Original Photo :

I catch a scent,

That floats in the air,

The lust,

The decadence,

The yearning despair,

The sweet hint of sweat,

And dark visceral musk,

A forbidden perfume,

Yet the essence of trust,

Your breath,

Your whisper,

The tease of your touch,

All prelude the falling,

The need is too much,

Awash with the fire,

In the demons own lair,

The wait,

The want,

The almost there.



 Photo Copyright : hans van den berg


If I started to weep,

Would you ask me what’s wrong,

Would you open your arms,

 Make me feel I belong,

Would you wrap me in warmth,

And heal me with heat,

Would you kiss away tears,

Let my fears all deplete,

Would you let your hand fall,

And let it tease over skin,

Would you watch my chest rise,

Feel the hard nub within,

Would you lower your mouth,

To the bud that awaited,

And drink from the chalice,

Till your thirst had abated,

If I asked you for more,

Would you know what I need,

Would my sorrow be sated,

Would you let me concede.


You Are My Addiction


You are my drug,

My addiction of choice,

Chains of my capture,

That wrap me in vice,


You are the languor,

That seeps in my soul,

The stillness of torpor,

That takes my control,


You are the liquid,

Secreting my tongue,

The taste of elation,

The devil has spun,


You are the hunger,

My body is craving,

The bread of my being,

That feeds the enslaving,


You are my Sun,

My moon and my rain,

You are my weakness,

And I’ve no one to blame.



I’m holding on by a whisper,

To a love that I’ve barely known,

A feeling that grows as I linger,

And a sense I’m no longer alone,

There’s a touch of sinful intention,

And a breath of seductive intent,

A heat that thrives on invention,

And a flame that delivers consent,

For passion is born of belonging,

And desire is fed by assent,

Hope is ignoring the warning,

That goodbye is tomorrow’s torment.

A Truth Unheard

I have a bit of a secret passion for historical fiction and am working on something longer at the moment, an idea for a story that’s made up entirely of poems. Including  ‘Below Stairs’ written earlier,


Come in, come in and close the door over,

Do not be afraid now, just step a bit closer,

I know I can help if you would open your soul,

If you only explain, if you would tell me it all.


So come a little nearer and sit by the fire,

Raise up your head now, a little bit higher,

I see in your eyes and I can see how you feel,

I know there is more that you need to reveal.


I must ask the question and I need you to speak,

I care not for falsehood, only the truth do I seek.

Did you lie with him willingly as an act of free will,

Or did he force a surrender and bid you be still?


You ask for forgiveness but don’t tell me why,

A voice that is whispered and then you do cry.

Your hands they do knit then unfurl in your lap,

Your starched linen uniform,  your lily white cap.


I care not for tears child,  for I see no remorse,

There is no redemption, there is no recourse,

I know that I speak for the good and the true,

Why would the Master come seeking out you?


Now you must leave, this place where you grew,

Knowing your sin is a stain that runs through,

A hoar is a hoar and your shame is your own,

And pray for your own sake his seed is not sown.