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Sleep
Like steam rising on water, your heat is obvious from a distance– so I slip out of my shorts before sliding in beside your sleeping form. Scent escapes the separated sheets– musk sweat and cologne drifting up and out. Your body responds instinctively, rolling inward and wrapping itself possessively around me. Rough hands begin to rove, unthinking, under my shirt and between my legs… I very softly tell you “not now,” though I know you do not hear… Your fingers sleepwalk across my flesh, wandering, like a man lost in the dark. Crooked and repetitive, you keep circling back to where you have already been. Heat-drugged and slow, we sigh…
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The Garden
The featured image used here was originally taken by Mr. D and was used for Sinful Sunday. Scroll down for the color version. On first sight, you placed my heart in your hands, like an apple filling perfectly the palm, where every nuance, dent, and ridge fit each of mine. You took fruit to lips, unearthing hidden knowledge: softness beneath taut flesh. It was tender and sweet, and you knew me then. My core, over time, has absorbed into your own, and our melded seeds have birthed an orchard to provide a lifetime’s worth of everything we need. (The color version.) Day 7 Topic: “G” – Garden
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Come
Your words enter me, violating my sleep, soft and distant at first– an underwater sound– but clearer, stronger, as my consciousness rises to meet them. Come for me. Eyes closed, feeling your thick nearness, heat hovering heavily over collar-bone, breasts– abdomen heaving under the pressure of hindered release. I could burn the room with my thighs, slightly spread in silent acceptance. Your voice vibrates into me, a midnight secret… enter me, push me, pull me, pliant within your grasp. Come to me, in the dark, uninvited– and writhing to meet your quiet need, I’ll come for you. Day 6 Topic: “F” – Feeling (sense)
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Elegy for Innocence
Poetic Form: Elegy The elegy began as an ancient Greek metrical form and is traditionally written in response to the death of a person or group. Though similar in function, the elegy is distinct from the epitaph, ode, and eulogy: the epitaph is very brief; the ode solely exalts; and the eulogy is most often written in formal prose. The elements of a traditional elegy mirror three stages of loss. First, there is a lament, where the speaker expresses grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace. It is more than twenty- five years gone, that tight-lipped innocence, held close out of…
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Dawn
the sun teases dark, rippling waves– heaves glittering light across shadow a silent invitation right before dawn her bright curves kiss the sea– slowly setting the world ablaze the pink sky surrounds her blushing furiously Day 4 Topic: “D” – Dawn
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Clubbing
She wants to fuck you in the filthiest ways, her little cherry-print dress pushed up over her ass. She wants you to stick your fingers everywhere, to lick her like ice cream…melting, quick with full tongue, as she drips down your hand and forearm. In the alley a few streets away from the bouncing club, she leads you into the shadowy safety of dark, pulls you into her hard, puts her hand directly between your legs, lifts you boldly, and you stiffen. She slides her skirt above her hips, exposing a sex so hungry it almost speaks the words “fuck me” itself. Where her thighs meet, heat pulses, breath falling…
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Vasoline
She – in the pink phosphorescence of her combustible world – sinks into opium transcendence, spread across the lush hotel bed, silver-sequined spandex skirt pushed high up on her hips, legs open to receive her daily bread. He – martini in hand, cigar between lip-stick smeared lips bruised by kisses, swollen with need, bitten by his own teeth in anticipation of heaven. She – feathers, glossy yellow sashaying across tiny hairs standing like soldiers on her flesh— so awake, so aware, so resolved to what will touch her muscled thigh, glory in the smoothness there and there. He – drifts and slips and slides with an air of indifference. But…
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The Image Poet
Large bills whisper-light in my right jeans pocket; I hardly notice it’s enough to buy groceries for a month— the weight: that insignificant. Bells on the door chime when I enter. I ask if he’s here because I’m ready— I think… I notice his eyes first, blue, when he surfaces from the back rooms, then his substantial height; somehow it means more to me at this moment. He leads me down the hallway to a room, tells me to have seat while he prepares, sliding latex over skin. Nervous, I pull my faculty t-shirt over my head, unhook my bra, wondering if he is still busying himself or if he…
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April Poetry Challenge 2020
April is the cruelest month… Well…for some, March has been, and April promises little respite. Many of us are in lock down, stuck at home, working from home, worrying away the hours at home. Others are first responders or essential workers out there exposing themselves to potential health hazards for the good of the rest of us. For me, it’s been about finding a new rhythm. I rarely leave the house, but I’m working, some days, harder than I do when I’m actually at work. These coming weeks promise to slow their pace a bit, as I get used to the new expectations. I’m also forcing myself to do remote…
