Flowers

February 24, 2014

Flowers

All night the flower,
petals tightly closed against
depredations of moth and moon
remains firmly resistant to their blandishments.

Once the sun begins to rise,
the caress of light begins to play along the petals,
warming the flower, as your embrace warms me.

Coaxing gently, persistently, the light glows.
soft kisses of butterfly and bee batter delicately,
waiting for the flower to open, for the petals to relax,
just as your kisses cajole and allure and induce and beguile.

The choice belongs to me, as it does the flower.
Whether to open and glory in the sun, stigmas revealed to preferred
visitors, bees, legs fat with pollen, sipping the nectar prepared for them
in exchange for flower-ripening life.

Do they shudder with delight, as I do,
when they are penetrated, plundered, partaken?

Do flowers groan with bliss upon an insect kiss?

Do they wait, impatient, for the next encounter?

 

 

Anticipation

April 1, 2013

Anticipation

You said you’d follow me home
in your own car,
but I understand the parking situation
better than you do.

And that’s fine, because I really did
need to pick up the mess in my kitchen sink
and throw the laundry from the bathroom
into the hamper
and put my dry cleaning
in the closet.

And also, I needed time to
slip into that special
something-something
that I know will tickle
your fancy.

By the time you’ve settled your car
somewhere on the next block
I’ve got drinks poured
and music playing
and lights dimmed
and pillows fluffed
and I am heady with
anticipation.

Our kiss
takes my breath away.
My warm arms around you
make you melt into me
and we fall on each other
like starving animals,
past the drinks and pillows,
oblivious to the music,
making love on the kitchen table.

The first time, anyway.

Breathe

October 26, 2012

Breathe

Breath
slow and steady,
eyes slightly dilated
in anticipation.

And then I see you
I smell your scent
nostrils flare
heart speeds up
lips curve in a
smile.

Your kiss is
delicious.

Your hands
know where to go.

You caress me
in a way, familiar
yet always new,
and so I always
melt again,
into your touch,
parts of me liquid
and craving
and ready.

My breath is faster now.
And as we undress,
wildly and frantic
for more
(skin
more
skin
more)
we lose ourselves
in this moment of
sin.

Our breaths
are quicker now
as we finally
meet
in that essential way.

I want to scream
(moan)
(cry)
with the pleasure of it
and so I do.

And so do you.

And it pushes us on,
your mutual pleasure
giving me more,
mine inspiring you,

which is why it is called
making
love.

And when our climax
comes
(and comes)
(and comes)
in an echoing
explosion
our breathing is more
like gasping
staccato notes
punctuated
with mono-syllabic
phrases that make little
actual
sense
(oh…)
(Ohh!)
(Yes!)
but communicate
everything.

And hearts still pounding
(pounding
pounding)
as our sweat-slicked skin
melts into a puddled
hot
mass
of well-warmed
muscles
our breathing slows,
with the
occasional
quiver
and
(ooh…so)
satisfied
moan.