She Wants

Before our eyes and hearts and feels… get into what “She Wants”, I wish to inform everyone that I have updated my cyber-home’s Privacy Policy, to be compliant with the GDPR. After delighting in what “She Wants” (yes… I, too, have noticed that I truly enjoy typing the words “She Wants” *cough*), follow this link if you wish to read the Privacy Policy in all its slightly tiresome glory.


“She Wants”

She loves him best
while asleep.

In love, obsession
grows out of want
improperly sated.

She wants
filled by lust
out of him
into her.

Her nights are made
of his lips on her hip.

In dreams,
he feels her

She knows dreams best
but prefers him
awake… in her dreams.


in her description of this painting, Shelle said, “fairies are born of belief, and die through neglect…” I’m sharing the piece because (well, I adore Shelle’s work and) believe her words are also true when it comes to dreams

linked to Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United


“The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

I woke up dream-drunk,
darling, with the taste of mud
in my mouth…

a giggle,

or, was that a cackle,
fighting for the gift of being
real, after the awakening? Not just
a memory of pine
-apple chunks and wild swallows,

but night shade(s) made flesh.

Darling, I’ve written you
alive, in ink and bone
and thoughts (no illusion).

the wee notes…
– Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, an extremely stunning Toad invited us “to write a new poem that begins with a line out of [our] own words.” I chose a bit from a blog post I published a few weeks back, “I Shall Dream You and Write You a World”, mostly because… well, I’m sort of in love with the phrase “I woke up dream-drunk”.
Nightshade: atropa belladonna; belladonna; deadly nightshade… is remedy and poison.

I just know that passion fruit flowers were grown out of a dream.

Uncaged Ready Depths

The imaginary garden feeds on reality’s rules—can’t dos and coffee for breakfast, skyclad dancing in a sweet pea patch and pineapple for lunch, three mind blushing whispers for dinner, nibbles and giggles and thirteen extra kisses for supper (since elevenses were skipped). Snack time is hammers and sugar skulls. Exquisite… but gentle! Living is a fragile thing—it can hurt, break, turn sweetest slumber to death.

While sleeping, a heart grows taller than truth and big eyes bloom into the world.

Out of her wild dream,
purple dust from red poppies
uncaged ready depths…
filling books with opiumed
tales, to be read till the end.

the (not so) wee notes…
Elevenses: if the nerdiness is strong with you, it is probable that (like moi) you learned of the elevenses through The Lord of the Rings. But guess what I found out while questing the Dark Lands of Google? Elevenses is a real thing in many places around the world. It involves foods like tea and biscuits, coffee and crackers… But “during the first decades of the 19th century [in the USA], elevenses consisted of drinking whiskey.” And here I was, thinking only Hobbits had iron hard stomachs.
– I almost titled this poem “Kubla Khan Gone Wicked for Alice” *cough… cough*.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and to Poets United.

by Robert Draves (@draves.robert)