| Poetry
in Motion
My
pen glides across the paper
A
silky caress like fingers
Whispers
tiny songs to your skin.
Ink
flows warmly from my pen as
I
flow into and onto you
My
hair cascading around us
Gently
trapping the heat of our thoughts
Our
bodies lost to the rhythm
Of
rocking and riding the wave
Poetry
in motion, my loves.
Poetry
in motion.
The
hot, heady, sweaty smell
Hangs
pungent
In
the air, in my hair,
In
the sheets as we sleep,
Silent
and sated,
Spooning
in threes as the trees
Shake
gently their branches in dances
As
they whisper in wonder
At
the wind.
Writing
on Silk, Part One
Soft,
elegant hands reach in
And
pull out the silk
White,
pure, untouched,
It
flows out of her hands towards the floor.
Biting
a full, red lip in expectation,
She
lifts the garment up
And
over her head
A
virgin sacrifice.
Her
naked skin tingles as she waits
Pausing
in anticipation.
The
hem moves slowly
Teasing
Past
her shoulders
To
rest briefly on her breasts.
It
falls in an opaline cascade
Drenching
her body
In
a slippery pool of pleasure.
Writing
on Silk, Part Two
Silk
covers my woman's body.
Pristine,
shimmering delectation
Draped
over and around
Soft,
creamy flesh.
The
barest hint of colour
Showing
through.
The
faint pink of skin
A
dark shadow in
The
delta of Venus
The
interplay of silk and skin.
Slippery
silk
To
hide an excited flush
Rippling
silk
To
display an aroused nipple
Filmy
silk
To
cling to aching loins
I
think of the silk I find
In
your hair
In
your mouth
In
your body
The
musky scent
Of
womanhood wafts
Up
from your silken dress.
Oh,
how I long to be there.
Awake
at Midnight, Remembering
Stroking,
caressing
Suppressing
me –
I
sublimate my desire for you.
Industry,
industry, industry
Idle
hands are the Devil’s workshop,
I
remind myself.
In
your absence I tend to the house.
The
sweeping broom in my hands
Becomes
your cock as I stand
Idly
stroking it,
Staring
out the window.
“Be
my good girl,” you said on parting
My
lips to kiss me goodbye.
Doing
your laundry is safe,
Even
Freud must remain silent there.
But
folding your clothes,
Every
shirt is your skin.
Jeans
remind me of your legs
Wrapped
around me,
Each
pair of underwear held you
Even
more closely than I.
Sighing,
I slip them on
The
cloth, which gently held you
Now
covers me – a chastity belt implied
Locked
on tight by your jeans.
Your
shirt completes me, confines me
Loosely
comfortable, surrounded by you,
I
can almost forget the churning desire
You
left in your wake.
God,
I can’t wait until three.
Copyright © 2001
Lisa Darcy. All Rights Reserved.
About
The Author:
Lisa Darcy is a previously
unpublished writer currently masquerading as a housewife in Roswell, GA.
Though she has dabbled for years, she has only been seriously writing for
the past two. A woman of some talent and many dreams, she finds that most
of her interests center around the pen, the kitchen, the library, and the
bedroom. She also enjoys singing Irish folksongs and running around naked.
About
The Poem:
The preceeding poems
are A Bi-Friendly Place exclusive written regarding Lisa Darcy's sensual
thoughts, her two happy men and their bisexual triad relationship.
Comments?
Email
the author.
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