Forecast (for the weatherman)


If weather permits,
and time will tell you
— war or love —
that all is fair,

we’ll go around
and come again
to fairer weather
yet, my friend.

These clouds will bleed
their silver vein,
so mind the lines
and read between.

In the quiet here
before the surge
we know that once
it rains, it’s war.


New Beginnings (a broken* triolet poem)

Today is the day

of new beginning,

though the way

ahead is unclear.

Though your head may feel

like it’s spinning,

today is a day

of new beginning.

It may be a day

for grinning.

Aren’t we lucky

just to be here?

Today is the day

of new beginning,

though the way ahead

is unclear.



A (first line)
B (second line)
a (rhymes with first line)
A (repeat first line)
a (rhymes with first line)
b (rhymes with second line)
A (repeat first line)
B (repeat second line)


A Change in the Weather (a Terzanelle poem)


I felt it when you smiled with your eyes,
an unexpected change in the weather —
a shifting in the grey and winter skies.

I noticed as we sipped our tea together,
the scent of wind and ozone on your skin,
clouded with the coming change in weather.

Your clever tease, my blush and mild chagrin
they set my pulse to flight like startled birds.
I smelled the wind and ozone on your skin.

Our kindred appetites for rhyme and words
caught up in frozen time, melted it seems.
darted between us quick, like winging birds.

My laughter flowed with yours in steady streams —
the jealous sun arrested in his climb,
slowed time to stare at us a while, it seems

You kindled curiosity sublime.
Your smile persistent, slipped into my eyes.
Though pale, the sun grew quicker in his climb —
I left you, warmed beneath the winter skies.



The Terzanelle combines the lyricism of Terza Rima with the repetition of the Villanelle, in 19 lines.Traditionally lines should be written in a consistient iambic meter.  The rhyme and refrain order is as follows:







For more information, see: Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides blog post on the Terzanelle.

Incantation Over Tea

steam wafted
above his fingers
earl grey hot
and I smiled
while he spoke of clouds and storms
I hoped for the rain



Shardorma is a Spanish 6-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines respectively. – See more at:

The Power of Ritual


This morning, I set up my tray, teacup, saucer, spoon… I turned on the kettle, and selected a teabag from the tin. I stood pondering, smiling, waking, feeling gratitude, as the water began to boil. I poured, and the tea leaves steeped, while I breathed, turning memories over in my thankful hands. I stirred a teaspoon of honey into the amber liquid, and cradled the warm cup in my fingers, lifting it to let the steam bathe my face.

I love this routine; it is quiet, introspective, filled with peace.

I have a plain, somewhat tattered, composition journal, where I do my morning pages. A minimum of three, hand-scribbled, they are filled with what Natalie Goldberg called “monkey mind” — the random, disjointed musings of an early morning brain — that I spill across the paper in smudges and lines of ink, so I can clear away the debris, and write or create from the clear, pure place beneath.  I open the notebook, smooth the page, select a pen, and light a candle, simply because it seems right to do so, makes this a sacred space, a spiritual action that feeds my soul.  I follow my pen, and trust the process.

My soul craves ritual, it’s the breathing in and out, of life, of listening, of stilling the world and meeting myself in the space it creates.

I crave ritual in relationships, too, particularly in power dynamics. I mentioned before that I am not a vanilla girl. A relationship, or relationships, that involve power exchange are an important part of my make-up, and what adds pleasure to my life. In a relationship with a strong, confident, gentle, dominant male, I seek ritual, to quiet my restlessness, to turn my thoughts inward, and to find peace in the connection of that shared bond.

There is a man in my world who offers me part of what I seek in a relationship of this type. We do not meet in person, our interactions are limited to email, text messages, phone calls and online journal entries. He’s older, with decades of experience, and  sense of integrity that appeals to me. He knows my journey has been difficult, and he speaks truth to me. He encourages and celebrates my ethical sluthood, respects my limits, and feeds my heart. He has given me ritual that works.

At the same time every day, my phone sounds an alarm, and I smile. My eyes close, and I can hear his reassuring voice. I remind myself that we are connected, and that the energy we share is a gift. When my day is hectic, and filled with distraction, I close my eyes, breathe, and kneel (sometimes mentally, emotionally, sometimes physically). I often send him a quick text like the following:

*kneels at your feet, and closes my eyes, breathing deeply*


Sometimes he responds to welcome me, sometimes he is busy with his work day, and does not. But the connection is still there, and I find a few moments of peace and strength, to continue with my day.  This sort of practical ritual can make a big difference in my mind and heart. It’s a centering much like meditation, it’s a reminder, much like a spoken affirmation. These things appeal to me, and provide me with a mirror.

That girl, in the reflection, with the happy smile… she is me finding peace… and I like what I see.



The American Heritage Dictionary, defines my favorite word thusly:

fuck  (fŭk)

v. fucked, fuck·ing, fucks
1. To have sexual intercourse with.
2. To take advantage of, betray, or cheat; victimize.
3. Used in the imperative as a signal of angry dismissal.
1. To engage in sexual intercourse.
2. To act wastefully or foolishly.
3. To tinker or meddle with something. Often used with with.
4. To tease or treat someone carelessly or indifferently. Often used with with.
1. An act of sexual intercourse.
2. A partner in sexual intercourse.
3. A despised person.
4. Used as an intensive: What the fuck did you do that for?
Used to express extreme displeasure.
Phrasal Verbs:
fuck off
1. Used in the imperative as a signal of angry dismissal.
2. To spend time idly.
3. To masturbate.
fuck over
To treat unfairly; take advantage of.
fuck up
1. To make a mistake; bungle something.
2. To act carelessly, foolishly, or incorrectly.
3. To cause to be intoxicated.

[Middle English (attested in pseudo-Latin fuccant, (they) fuck, deciphered from gxddbov), probably akin to Dutch fokken, to strike, have sexual intercourse with, breed (cattle), German ficken, to have sexual intercourse with, and Swedish dialectal fock, penis; see peuk- in the Appendix of Indo-European roots.]

Word History:
Fuck is an old word, although throughout its history it has probably been uttered in speech much more than it has been written in manuscripts or printed in books. The first evidence we have of the existence of the word fuck is found in a poem composed in a mixture of Latin and English sometime before 1500. In the manuscript of the poem, some of the lines are even written in code—to hide the lewd nature of the text or perhaps to offer the reader the fun of deciphering the verses and discovering the bawdy words within. The poem, which satirizes the Carmelite friars of Cambridge, England, takes its title, “Flen flyys,” from the first words of its opening line, “Flen, flyys, and freris,” that is, “fleas, flies, and friars.” The line that contains fuck reads “Non sunt in coeli, quia gxddbov xxkxzt pg ifmk.” The Latin words “Non sunt in coeli, quia,” mean “they [the friars] are not in heaven, since.” The code “gxddbov xxkxzt pg ifmk” is easily broken by simply substituting the preceding letter in the alphabet, keeping in mind differences in the alphabet and in spelling between then and now: i was then used for both i and j; v was used for both u and v; and vv was used for w. This yields “fvccant [a fake Latin form] vvivys of heli.” The whole thus reads in translation: “They are not in heaven because they fuck wives of Ely [a town near Cambridge].”


I fell in love with the word fuck several years ago, and when Iater I discovered the Jesse Sheidlower book, The F-Word, I fell in lust! Within its blood-red cover, I found words and descriptions that gave a very exuberant voice to my adoration of this fucking awesome word. I have developed my own conversational discourse on the word, great for parties and for flirting with potential new lovers, thanks in large part to the Sheidlower book:

I posit that fuck is a word that surpasses all others in the English language, and as a poet and lover of language, I don’t suggest this lightly. Actually, I’m just fucking with you, but as the inimitable transformer of four-letter-words, fuck can become verb, noun, adjective, adverb, subject, predicate, question, insult, exclamation and invitation…it is such a sexy fucker of a word.

But this is not the thing I love most about fuck.

Science suggests that there is an alchemy inherent in speaking aloud certain vulgar words, especially in situations of intense emotion, fear, ecstasy, pain or stress. In the episode “No Pain No Gain” the Mythbusters team tested the theory that shouting swear words can increase your tolerance for pain, using words like fudge, mutton and hossenfeffer for the control. (How fucked-up is that?) In the second half of the experiment, participants let loose with bleeped expletives. And in addition to fucktastic entertainment, the science was educational. Marked differences in tolerance were displayed, (an average of 30% increase), and I truly believe, the unbroadcast word of choice by far was some variant of the word, fuck.

I fuck you not, the word itself is a sensory experience. Try it with me:

Begin by raking your teeth across your sensitive lower lip (an incredibly errogenous zone) to form the sound “ffff“.   Doesn’t that feel great, and put you in the mood? Fuck it! Bite if it helps, I do!

Next, round out the vowels with a loud moaning “uhhhh” like a thrust of the pelvic hips, only with your vocal chords, lips and diaphragm. Feels good, right?

Finally, the climax… finish the word with a harsh, resounding and satisfying “CK” (sort of like the word cock, but that’s a different blog post.)

Did you feel it? The word in your mouth is like irresistable foreplay, primal fucking, and raucous orgasm, all  tied up in four sexy little letters.  I know I feel better when I say it. Go ahead, you know wanna do it again… Celebrate the versatility, the history and the sheer hedonistic pleasure of fuck with me!

Fuck yeah!

Language Theory


I recently had an interesting email-conversation, about the nature of the word “lover”. I propose that the word has, over time, been narrowed in scope, diluted (if you will), until it’s potency is lessened and it’s meaning altered. As an advocate for language (as well as for sex and love), I  am determined, in my sphere of vocabulary-influence, to re-expand words like “lover”, if possible.

As a polyamorous woman, I welcome into my life those men and women with whom I develop a deep, psychological, emotional and romantic kinship. My heart is uniquely designed to overflow with love and intense human connection.

People have limits, when it comes to time, energy and resources — some more than others. Humans lead busy lives, we juggle relationships, we reach via technology across great distances, and if we’re vulnerable, trusting and fortunate… we find love.

I fall in love easily. I fall deeply. I seek out those bonds that ignite passion, engage heart and mind, and feed me positive energy while pushing me to be vulnerable, share myself, and give good in return.

Some of my most intense romances are with men I consider lovers. Some of these though, have not been men with whom I’ve yet had in-person, physical sex, and maybe I’ll never have the opportunity to do so. Still, intense sexual ties can be forged, without the benefit of physical proximity.

You see, in spite of the modern usage of the word, “lover” I do not make fucking* a prerequisite to using the term. There may in theory be friends with whom I enjoy occasional low-intimacy, recreational sex, and yet don’t consider lovers. On the other hand, there are those with whom I share profoundly torrid, amorous sexual interactions. These often include bodily pleasure, and orgasms, all from a place of psychological propinquity and physical distance.

When recently tweeting about the subject, I was admonished against confusing physical and emotional intimacy. I get it. My point is, life is gloriously messy, and thanks to the powers of technology and the human psyche, my intimacy spills out of its neatly labeled and organized boxes.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.


*"Fucking" too, is a word worth discussing. It is, in fact, a favorite, and I will soon devote an entire post to the reasons why.

I’m No Goddess

Disclaimer: This post is intimate, and somewhat graphic, discussing a new lover,
and the manner of our love-making. If that might offend you or make you 
uncomfortable, skip this one. I'll never know, and I'll still love you if you do!

I am nearly fifty, and I finally love the skin I’m in, middle-aged, scarred, buxom, zaftig, curvy, delicious, sexy… this is my body. Like many humans, there are parts that amaze me, and parts that I’m not the most happy with. This body has served me well, and I’ve not always treated it nicely.

body 2
This isn’t me, but isn’t she lovely?

And still, these incredible parts…

I have a pretty face, thick, long hair, big green eyes, full lips, freckles, a smile that catches attention. I have full, middle-aged breasts, that are giving in to gravity. They fed children more than twenty years ago, along with the wide hips that bore them, carried them, nudged them along, the legs that gave them, a comfy lap for cuddling, and the rounded shoulders that supported their sleepy heads, and absorbed their tears. Today those hips, legs, shoulders, breasts, eyes, lips and smile can seduce a man, and drive him wild.

Not me either, but yowza!

I also have those parts I find less sexy, feet that carry the weight of me through each day, from the moment I get out of bed in the morning, until I slip back between the sheets at night, and well, they’re feet. I have a belly, too — round and jiggly, scarred with stretch marks, it is a reminder not only of motherhood, but of many decisions to indulge, and not nearly as many to do crunches. I don’t regret those choices, all the time, but I do see the results, and I’m not sure that belly is my sexiest part.

Not me. But I feel this way sometimes!

Today though, my mind is slowly changing… I have a new lover, and he is… hungry. He is primal, yet gentle. His kisses make me weak in the knees. He calls me “baby-girl” and growls at me. He caresses and leaves bruises, and our lovemaking is breathless, intense, filled with exclamations of surprise and repeated requests to “do that again.” He makes me feel beautiful, powerful, weak and hungry too.

foot kiss
My feet aren’t nearly this young, but I try to keep them soft and pretty.

And he kisses me… everywhere… even those not-so-sexy-to-me parts. He moans in pleasure, whispers desire, he pulls me to him in the middle of the night just to feel my skin against his. He touches me, to satisfy his hunger and mine. He worships my toes, the balls of my feet, and he kisses my round, worn belly, over and again, like I’m some ancient fertility goddess.

Fuck, maybe I am.