I’ve spent the past several days in the hospital with a partner. She is doing well, and we’re narrowing in on what the non-life threatening problem actually is. However, as a result, I will be re-posting a couple of previous poems this week. I hope you enjoy!
From February, 2015
———-
I wrap myself in rain soaked sheets,
my skin well drenched in poet’s ink.
Words drip from fingers, lashes, hair,
although the squall line’s past, I think.
A rolling thunder echoes now.
Tempted I am, to seed the sky —
(I feel it in my skin, my bones.)
to dance a prayer against the dry.
To gauge the weather, test the air —
while rushing winds in whispered voice
make promises of darker clouds —
for instruments — I have one choice:
I’ll take my pen, write rhymes in form.
hold back the sun, bring on the storm.
This weekend I celebrated my birthday, and it was filled with amazing experiences with incredible loves… and no writing whatsoever. So, this week, I’m revisiting some early posts, and sharing them again. I hope you enjoy this one!
———-
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.
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.
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.
This weekend I celebrated my birthday, and it was filled with amazing experiences with incredible loves… and no writing whatsoever. So, this week, I’m revisiting some early posts, and sharing them again. I hope you enjoy this one!
———-
Glimpses and Reflections at 2:00 a.m.
I like dark chocolate, hot tea, new books, fountain pens, rainy days, the three full weeks that are autumn, form-poetry, flickering candles, wordplay, a dry sense of humor, warm freckles on pale skin, being behind a camera, bits of ephemera, red wine, white wine, deep elaborate fiction, sad songs and working typewriters.
I like having my own space, falling in love, creative freedom, hours of solitude, the way two bodies fit together in an embrace, the feel of the earth beneath my bare feet, the wind tugging at my hair, a gnarled tree at my back, and first-date conversations that last for seven hours.
I like the way words taste in my mouth, the way river stones feel in my hand, the heat and aroma of coffee in a ceramic cup, the way the moon always finds my window, a thousand kisses – long and slow, hard and deep, warm and soft – sixth date conversations that end at sunrise, and crying over movies or sappy holiday commercials.
I like songs, poems, photographs that are so pure and beautiful they take your breath and make your heart ache. I like creative vulnerability, the smell of ink, the curve of a guitar, the texture of canvas, and the intimacy of sharing absolute silence.
I like the journey an intense bdsm scene can take… the climb, building slowly, surrendering to the sensations, the dance along the edge, the pain, the rip in the fabric of time I can slip through, the strength of a safe word, deepening trust, the taking flight, the shattering and the pieces coming back together, the endorphins and adrenaline, the finding myself back on earth feeling balanced and whole again, and the spiritual connection between a top and a bottom.
I like the silence and freedom that come from surrender, being in that head space… giving up control. I like a good strong intelligence, a sense of honor and integrity, a powerful mind fuck, I like sex that leaves me sore and trembling and a lover who doesn’t just tolerate my sexuality and sluthood but encourages and celebrates them.
Most of this for me — the kink, the passion, the art, the poetry, love and human connecting — is about having enough confidence to risk showing your soul, and to see into someone else’s at the same time, without flinching at the intensity or the vulnerability. I like that electricity, that courage and that reward.
This weekend I celebrated my birthday, and it was filled with amazing experiences with incredible loves… and no writing whatsoever. So, this week, I’m revisiting some early posts, and sharing them again. I hope you enjoy this one!
———-
Night Air (a Quatern)
That’s the night air in the city
tastes like remorse mixed with regret.
When you can’t see stars for neon
glow of traffic, just forget it.
When the moon as pale as smoke is,
that’s the night air in the city.
Caterpillar blows his smoke rings,
questions floating, “Just who are you?”
Sounds like bike tires on the sidewalk,
swishing, swishing, just a whisper.
That’s the night air in the city,
filling your ears with nothing new.
Turn the corner, follow footsteps,
She’s the rabbit in a white dress,
always slipping out of your sight.
That’s the night air in the city.
ABOUT:
Prompt #12 of the April 2014 Writer’s Digest Poem-A-Day Challenge
For today’s prompt, write a city poem. The poem can take place in a city, can remember the city (in a general sense), be an ode to a specific city, or well, you should know the drill by now. City poem: Write it!
POETIC FORM: THE QUATERN
Quatern Poetic Form Rules
1.This poem has 16 lines broken up into 4 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas).
2.Each line is comprised of eight syllables.
3.The first line is the refrain. In the second stanza, the refrain appears in the second line; in the third stanza, the third line; in the fourth stanza, the fourth (and final) line.
4.There are no rules for rhyming or iambics.
Pen's Ink 