Celeste was, for lack of a better term, a stripper. It was how she made her living, and how she lived her life. I met her at a local bar when a bunch of buddies gathered to celebrate one of our number's imminent marriage. She and I talked, away from the crowds, and when she discovered I was a photographer, well, one thing led to another...

Celeste wasn't her real name. It was her stage name, a common thing in her line of work. It protected her, but for me, it also added the fascination of a mystery. This poem was the result of my fascination.

Oh, and incidentally, I knew Celeste for eight months before she finally revealed her real name to me.

Few would deny the inherent beauty of love. But love isn't always best described by starry eyes, red roses in Spring, and promises of forever. Sometimes, the best way to describe love is - not as a noun - but as a verb.

This poem was written to prove an erotic poem doesn't have to be pornographic.

Some people just can't get enough, what else can I say.

This poem is about dancing with a sweet lady I know.

My view on the actual act of love making has different moods, as I am sure do most. Here within these lines is one way …

A lovely and tender experience my sweetheart and I had last summer - a second honeymoon twenty-three years after the first - and infinitely sweeter!

As years go by, passion may grow in much deeper emotional ways than when we are young. Especially if we love the same person as thirty years before.

There's something about fire, rain, wine, and lovers that really connect.

This poem was written about a guy who came into my life just after I broke up with my first love. Because we started out as friends, my feelings for him developed slowly. So slowly that I didn't realize they were so strong until about a year after we met. We kissed once while were hanging out and then one day I found myself sitting in class and thinking about him. As my thoughts progressed I began to resent him for bringing out feelings in me that I promised myself I wouldn't allow to happen for a long time. Then, I realized he did me favor by allowing me to have feelings again. And by end of the class I had written this poem.

This poem was written about the actual act of making love, and although it is fairly ambiguous, this seems obvious. It is really just a poem about a perfect time and the title just came to me as I wrote it. I write all poems by laying my heart on the page, and this is what I was imagining.