Nara Malone

Simmer Down on Flickr – Photo Sharing!

Silver mists drape the oaks
in a gauzy morning wrapper.
The sun peeks between the folds.
Mourning doves coo seductive approval.

My eyes open into yours.
Heat, a moist blanket unfolding, settles over me,
weights my limbs with a peaceful presence
that could so easily be stirred to passion.
And stir you do, one finger, dipping in, languid circles.

My gaze takes a slow journey to your lips,
watching you lick and suckle,
your eyelids drifting down to savor,
like a chef over a delicate sauce,
a wicked grin as you invite me to taste.
I catch the scent and flavor of my own desire,
wriggling closer, inviting your pleasure.

You withdraw leaving me with
your unswayable smile,
the one that promises,
that despite a bit of simmering,
waiting will be worth it.

On the back burner
dreams and fantasies bubble together
blending, melding, merging
creating something bolder,
more developed, exotic.

Heat clings as the sun sinks
behind blue mountains
and you rise ready above me.
This moment has sizzled in us all day.
A feast awaits.

We smile together at the brink, knowing.
This won’t be polite.
This won’t be civilized
This won’t be proper
It will be worth the wait.

Visit the other passengers on the Monday Poetry Train Revisited.

Mist the Oak Tree by wabberjocky

I heard a chuck-will call
through the dark of morning,
his song never failing
even as the first light
made ghosts from last night’s rain.

So rare, the chuck-will’s call.
I’d mourned him years ago and given up hope
of hearing his bright flute pierce the predawn,
summoning misty dancers
to a solo waltz through the oaks.

Their luminous gowns swirled in perfect time to his ominous song:

Chuck-Will’s-Widow
Chuck- Will’s- Widow

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sharing.

Flickr Photo by TLA8

The last layer frustrates
Him
Me
He wants to tear it away like wrapping from a present
I want to weld it in place like so much armor

The best is saved for last
Translucent silk
Peek-a-boo lace
Ribbons and garters
Do the contents ever live up to the wrapping?

I surf through naked photos of strangers
All the pale flesh, moles, scars, rolls hanging out
I respect the boldness
I don’t envy it
I shrink from it

I think of wet cats
All that power and arrogance
Flattened
Shrunken
To gray skin and bone

I want to wrap them back up
In a persona
Give them back their
Hiss and Bristle
Watch that expressive fur
Ripple and fluff with their moods

Do I need to be naked
The last layer stripped away
Like the Lone Ranger’s mask
Would I be bland as cardboard
Without the wrapping
Does the last layer stand
Between me
And who I am
Or
Is it me?

Visit other poets riding the Monday Poetry Train.