Lisa Darcy
is a 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.
The
following poems, first published at Mind Caviar's A
Bi-Friendly Place, were written regarding Lisa Darcy's sensual thoughts
about her two happy men and their bisexual triad relationship
E-mail
Lisa Darcy.
Writing on
Silk, Part 1
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 2
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.
Copyright
© 2001-2002 Lisa Darcy. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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
© 2001-2002 Lisa Darcy. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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.
Copyright
© 2001-2002 Lisa Darcy. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.
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