Without judgement and expectation You can talk to them about how you see things They don't get angry or anxious when you disagree Trust you enough to say what they really think Read tweets and novels Never make you beg or grovel Won't allow it Remind you that you're better than that Lay some of their burden on you Let you behind their wall Feel welcome behind yours You feel each other with heart and mind Even if you don't explain yourself  They get you You get them These are the ones that make life worth living Make you love to be alive Reflect you to you Teach and learn Some days the lead singer Some days the band These are the ones You can count on one hand (c) Ron Kennedy 

Poetry Tree

I saw no birds grieve No fallen leaves No branches on the ground None made a sound It wasn’t rotten It didn’t die in a storm Capitalism came In its progress form To take one of my last  Best refuges from me I may be the only one who noticed The death of my poetry tree.


Photo by  Gustavo Spindula  on  Unsplash Sometimes I check my neck to see if it’s still Half red, half dirty and half um Andrew, I’m still gonna need some Help with that Math We live in an era where Before you even speak an opinion You might be attacked For what you have Or don’t How you look What you might say How you act Who you love Where you live That you give a damn about facts That you empathize with those cast As villains in the common narrative Or even that you don’t naturally fall in line Being of your own mind Self-educated Self meditated Spiritually in moments sublime I lay on my back & count the stars listening to For Now Thinking on philosophies that rhyme Alone & feeling fine.