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she writhes beneath words he writes upon glistening skin with blazing kisses ----- her desires flowing sacred moisture becomes ink... passionate poems ----- the sun and i see all the secrets you have bared... craving our hot breath ----- on the poet's words she's soars to another plane where only love rules ----- poet writes of her in a way she's immortal... living in his words ----- an ache he can feel pain of his desire for her the same one she feels ----- already in hell where would my damned soul go... if i should lose you ----- first a rising spring she then becomes a torrent passion's flood unleashed ----- so long were hidden sinful secrets of her mind desires he desired ----- as its own penance each poem absolution for the sins i write ----- true love sees my sins understands my many flaws loves me as i am ----- one sad note echos last refrain of dying song lingering a while ----- i waited with gods patient through millennia for your gates to open ----- dare open yourself so i may touch that part of you that longs for my words ----- maybe you have heard me whispering her secret name... within my poems ----- amazing how we lost pieces from two puzzles fit so well together ----- drenched by desire's rain shaken by inner thunder aloft in ecstasy ----- • Donovan Baldwin

her body recalls as dawn dilutes last night's sins... sighs at memories • Donovan Baldwin

i watch entranced as raindrops bathe your naked skin... touch you as I would • Donovan Baldwin

I often write of sin, But then, Words have meaning, Not only dictionary, But use ordinary, To each his own Definition known, And, sin to me, Not morality, Per se, yet, Some other way, For what religions condemn, I leave up to them, But, do what you do With kindness and respect. I cannot detect, Something they call sin. Again, I say again, What should be done Alone or with someone, For pleasure is not bad If what is done or had, Is between adults, Or one adult consenting, Afterwards only lamenting, If an error in judgement made, Or some other blame laid, Yet I have no quarrel, With what some call immoral, I say enjoy love and lust, Leave the sinning to the just. • Donovan Baldwin

game of hide and seek lips and hands seeking secrets... she tries not to hide ----- first kiss is left in the open neck of her blouse... buttons come undone ----- craves his gentle touch yet open to suggestion... rough at her request ----- tending her flower fingers dividing petals... gathering nectar • Donovan Baldwin

do you wait for touch in your small bit of darkness... for first kiss first claim anticipation heightening your senses... to feel and be felt are your berries hard as pastel petals glisten... with dewdrops of desire • Donovan Baldwin

love child of beauty begotten of poet and muse... perhaps immortal • Donovan Baldwin

he was not the devil and did not lead her astray... just to freedom's edge ----- shows me her desires names me keeper of secrets... no one else may know ----- worshipper of love each human a god or goddess... my one religion ----- poet's model muse becomes a poem tonight... accedes to his love • Donovan Baldwin

I write. I write because words are there, Demanding their release from The prison of my mind. Tho' I hold them there is no doubt, That they are the ones with power, To force my hand, it might be said. I am not the author, Just the medium, Through which the words, express themselves. They desire to become thought, But, remain only words, if left alone. Only I can mold them into thought. Only the poet can make them sing, Forming their single notes into, A symphony of ideas and thoughts, Or, better yet, a picture painted with Tiny drops of...words. Then, I, the poet, write them down, Formed into thoughts which they can make, Thoughts which only I can make appear, Out of the single, simple words And so... I write. • Donovan Baldwin

I am the poet, My words, foolish, infantile, Wise, dripping with philosophy, Beating themselves, like trapped birds, Against my fingers, tap, tap, tap, Outward musting, lusting, A flight of birds, a herd, a gam, A pod, a murder, a flock, Demanding release As all wild animals do. • Donovan Baldwin

I am the quiet singer, Howler at the moon sometimes, Trusty, lusty troubadour, Balladeer without the music, Except that singing, Winging, Through my veins, Replete with your image, words, Imagined kisses and caresses, Which drive me on To do what mad enchanted Lovesick poets do. • Donovan Baldwin

I've wondered, When you are tired of me Where will I go? What will I do? Then realized reality, You know me not, And, I will but remain, Who and where I am, Writing love stories into dreams, In a land that never was. • Donovan Baldwin