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the bed

our bed
is a two-person island,
we are castaways
from other sides

in its center, we are lovers
making love in the art of
making war, sideless we
blend ripe juices of conquest
surrendered and satiated
like lords of the dance
far away
from mortal combat in the untamed
jungle of our bliss, ascending and

vagabonds on a caravan
searching for the holy grail
thirsty for grace

sometimes the best conversation
is made, sometimes we have
nothing to say

but sleep comes and in it we are
dreamers, embracing then
moving away, you on your edge,
me on mine,

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 


Ha! I awakened with a poem about our bed and wrote line after line in my head, too lazy to get up and write the words down, I remembered the gist of it this morning-- probably nothing like the original though it'll have to do for now.



author comment


A dim recollection of a dream-poem, and it reads better than most carefully thought-out efforts.
Most excellent.

Respectfully, Jim

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