A Waterfall

Through rocking movements on the bed,

I discern that you move, down and down

And down again. An immense pleasure,

A thirst unknown before, quenched,

Quenched well in every drop you make.

The valley that parts and in parts, bliss,

Wave upon wave of which sweeps over me,

The peaks that rise with every fall,

Oh ,what will I not give, to live under those sheets,

The curtain, as it may seem, that covers your chastitiy?

A plunge, a chill down my spine as it happens,

I’m one with you, no more shall playing help.

Hot and cold, cold or hot, thermal determination off for a toss.

And with it goes the other determination too,

No match for the allure of pleasure, albeit painful.

Your flowing arms embrace me, in a frenzy that knows no bounds,

You pour yourself, slithering serpentinely, wrapping me around,

The fiery cobra in heat, engaged in a sensuous dance.

Short of breath, yet not of carnal bliss, I keep coming up for air,

Alluring although elusive is your aroma, that keeps taking me deeper.

But where lies the source of all bliss, whither thy spot?

“Go deeper, go harder”, you tell me,

So I dive, headlong, into caverns of carnal paradise

More and more of your essence runs through me,

Cooling my steamy loins, and the heat in me,

More of you I relish, you, Nature’s favorite daughter,

More and more, until there’s more of you and no more of me.

Losing to you, losing myself in you was the best victory I’ve had.

And I shall lose, lose more, until I’m no more me.

Until you the chalice I drink from, shall let me pass

Shall let me pause, on her sacred cradle, on the bed of Creation.

Thanks and Sorry Pablo Neruda

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
Muttering as it traipses through streets, long reserved,
Long abandoned by all those but rain bathers.
Chiding dirty children on the streets, born out of dirtier streets,
Chasing the cats and dogs it rains as, into curling about the chimneys.
Dark alleys, shady avenues, and underground sewers,
The long fingers extend far down the smoke screen,
Arousing suppressed emotions in clouds that smell of mud,
Reeking of tunes composed on a violin long turned to dust.
The lover, on his lonesome loiter, and the loner, loving his litter,
Does rain sing to each one, his song of choice, as on a TV show?
A baritone, a treble, more often a chorus or a cacophony,
Playing keys of phony arguments of a couple, no more husband and wife,
Meandering through the warped arguments of family long dead,
Gentle goodbyes to lovers of hate, drenching Cupid’s mates.
Upon concrete roofs, confused thoughts, and con jobs,
Upon dilettantes, and dabblers and dilemmaic thinkers,
Does rain fall alike on each of them to add or lose itself?
In what language does it talk to those it despises?
In my tongue, does it? Waiting always, with a wicked comeback,
But never the heart to hurt a horde of hard hearts?
Are tongues corrupted by a stray word, spoken in disgust?
Are words swappable, by tongues kissing in unison?
Does rain corrupt and swap as it speaks and kisses, if so in what tongues?
Lost out at sea, rain falling from clouds and rising from the waters,
Looking out for its loved ones, does it ever share a compass with a traveller?
Singing in glee at discovery of an unknown composer in a shoe store,
Does rain take away the sorrows of the statue it erodes?
Does it offer a word of comfort to those sleeping
Under epitaphs that talk about all that they should’ve done but didn’t?
What final words did rain have for the crying baby it smothered gently?
A mother to quench her thirst, a brother in playful company,
A soulmate by the bedside as it finally convinced her,
That it was tender than life would be on the fragile heart.