Mind Caviar Poetry

P.J. Nights  lives in coastal New England with her husband, two children and various pound pets. She teaches physics and astronomy. Her stories and poems have been published in the Erotica Reader's Association, the Adult Story Corner, Amoret Online, the Emerald Collection and in Mind Caviar.

E-mail P.J. Nights. 

Mud Pies

Elise looks up from a haphazard mosaic of bills.

She makes out the carbon-copy checks
that keep the house in power and water.
"Are we grown-ups now, Jack?"

Jack looks up from his 'world-famous' batter.

He makes a tin of berry muffins
in advance of the morning meal.
"I guess we are, dear."

They tackle the list of mommy-and-daddy chores.

Such are their responsible evenings
following long days at the office
and the tucking in of Maggie and Ben.

Bedtime songs play a refrain through Elise's mind,

'the monkey chased the weasel',
her pen subconsciously
tapping...da dum da dum...

da da da da dum...POP goes Elise!

She seizes Jack by the arm,
muffin pan by the corner,
and pushes towards the 
aftermath of a June shower.

Azure ring around full moon,
in the luminescence
she removes her skirt and blouse
and sits in the one spot 
the lawn refuses to grow.

Bemused, Jack watches
as her arms reach long
for buttercups and vetch.

She gouges handfuls of rain-soaked soil.

Entranced, Jack notices
the dark half-moons under 
her ivory fingernails.

Earth-scent, ambrosial with rain, fills his nose.

Deftly she weaves flowers,
sweet grasses and muck,
mounding mud pies in tin.

She lovingly sculpts each perfect little pie.

Pleased, she holds up her
creation as an offering
under blackberry nipples.

Azure ring around full moon,
in the luminescence
he removes his jeans and T
and sits in that one spot 
the lawn refuses to grow.

He balances her mud pie palette on one palm.

Finger dipping, he daubs
warpaint stripes on
five-o-clock shadow.

He examines her, dressed only in gossamer light.

He adorns her with
damp chevrons on 
plump, upturned breasts.

Lowering her to moist earth bed, he takes her,

Holding her tight
so she doesn't hydroplane away
across a June mud puddle.

Azure ring around full moon,
in the luminescence
they become young again
as they play in the one spot 
the lawn refuses to grow.

Copyright © 2001 P.J. Knights. All rights reserved. 

Roy G. Biv

Waterbed waves
undulate in time
to strains of King Crimson.
Vermilion pulses
explode behind closed eyes
as grenadine

into the tangerine
of a tequila sunrise.
Terracotta flesh 
on flesh
burnished copper

sulfur sunlit
pools of lemonade
made from
life’s lemons.

tresses curl 
into viridian hollows.
Enigmatic emerald

fuses with lapis
lazuli leer
to hold back

a mood indigo.
Day languishes

into violet twilight.

Copyright © 2001 P.J. Nights. All rights reserved. 

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