PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The bow of my body lay suspended by your charms

hung in mid air with the lightest of touch

Fire glazen eyes burn through naked flesh 

Shudders tentatively meet the tips of your lips

Rib cage to Belly,

belly to hips,

to thigh

Breaths lay untaken

Tension rides the sinews 

Pleasure languishing in every  stroke 

Your heated approach has left me starving,

Unlocked, ready, awashed with drippings

Flooding senses overridden

I thought no meant no?

See her? She has it all.
He sleeps at night
and dreams of her.

Even the Moon
grows jealous
of his dreams.

He see her every day
on the train;
they do not speak;
she sits in one place,
he in another.

She looks
good enough to eat
he thinks.

He can't wait
until they speak,
until they meet,
make love,
sit and smoke;
have a joke.

See her? She has it,
he doesn't, he sits
looking at her
he has the hots;
inside he wastes,
inside he rots.

Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop

her quest for sex
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice

(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware

and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against

his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such

well?
Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her

at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied

of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to fuck?

he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra

the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?

or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason

or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry

of others coming
or going
she said
come on

she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now

make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window

the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now

he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed

one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.

You met her in a field
beyond her house
during summer recess
that last one

before you both left
school for good
you'd walked
from the big wooden gate

by hedgerows
where birds sang
and flew out
pass you

sky blue
as if Monet
had been at work
my mother thinks

we've been doing things
she said
things?
you said

you know what I mean
she said
a steam train
passed by

over by the far hedge
we have
you said
I know and you know

but I don't want her
thinking we have
Judy said
you frowned

the white
and grey smoke
from the train
puffed

into the sky
so it's a kind of
knowledge thing?
 you said

who's to know
and who isn't?
some people matter
she said

especially her
I’ll never hear
the last of it
if she thinks

we have
the grass was dry
and the earth hard
your shoes had seen better days

so we're here
in a field
where she could
possibly see us

and you're worrying
that she thinks
we have done things?
Judy sighed

and looked back
at the house
surrounded by fields
she's probably watching now

she said
following our movement
you looked back too
hands in the pockets

of your blue jeans
has she binoculars?
you said
not that I know

Judy said
doesn't matter
she has eyes
like a hawk

how are you
going to convince
we haven’t
done things?

you asked
she looked away
from the house
and sat on the grass

with you following
she sat cross legged
pulling the skirt
over her knees

spoilsport
you said
shouldn't look
didn't get a chance

too slow
she said
getting old
you smiled

I’m 14 like you
if that's too old
I'm Monet's aunt
she laughed

this isn't
solving the problem
she said
there isn't a problem

you said
just a matter
of perception
or not

as the case
is meant to be
what do you mean?
she said

your mother thinks
we have
and we have
yet you want her

not to think that
you replied
yes that's right
Judy said

maybe she wants
to think that
you said
why should she?

Judy asked
maybe she doesn't trust me
you said
she doesn't

Judy said
but she should trust me
you nodded
I see what you mean

so she should trust you
not to do such things
even when you have?
you said

it's the thought
that counts
she said
she put her hands

each side of her
on the grass
you could see
her cleavage

where her
blouse buttons
gave a little
yes

you said
it's the thought
that counts
and the thoughts

hung around
your head
wishing it
had not been

a hay barn
but a cosy
warm bed
instead.

Lizbeth lies on her bed, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. All that way out to the darn farm cottage to see Benedict and not even a kiss. All that showing of skulls and bones and egg shells, and where his father had given him a parch of earth to grow stuff, but not a single hint of a kiss or cuddle. She closes her eyes. His double bed was there, the room with just him and her, his mother downstairs, his father at work, his siblings out playing in the fields or some place, and he talked about birds and such. She had put on her best black short skirt, white blouse, and clean underwear just for him, and did he notice? Not one jot. She even waited sitting on his bed while went downstairs to ask about lunch for her, hinting maybe, might set him going, her sitting there legs crossed, skirt risen up. He came up the stairs in bounds and she thought, here he comes for it, and all he said was: cheese or ham sandwiches? She said cheese. Off he went again. She even bounced on the bed to see how the springs were. Not to good. He had a model Spitfire hanging from the ceiling in his room. There was a fish tank full of bones and skulls and birds eggs. She imagines how it could have been. He coming upstairs with the sandwiches, seeing her there on his bed, her skirt risen up, showing thigh...but no, she hates pretending. He brought the cheese sandwiches up and sat next to her on the bed and talked about the work he did on the farm across the way. He didn't seem to notice her thighs. She ate the sandwiches, looked at him as he talked on about maybe one day being a cowman and such. If only he had, she muses, opening her eyes, looking at her untidy bedroom, LPs on the floor, a box record player, soiled linen(as her mother called it), a small plate, a cup. If he had only hinted at it, she muses, just put a hand on her thigh, touched her hand, said he loved her short black skirt, but no, not a word about it. She had ridden all that way on her bike to see him and hoped that he might this time, but no; all she got was cheese sandwiches and a cup of tea(downstairs), and his mother asking her questions about her father and mother and work. Benedict smiling and looking at her, then his mother, then her again. Still a virgin. She can't say she hasn't tried to lose it. She'd read somewhere that  King Henry VII's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, had him when she  was thirteen years old. How old was she when she had sex? Lizbeth muses. She can hear her mother downstairs banging away with pots and pans. A bad mood day. She had moaned at Lizbeth when she came in from her bike ride to see Benedict. Room untidy, clothes everywhere, tidy up. Words words. What if he had though? She thinks, turning on her side looking at the wall, what if they had done it? She smiles. What if they had on his double bed, she laying there seeing the Spitfire above the bed moving overhead, him entering her, she lying there, hands around him, eyes open or closed, looking at him, the hair, the quiff moving. But he didn't. She runs a finger down the wall. But what if he had though? another voice in her head asks her, what then? She thinks on it, running a finger down the wall again. She didn't know. She remembered asking the girl at school about it. What's it like? She had asked her. What's what like? The girl had replied, grinning. You know, sex? The girl had told her. Detailed each aspect. But to her now, it was all theory. How did she know without doing it? The girl could have been all talk. And that thing about self relief was yuk. She turns back on her back, the ceiling is still there boring her. But it wasn't just a fact of losing her virginity, it had to be with him, not just any boy. She wanted it to be with someone she liked and someone whom she would remember years to come. She knew there were boys in her class at school who probably would if they could(doubts with some) but that wasn't it. He was a hard fish to catch. Was that the phrase? She'd tried four times, and nothing. Even in the small village church he'd said no. That would have been memorable, even if the church benches were rather hard to lay on and it wouldn't have been that comfortable to do it, at least it would have been done and with him. But he hasn't and nor has she. She wonders what would have happened if they had and someone came into the church at that moment and found them at it? Especially some one like her mother or older or some old dear who had a heart attack. Then there was this room, not long ago. She had actually got him here and still no joy. Her mother had been out shopping, the room to themselves, silence, bed. Nothing. Except frustration on her part. In the corner of her bedroom, up on the ceiling is a spider. Black, big bellied. A web in the corner. It waiting. She hates spiders. What if came down in the night? She watches it, making sure it doesn't go anywhere. She ought to hammer it with her slipper. But she doesn't. She closes her eyes. She came that close to doing it. If only. But if onlys are fictions, she muses, turning on her side and opening her eyes. The room bores. The untidiness is part of who she is. And if they had, would she have a kid at fourteen? What then? Maybe she would call him Henry or Henrietta if it was a girl. No she didn’t like that name. But they didn't, so names don't matter. Maybe next time, she thinks, maybe next time he may. Tomorrow is there just another hopeful day.

She crosses fields to find him,
passing cows, over low fences,
along dust tracks. He's probably
at the farm, his mother said, he

works there after school some
days and at week ends if he has
time to spare, so she goes there,
her bike parked by the cottage

wall, on foot, treading her way,
warm morning, Saturday. He
sees her coming through the farm,
dressed in jeans, blouse and boots,

her red hair tied in a bunch, hands
in her pockets, mouth chewing gum.
Farm hands view her a she passes,
their eyes feeding on her swaying

behind, her tiny tits, not knowing
13 years had scarcely gone, then
turn away, back to their work of
milking cows or weighing milk

or cleaning cow sheds of shit and
straw. Your mother said I'd find
you here, Lizbeth says, eyeing
him, his face and eyes and the

way he stands. He views her,
sensing her non-countryside ways,
a towny, others'd say. Just doing
a bit, he says, got hay bales to

stack, tidy and lay. Can I help?
she says, I’ve nothing much to do?
If you like, he says, and walks
along to the barn and she follows,

swaying her hips, holding her
head to one side. He shows her
the hay bales, where they need
to be and how to stack. It smells

in here, she says, heat of hay,
he says, gets stuffy. She runs a hand
over the nearest bales. Soft enough,
she says, looking at him, her eyes

focusing, sniffing the air. Soft enough
for what? He says. To lay on, cuddle
on, she say softly. Best not, he says,
others may come. Not up there, she

says, pointing to a higher place above
their heads, there we'd not been seen.
Best not, he says, they want me for
work not to laze or shirk. She pouts

her lips, walks about the barn, touching
with her fingers, running palms over
the bales. Just a little while, she says,
unbuttoning her blouse, needn't be long,

fingers slowly working the buttons.
There's mice and rats about, he says,
could be anywhere in here. She pauses,
her fingers still, her eyes enlarging.

Here? she asks. He nods, seen them
about, a few hours ago. She buttons
up her blouse, gazing around. Shame,
she says, wanted to, you know, here

in the quiet, us alone. He stands and
gazes, takes in her slim frame, her eyes,
her hands holding each other and
squeezing. Another time maybe, she

says, some other place, somewhere
that's quiet, where we'd not be disturbed.
He nods, viewing her small breasts
tidied away, at least for the day, like

small babes put to bed, and tucked
up safe and sound. She kisses his cheek,
touches his arm, see you, she says softly,
see you around, and she walks way,

her swaying behind, tight in her jeans,
walking through dust and hay, see you,
she says, blowing a kiss, another day.

If I’d never had you before
I wouldn’t know what I was missing.
But, I have...
And nothing,
I mean nothing,
is the same.
Your hand,
possessing the finger
that promises so much
with a simple stroke
down the middle of my spine
landing at the small curve of my back.
As I arch and moan,
you smile.
Knowing I would react this way,
because history repeats itself
and you and I have a history
that willingly repeats over,
and over, and over again.
Never getting enough
Never getting old
Never tiring of each other
Insatiable....
The ebb and flow
Sometimes fast, most times slow
Rising and falling like the ocean
Storms building
with every new motion
Culminating in a Category 5
Breathing, heaving, panting
until the storm subsides
and all is quiet again.
And your hand, possessing that one finger
that started it all,
is securely wrapped around my body
as I lay sleeping.