Good Luck

My heart desires
A Woman who likes to play – wants
To be my boy toy

Yet isn’t a
Shrinking violet when it comes to

Ever willing to
Accept the consequences of her
Own choices

Whatever they
May be – she doesn’t hide – deals
With her pain

Refuses to blame
Me by default when she doesn’t
Get her own way

Yep my heart
Desires a real women – strong
Enough to endure

Not a spoiled brat
Far too many of today’s modern
Women chose to be

The Black Widow

She was a
Black widow spider until the
Day we met

She even tried
To kill me the first time our
Lips touched

Only to meet
Her match when she gazed
Into my eyes

Now she dances
To my tune like a puppet on
A string obeys

My commands for
Her heart, mind and soul belong
To me for all time

Or at least until
My heart grows weary of her
Seeks our another

Then she’ll become
Just another memory – one more
Trophy on my shelf


Before her
Mirror she gently brushed
Her hair

Quite unaware
That she was being observed
By a pair of eyes

Until around
Her waist a pair of unseen
Arms slipped

Her smouldering
Passions stoked ablaze by thumbs
She couldn’t see

The light touch
Of hungry lips upon her neck
Made her shiver

As she surrendered
Within the soft glow of Moonlight
At the witching hour

What Shall I Do?

Two little angels sitting on my shoulders.

The one on the right wears a broken halo.

The one on the left sports a pair of horns, a pointed tail and caries a pitch fork.

“Make love to her.” whispers the angel on the right.

“Throw her in quicksand!” demands the one on the left.

Now what shall I do?


Maybe I’ll do both.