Is She … ?

Is she
beyond me?
Another love refugee
from behind a veil
upon a prevailing trail
that has led her to flee?
My very being
wholly captivated
With me
will she be
totally satiated?
Is she soul free?
Is she emancipated
from the old man
of cruel slavery?

As some men are driven
striven upon the winds
of heartless tradition
and blind confusion
to take
break
and consume
the fruits of creation
Leaving only a tide high
of destruction upon the ocean
of love’s shattered reflection
A lonesome wake
For heaven’s sake
take care
Beware
Naked and exposed
That’s the risk
she should never take

As for me
is she to be
my conscience
of compassion
My soul companion
clear through
to eternity?
Across the sea
of unbridled passion
with a love
you just can’t forsake
My lucky star of destiny
Is this predestination?
A burning fusion
you just can’t fake
This deal must be real
above and beyond
a relentless lust
As my very best
is put to the test
with a thirst
busting forth
from the depth
of holy oneness
How much more
can a poor boy take?
Boby and soul
in need of rest
for survival sake

Yet the very memory
of her first touch
that killer thrill
it chills me still
Her private intensity
kept behind the lock
of a mysterious key
Will she forever be
the unraveling
of a sweet infinity
Seizing and freezing
all my uncertainty
in the unfurling
of pure ecstasy
is she …
just too much for me?
Is she …
mine to take?
I’m too far gone
It’s way too late
Under the glare
of a falling star
Heaven can wait

Words & PhotoArt:
~ David B. Redpath © 2018-19

screenshot_2017-11-27-09-58-03-01-011074945744.jpeg

I am currently a volunteer worker
for Bloggers Without Borders (BWB).
A free range anthropologist by trade,
having absconded from the talons
of the World Trade Federation (WTF).

I have transversed, in verse,
this cosmos. Monitoring the
background static, emanating
from the Big Creation.
We are all on a road to somewhere.
Rather than an arrival
of bare survival, with a whimper,
go forth boldly with a clang,
and the loud bang of a victor.

Statement of Mission;
To submit, and submit again,
to the will of the Great Spirit.
And as light through a prism,
paint a picture, and pen a poem.

MORALITY PARK

Is she
a love refugee?
From behind a veil
upon a prevailing trail
that has led her to me
My very being
captivated
With me
will she be
… satiated?
Is she soul free?
Is she emancipated
from that old man
… of slavery?

As some men
are driven
striven upon the winds
of blind confusion
to take and to break
the fruits of creation
Leaving only
a tide high
of destruction
Upon the ocean
of love’s perfection
a lonesome wake
For heaven’s sake
take care … beware
Naked and exposed
That’s the risk
she should never take

As for me …
is she to be
my conscience
of compassion
My soul companion
clear through
to eternity?
Across the sea
of unbridled passion
with a love
you just can’t forsake
My lucky star of destiny
is this predestination?
A burning fusion
you just can’t fake
This deal must be real

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46 thoughts on “Is She … ?”

  3. I think poetry from the heart is one of the best gifts of love ever, or anything created with all our hearts and for someone else. I love this, David. I know you published it a long time ago, but I just found it today.
    ♥.

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      1. It was my pleasure and I agree. Passion is the power that drives our muses. Horsepower maybe? Picturing a chariot and horses. ^_^ That vacuum though is a very scary place. *shudder* I never want to go back. ♥.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Nina.
      You’ve just reminded me;

      “Starry, starry night
      Paint your palette blue and grey
      Look out on a summer’s day
      With eyes that know
      the darkness in my soul
      Shadows on the hills
      Sketch the trees and the daffodils
      Catch the breeze
      and the winter chills
      In colors on the snowy linen land
      Now I understand
      What you tried to say to me
      And how you suffered
      for your sanity
      And how you tried to set them free
      They would not listen,
      they did not know how
      Perhaps they’ll listen now?”
      ~ Vincent, by Don McLean

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      Reply

  5. This is absolutely stunning… wow… I’m blown away.
    And that Bloggers Without Borders org sounds amazing… and so much better than WTF… and your statement of mission is just perfect… embodies how I feel about art and life…

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    Reply

      3. Bahaha lol well to each his/ her own romantic fling 😎
        Because romance is a good thing
        Yes please update me on Kamals explorations
        the stops he is taking on his life stations 🙂
        You inspire my comments with your art
        they move my heart 🙂 🙏 Hugs from Spain

        Liked by 1 person

      5. Oh, claro que si! I can do that for thee –
        have you spent much time in Spain?
        There is much joy to gain here in the
        land of ever-smiling emojis…ahem people lol.
        Buenas noches my mate, its pretty fucking late 😁 Will answer tomorrow, so dont be in sorrow 😁

        Liked by 1 person

    1. What you lose on the swings
      make up for on the roundabouts
      … I guess? 🤔

      Well, Bob Dylan is 78. I saw him
      recently in concert, and as he sang
      a few poignant words, several girls
      in the audience (girl = as in under 30)
      got out of their seats and started
      waving around their hankies?
      At least they weren’t flinging panties.

      “I can dress up your wounds
      With a blood-clotted rag.
      I ain’t afraid to make love
      To a bitch or a hag.
      If you see me comin’
      and you’re standing there
      wave your handkerchief
      In the air
      I ain’t dead yet
      My bell still rings
      I keep my fingers crossed
      Like them early Roman kings.”
      ~ Bob Dylan

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      Reply

      1. Yes, my bell still rings too, but more faintly than of yore… and I’m almost free from the spells cast by bitches and hags, one of the blessings of old age… I can look and enjoy without feeling any need to touch…

        Liked by 1 person

  11. Makes more sense… that peculiar “I can dress up your wounds With a blood-clotted rag” gave me pause for thought… the associations with the Jamaican patois word ‘bloodclaat’ are too close for comfort…. I mean : dress up your wounds (what sort of ‘wounds’?) with a sanitary towel????? …

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