At that talk I attended with Linda Watanabe McFerrin she mentioned an exercise she uses and handed out a list of rather sexy sounding words: tongues, Paris, salamander, lush, indigo, vanish, braille, silkily, Argentina, lips, apricots among many. She said, “don’t think about it. Pick 7 words. Write a sexy scene using these words.” I asked the class to pick their words and write whatever sexy thing they could think of, be it memoir, poetry, fiction. The following are some responses:
Farewell Training bra. So long hope chest.
Her mirror’s reflection, mocking, as she stands bare.
Reflecting back, yikes nothing’s there.
I’ve seen other girl’s grow, big and thrive.
Isn’t it time, for mine to arrive?
I’ll love them fondly if I get a darling pair.
Perfectly perky and sweetly fair.
To Victoria’s Secrets, a bra for them to caress.
So hard to choose, I leave the display a mess.
Finally they come, I redden and blush
Return to Victoria’s in a hell of a rush.
I find the perfect bra and press it to my lips
I check it in the mirror, my God I’m getting hips.
I pick the one with a touch of glitter.
Then a selfie, I post it on Twitter.
A lush photo, of my two stunning sisters
Once lovingly in play, the envy of misters.
Darkness Be Not Dark
In deft darkness, my fingertips braille your face.
In silence, they dance across the beckon of your cheeks.
As a thief, they secretly kiss your lips, and
In heart’s desire, they silkily caress your hair.
They hear the whisper of your pulse, and
The blossom of your breathe.
They catch the subtle quiver in your skin, and
Even the glitter of your starry want.
They be not sinister in darkness, but brilliant hero.
My father bellows thunder, it fills us with despair.
Does reason slumber or will he be fair?
We have adored each other with eyes and hands and lips
But pungent prejudice swirls and forbids.
His soul is indigo to me now, the color of midnight.
Yours is white, the color of light.
Why can’t he see your soul and forget your ebony skin?
Must our love vanish into the darkness of ignorance,
Or might it be allowed to take wing?
Short Poem of Repose
Kent Ward Butzine
Don’t stress, regress.
Don’t pine, recline.
Be mine, supine.
Say “yes,” me bless.
Don’t go, let’s flow
into the night
and the dawning
Bellweather of Climate Change
whispers Dragon lovingly from her magenta cloud,
‘Slow your pulse and sleep a while longer
in the mercy of your hibernation underground,
For my time has come,
and as your damp skin is singed by the heat of my caress,
You will no longer breathe
And when you vanish?
Oh slender thief of my heart,
I shall be
My New Love
Paris sweetly singes my tongue
as lush apricots
devoured in the heat of summer.
One Red Rose
Barbra Hana Austin
Tobe and I fell in love thirty years ago in Stockholm. Six months ago he found me on line. it was the week of my seventy-first birthday. That would mean he was sixty-one.
We spoke or emailed daily and soon, ever the romantic he sent me a round trip ticket to his adopted Argentina. What could I say?.
On the plane, a complimentary Vodka in hand, I re-created fragments of our long ago lovemaking. If a heart could glitter from the inside out, mine would be seen like the stars in the heavens.
We were single-minded in that a Niagara of water had passed under our separate bridges. Would we be so clear when we met? I was excited, happy and getting more romantic by the sip.
The plane landed at Ezeiza International, and there Tobe stood, tall and straight, by the exiting corridor, as noble as he had been in Stockholm with one red rose in his hand.
We stood, stared and flew into each others arms. When his lips touched mine, a tiny nucleus of heat began to rise deep within my very belly button.
“Take my pulse” he whispered, “if I’m not dying, I want you now, right now and I don’t care if it makes the front page of La Nación”.
We were married three weeks later at the airport. I carried one red rose.