Another touch. . .could mean. . .

another tickle, an itch, a bug,
a rash, a patch of thunder, a storm.
Leaves blow everywhere,
waves crash, lightening cracks.

A burst of rain breaks through,
blown by the wind in all directions.
Thunder crashes, branches fall, leaves scatter.
Torrents of rain pound the earth.

When all has been let loose, the storm loses
force, slows down and tapers off.
A tired, gray drizzle drips.

Fantasy of Calm

Writhing, stormy body, wracked with struggle,
please stop.
Sensitive body, sore and tired, can I soothe you?
Can I soften your energy, your soul, with a
gentle stroke of my hand on your cheek or a
loving touch on your shoulder?
Can I draw off the storm and leave you with peace?
Just a few moments of calm?

If I stroked away the tension, could you stay
let go?...
Or would you scrunch up tight again?
If you stayed let go, could you take my touch,
my love, and the wisp of the wind?
Could you breathe slowly and deeply, letting the
waves of breath wash away any last debris?
Or would my touch feel like another tickle, an
itch, a wild storm, eating you up with its wrath?

Caught in a World of Detail

There's a wild wolf of creativity inside me
howling to be let loose,
to dance and roam free as the wind.

But she's trapped, boxed in,
penned up in a world of detail.
Torrents of words, worries,
plots and plans surround her.

She's caught in figuring and calculating,
spinning in layer on layer
of the spider's huge web.
Can't see out.
Can't get out to look in.

The spider's tentacles poke
and prod deeper, sending in messages
of problems, shoulds and have-tos,
all to trap and enslave her.

As the web spins,
it grows hard, square edges,
and the prison walls solidify.
The wolf pushes outward
against the walls turning to concrete.
"Out, oouutt," she howls,
as she pants and pleads,
fighting for survival.

Cramped in. Can't breathe.
She's caught . . .
deep in a world of detail.