Your Dawn Beauty Leaves Me Breathless

I woke up in your arms

surrounded by your warmth

and snuggled next to your heart.

Rain fell softly outside the window,

nearly lulling me back to sleep

and casting a pale glow across your sleep laden face.

I could hear your heartbeat

Strong and steady,

and your soft breathing

Balanced out the pattering on the windowpanes.

The early morning light dances over your

Face. The gentle curve of your cheeks,

your faintly creased brow

and slightly parted lips.

And I fall in love

all over again.

Your dawn beauty leaves me breathless.

Sleep tousled hair

And an untroubled face.

I am wonderstruck by you,

and I have not even begun to describe your 

dazzling soul.

I cup your face and your eyes open unhurriedly. 

They are full of splendor

and I am at the mercy of their opulence.


Poetry Sunday: Charlotte Brontë

Passion by Charlotte Brontë

SOME have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could I gain thy love to-night,
I’d hazard death to-morrow.

Could the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try !

Welcome nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.

Tell me, if with wandering bands
I roam full far away,
Wilt thou, to those distant lands,
In spirit ever stray ?

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid me­bid me go
Where Seik and Briton meet in war,
On Indian Sutlej’s flow.

Blood has dyed the Sutlej’s waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus’ borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go !

Though rank and high the holocaust
Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad I’d join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.

Passion’s strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like trees to tempest-strife.

If, hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside ?
Darest thou, then, my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride ?

No­my will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And love shall tame that haughty soul­
Yes­tenderest love for me.

I’ll read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.

I’d die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor wait till in the exhausted cup
Life’s dull dregs only lie.

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I’d mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge !

A Smoldering Snowflake

The chilly autumn air waxes and wanes in strength

by the slow-moving sleepy waterway. 

Gondolas float leisurely up and down the river,

leaving gentle ripples in the ever darkening surface

and making the drifting braziers nod with every undulation.

I can feel the smoldering heat from my 

seat on the cold stone banks of the river,

watching the crackling pops of wood throw sparks into the air. 

I told you then, of the scars the littered my body

of the despair and despondency that put them there,

and of the hate that nearly put an end to me.

With the most tender of touches you held my face

and caught the tears as they trailed down my cheeks.

When you held me in your arms that night,

I was surrounded by the fire of your existence

burning hotter than the flaming river,

burning brighter than the sparks that fluttered down 

to settle on our cheeks

like a red-hot snowflake’s gentle kiss.

Your lips have burnt away the fragments of those atrocious emotions,

and with fingers locked together

you made manifest the passion I thought 

I had locked away for good.

Oh how fortunate am I of all

to know you who wipes clean the slate,

remembers the marks and calls them proof of strength.

Poetry Sunday: John Donne

The Sun Rising by John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
               Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
               Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
               Late school boys and sour prentices,
         Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
         Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

               Thy beams, so reverend and strong
               Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
               If her eyes have not blinded thine,
               Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
         Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
         Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

               She’s all states, and all princes, I,
               Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
               Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
               In that the world’s contracted thus.
         Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
         To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.


How sublime is the revelation

Of one’s true self.

To feel everything and anything

without conscious thought or deliberate action.

To react on instinct, to live in the moment with certainty.




You unfastened my tense heart ridden with anxieties

and laid them all aside, and stripped my soul bare

With your trust and vulnerabilities.

I relinquished my thoughts, my concerns, my carefully laid plans

And gave myself over to the sensation of your heart

and the warmth of your mortal soul

And called myself immortal in your arms.

The Painters Envy Your Lips

You have the lips that every painter envies

the perfect shape 

for the gentle sweep of the 

feather light brush.

Crimson pigments could not do justice

to your kiss-stained lips.

Their color when your eyes

are still half closed with bliss

Eclipse the bricks of Boston

the cherry red wine

And the cardinals of winter.

A slight rift appears

giving away an intoxicating whisper

Of your breath

Of words spoken to my ears alone,

and those that never need be uttered.

Those are the words I read in your azure eyes

In the curve of your lips,

In the shudder of your breath.

I am conquorered by your splendor

and my artists eyes could not resist, 

And so willingly I go

As a captive of your lips.