"The Real Hearth"
Let’s heat up the night to a boil.
Let’s cook every drop of liquid
out of our flesh till we sizzle,
not a drop of come left.
We are pots on too high a flame.
Our insides char and flake
dark like sinister snow idling down.
We breathe out smoke.
We die out and sleep covers
us in ashes. We lie without
dreaming, empty as clean grates.
Only breath moves hissing.
Yet we wake rebuilt, clattering
and hungry as waterfalls leaping off,
rushing into the day, roaring
our bright intentions.
It is the old riddle in the Yiddish
song, what can burn and not burn up,
a heart, a body, passion that gives
birth to itself every day.
The body does not wear out with
use, nor does love, so let us
use each other in the best of ways
as the hours jump off the cliff.
- Marge Piercy
"Wild Nights"
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
- Emily Dickinson
"Lineaments of Desire"
going down from the attic
you hold the ladder
as I descend
the afternoon light
we pause on the porch
to catch the sun as it falls
behind the horizon of houses
and I smile at the flashes
of copper in your beard
in the blinding brightness
you stand between me
and the sun setting
tendrils ablaze
a warm summer breeze
ruffles your hair
and the unbuttoned
loose fitting
striped cotton shirt
that covered your chest
all day in soft folds
as you lift your hand
to lean on the white
stucco wall of the house
the front of your shirt
like the flap of a tent
falls open
a slant ray of sun-
light shadows the hair
on the skin of your arm
and your chest
now bare
draws my glance
my eyes flicker down
to the curve of your breast
and the nipple at the center
of the cheek of your breast
looking away
then glancing again
my eyes alight
where my lips would linger
though I dare not
rest my head on the rise
of your chest
my eyes trace the naked
line of your flesh
to the nipple I would touch
with the tip of my tongue
- Patti Tana
"In A Gondola"
THE moth's kiss, first!
Kiss me as if you made me believe
You were not sure, this eve,
How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now!
Kiss me as if you enter'd gay
My heart at some noonday,
A bud that dares not disallow
The claim, so all is render'd up,
And passively its shatter'd cup
Over your head to sleep I bow.
"The Dance"
On the walkway above the summer creek
we touch and kiss, your hand cups
the long smooth muscle of my back,
we move to the pulse of valve and blood.
Our bodies urge us, they say
yes, and oh yes. But the waiting
is so sweet we choose it, we linger
at each brush of lip on lip as if it were
new wine, to be rolled around the mouth
before we swallow. Once, anticipation
was something to outrun.
Now, it's what we love most,
the slow, slow build before,
like all the little movements of our lives
gathering toward the last breath.
- Robin Jacobson
"Little Acts of Love"
by Marge Piercy
Shaking out clean sheets
that crisp lightly scented caress,
I make my bed ready for you.
I wash my hair, trim
nails lest they scratch you –
unintentionally.
A new paisley cloth on it,
I sit at the table
studying recipes.
Each recipe is a dance
of seduction, beckoning.
Soon the door will swing wide
to where I wait in my body
crowned and glittering
for the feast to start.
"Thirst"
Like a blade of summer grass
turning towards a fragrance
of rain caught in the air's
cooling, I come back to you.
How the dry thirsting reaches
for even the resemblance
of wetness, its parched brown
skin drawn tight and leaning
into the promise of moistness.
I feel also this pull
stretching me to breaking.
If soon your kisses do
not drop on me-mist,
shower, or flood-I will
split into thin slivers, be
cut down like so much hay.
- Linda Alexander
"Black Water"
by George Keithley
Black blazing night. My heart
pounding, I hear
your heartbeat under my hand,
we pause beneath the trees
to kiss. Hike on down
from the high woods.
Loud
rush of wings. Wind falling
silent in the pines. You and I
follow the old bear trail trampled
clear to the shore: Rocks,
rubble, sedge grass tall
in the shallows. No moon
on the lake. Stars
spark and shine.
Alone
through the dark we watch
two ducks tuck in, drift together.
On the pine shore we lie down ---
I want to feel your breasts turn
firm in my palm. Your tongue
in my mouth when our legs open.
In the moist fur the fold
encloses me. And when we part
I want to lie with you
the way night lies on deep water ---
On the slow breathing lake
two wild ducks float
side by side, asleep
on still water. Black water.
"What Makes It Good"
by David Meuel
isn’t
the mystery or masterly technique
or even a love so strong
you can smash bricks with it
it’s
the spinning waters way i feel
when you grab me by the eyes
and slip your thin black panties
off
"Shaving Night Sonnet"
by Debra Pennington Davis
I can't help but watch the blade reveal
the face behind the man. Each careful stroke
reshapes the curves my fingers itch to feel.
I'd trace--So soft--Your jaw, your lips, your nose
and never nick or scratch your tender skin
if you'd abandon that cold blade for me.
My hands would kiss the spot above your chin;
they'd sculpt the lids below your brow and see
just where your slow, lovely lines would lead.
Again you dip your soap edged sword and stir
the heat to steam; it rises, mists. It beads
and paths of silver fingers stripe the mirror.
Finally, you stop, so smoothly turn and trace
the lips that, line by line, reveal my face.
"Come With Me To Our Sweet Bed"
Come with me to our sweet bed
our sweet white bed
yellow bed, blue quilted bed
oh the long warm limbs
and the soft of our belly
nuzzling lips to shoulders
holding you, holding me
our eyes, open, our eyes
open even when the tears
run out the corners and
mix on our cheeks
our mutual pillow
I would be in you
here are my breasts
take them, here is your
entering me, so deep so
deeply come with me
to our sweet bed
- Penny Harter
"That Day"
If you've got the key
then I've got the door
let's do what we dide
when we did it before
if you've got the time
I've got the way
let's do what we did
when we did it all day
you get the glass
I've got the wine
we'll do what we did
when we did it overtime
if you've got the dough
then I've got the heat
we can use my over
til it's warm and sweet
I know I'm bold
coming on like this
but the good things in life
are too good to be missed
now time is money
and money is sweet
if you're busy baby
we can do it on our feet
we can do it on the floor
we can do it on the stairs
we can do it on the couch
we can do it in the air
we can do it in the grass
and in case we get an itch
I can scratch it with my left hand
cause I'm really quite a witch
if we do it once a month
we can do it in time
if we do it once a week
we can do it in rhyme
if we do it every day
we can do it everyway
we can do it like we did it
when we did it
that day
- Nikki Giovanni
Spring paints the countryside.
Cypress trees grow even more beautiful,
but let’s stay inside.
Lock the door.
Come to me naked.
No one’s here.
- Rumi
"Skinsong"
Come when it's quiet
I like your way of moving
Slip into my stillness
Silence me
Speak in tongues
Anoint the air between us
Dance to a skinsong
Cover me
- Trudi Paraha
"Peeling an Orange"
Between you and a bowl of oranges I lie nude
Reading The World's Illusion through my tears.
You reach across me hungry for global fruit,
Your bare arm hard, furry and warm on my belly.
Your fingers pry the skin of a navel orange
Releasing tiny explosions of spicy oil.
You place peeled disks of gold in a bizarre pattern
On my white body. Rearranging, you bend and bite
The disks to release further their eager scent.
I say "Stop, you're tickling," my eyes still on the page.
Aromas of groves arise. Through green leaves
Glow the lofty snows. Through red lips
Your white teeth close on a translucent segment.
Your face over my face eclipses The World's Illusion.
Pulp and juice pass into my mouth from your mouth.
We laugh against each other's lips. I hold my book
Behind your head, still reading, still weeping a little.
You say "Read on, I'm just an illusion," rolling
Over upon me soothingly, gently moving,
Smiling greenly through long lashes. And soon
I say "Don't stop. Don't disillusion me."
Snows melt. The mountain silvers into many a stream.
The oranges are golden worlds in a dark dream.
- Virginia Hamilton Adair
"I Want to Sing"
by Nikki Giovanni
I want to sing
a piercing note
lazily throwing my legs
across the moon
my voice carrying all the way
over to your pillow
i want you
i need i swear to loll
about the sun
and have it smelt me
the ionosphere carrying
my ashes all
the way over
to your pillow
i want you
"I Woke Up"
Kissing your neck.
Was it the storm outside or
the storm in my dream made me open
my eyes? I lowered my eyes
when you looked at me knowing
I came to your bed desiring
this joining. Your look is kind but
cautious. Releasing a breath, petals
unfolding the first of a flower,
I rest my head on your shoulder
as always, and now I am kissing
your neck. This time I’ll not stop
with the skin of your beard,
this time I will moisten
everywhere lips and tongue
can touch beyond words,
always the words did the touching but
now I will swallow your words
tender words the breath the ear
will speak for us now
we are so close there’s laughter
where my lips are touching
and lifting my eyes to see your lips
spread in smile
I wake up kissing your neck
- Patti Tana
"Breakfast In Bed"
The smell of yeast and sweat
Surrounds the mound
Of soft and tender dough.
I flour my hands
And knead the folds and flaps.
They look powdered.
They make me think of you,
My hands on your
Spread thighs, your hands in my hair,
My tongue at work,
Your rising milky heat.
The mound grows smooth
And firm, a sweaty gloss
On its tan skin,
And I recall your breasts
When your nipple
Is in my mouth and my hands
Grasp their plump sides.
Everything begins
To rise. Soon I'll
Climb the stairs to wake you
For our breakfast
In bed, long hard fresh-baked
Loaves and our juice,
A sticky, hot repast
Between our legs.
- Michael S. Smith
"A Simple Pleasure"
by Joseph H. Ball
The better part of morning is
to lie waking knowing she is near
and coming back
her face washed alive, her hair
brushed to comeliness and bright.
When she eases the door quietly open again,
almost sunrise flows through a pale ribbon.
Her robe too is loosely tied.
I slide away the sheet to make her space.
She emerges from the falling robe
as gentle and sure as the morning sun
and I become the sky waiting on the day.
"The Night the Children Were Away"
When she comes home he's waiting for her
on the secluded deck, naked,
the wine open,
her favorite cheese already sliced.
Though he hasn't done anything
like this in years
he knows she'll laugh at his nakedness
as one laughs at seeing
an old friend
at a dirty movie. Then she'll take off
her clothes, join him.
Tonight
he wants to make love profanely
as if the profane
were the only way
to disturb, to waken, the sacred.
But neither is in a hurry.
They sip wine,
touch a little, nothing much needs
to be said. That glacial
intolerable drift
toward quietude and habit, he was worried
that he'd stopped worrying
about it.
It's time, a kiss says, to stop time
by owning it, transforming it
into body-time, hip-sway
and heartbeat, though really the kiss says
now, the now he trusts
is both history
and this instant, reflexive, the good past
brought forward in a rush.
- Stephen Dunn
"Begin In The Night"
Begin in the night,
soft rain falling,
the fingertip rain
tripping down from
the sultry sky.
Begin in the dark,
candleless lovetime,
begin your search
to find me in the dark.
Reach out, roll over,
encompass me naked,
lie here in the pool
my warmth, my sleep.
Become the music
that dances inside me,
become the bright wave
I swim into when
I close my eyes.
You are the sea in my dream,
bright sky in my morning,
your love is the wheel
that turns me toward you
and encircles my heart
with your heart.
- Abigail Albrecht
"I Want To Love You With Every Piece Of This Body"
I want to love you with every piece of this body:
I want these strong and simple hands to divine
each delicate sound inside of you; I want
these faithful legs to gallop at midnight
through the sleeping orchards of your heart;
I want these eyes, these singing eyes
that have survived the brutal clocks, the days
lost in daily space, to blossom in some high bed
of human heaven; I want these feet that never sleep
to wander in the deepest part of you, like ghosts
unchained, ecstatic in this desert sea;
I want this blood, this red tenderness,
to be your blanket; I want this brown and peasant face
to race through solitude and rock, until
with you at last The Book of Moon is read;
I want this tongue, that like some acrobat insane
tumbles toward you with what little words I have,
to sip some virgin secret that you hold;
I want this heart, in time both infinite and now,
to know the reason for the light in you that lifts me.
- James Tipton
"Aubade"
Sun-baked all day, the south-facing cliffs
breathe fire. The canyon air itself
can’t sleep, sheets beneath them
gone incrementally to musk, and the man
at last awakened alone, a train whistle
moaning upriver. Maybe the train’s
clank and ratchet brought her out first,
or the hope some breeze has happened,
not fire and water, the river’s ice, a clammy flank of air.
Whatever it was, now the moonlight’s made of her
a woman burnished by silver, leaned against the porch rail
and looking at the water through the almost-dark.
It’s me, he says from the doorway,
and she doesn’t turn, but opens
her stance, so that he might kneel
and crane his neck, and lick
along and up the sweet, salt seam
to her spine, her shoulders, her neck,
his hands a fingery wind along her arms,
down the fine column of ribs to the palm-fitted handles
her pelvic bones afford—
Lord, he prays, if I have sworn
my loathing for the sun and cursed the salt
that blinds my eyes at work; if I have not slept
but have believed hell a canyon of basalt
a cold clear river taunts through; if I have turned,
scalded by this skin and the murk of damp bedding,
then wake me, wake me by whatever light is called for,
so I might find her, bathed
in a glow that is pure hell alone,
but tempered by her silver
to a dark the mouths remember, breathing
flesh into flames. Let us be candles
melted to a single wax. Let us be tangled at dawn
and lick awake the lids of each other’s salty eyes
and rise—
to welcome the daily fire.
No comments:
Post a Comment