Mind Caviar Poetry

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 
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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