Things to be looking forward to (a list poem)

  • the summer, that sunlight, the freedom
  • Firefly, the music festival
  • Seeing those two boys who bring joy to my life
  • No more work to plague me, to keep me up
  • Friends all in one place
  • Late nights with the boy, punctuated by kisses
  • Driving no where, any where
  • Paying jobs to lift my excpeptionally underweight bank account
  • days dedicated to swimming in the pool
  • Sun burns, beach trips, swim suits
  • Summer time


She sits in the corner of the coffee shop

Fingers tapping against matte black keys

She wears kiten heels with little black bows

And sips at a pale cup of creamy coffee


The liquid that falls between her lips

Distracts him from a conversation, turning

focusing his attention on the girl with the

Blue dress and even bluer eyes


He wonders if the gloss on her lips would be sticky

When he presses his mouth against hers, or if

the pink peach color would imprint on his lips

Letting the world know that he had kissed her


Is she wearing stocking with that dress?  Or is

All the silky skin of legs on display for everyone to see?

would goosebumps appear on that skin,

When his hand slid from ankle to calf to thigh?


Shaking his head, ridding thoughts of this girl

He grabs his own coffee order and disperses quickly from the shop

As so he does not act on this fantasy

Or even bother to ask for her name.

She Is

She is the girl who does laundry late at night

And stays up even later so that he has folded pants, and clean socks


She is the girl who sleepily begs for another kiss, another hug

Before he leaves for work, before she succumbs to another hour of sleep


She is the girl who greets him with a smile and warmth at the door

Despite his grouchy post work demeanor and growling stomach


She is the girl who rages at those who do her wrong and who offend her

Yet he knows it’s rage for good things, not for bad


She is the girl who helps out those in need, especially when it’s an emergency

He’ll always find her taking someone to an emergency room or brushing their hair


She is the girl who talks, chatters away to fill the silence when she feels awkward

But she does it because she has no idea what else to do when she worries


She is the girl who has spark in her eyes and fire in her lips

Playing, teasing, tormenting, testing, giving, taking, completing, loving


Most of all she is the girl who loves as much, no, more than anyone he’s known.

She is the girl he loves, for every thing she is

Cuddling: a syllabic poem


Falls in

Slow, even

Sheets while you

Then I shower, clean

I accompany you

In sheets that are soft and warm

Once there, I squirm and you hold me.

In your arms, I feel safe and at peace

You wash away my worries with a kiss

While you press me closer to your heart

Beating, soothing, lulling, as my

Eyes close and I drift off to

the land of nod where dreams

are full of sunshine

and my heart is

full of love

and you


full of


Canvas and Paint

Blank.  White.  Stark.  Ugly.

That is how her canvas starts out.

Devoid of beauty, but full of creation

That which will destroy the bleached barren


First, to prime with peach

Slathering, coating, covering that

Ivory ichor that threatens to consume

with something warmer, with a pink tone.


Then to high light with yellow.

Dabbing and dotting to decimate the sudden

Shadows.  Where did they come from?  Along with the

angry red spots? Quick, cover them. There, gone


Now for a little powder, to dust, the make matte

All that flawless, fake canvas.  There is still kohl to be applied

and liner to be added, gloss to finish up the entire portrait

Of this lovely young woman


She won’t leave the house without her canvas painted

Primed, perfected, for she believes that without

all the paint and color and deception

She is plain.  Stark.  White.  ugly.

For I am a Fangirl

Squealing, screaming, squee-ing

High pitched and painful as I find

A Doctor Who poster is perfectly natural

For I am a fangirl


I am enthusiastically into stuff (DFTBA)

Into things like Harry Potter and Sherlock,

Doctor Who, Supernatural, Tumblr, John and Hank Green

For I am a fangirl


I can quote and recite and repeat phrases and ideas

that have fallen from the mouths of JK, or Moffet

I can dress like Ten or Nine, a bowtie for Eleven

For I am a fangirl


I can speak about the Host Club, about Haruhi

And all those wonderful boys.  I can talk about Sailor Moon

And As Told By Ginger and every other nineties cartoon

For I am a fangirl


But most of all, I own books

Thousands of volumes and tomes and editions

From Pretty Women to Vampire Academy and

So many in between.  I read

For I am a fangirl


(PS I apologize for all the sudden poetry, but I am desperately trying to catch up to my day count for poetry.  I’m oping to get to fifteen or sixteen before I go to sleep.  WISH ME LUCK!)

A certain kind of Dance

There she is, on the makeshift dance floor

The slight sheen of sweat turning that porcelain skin

Into neon green and electric blue among the swinging

Flashing, lights of the raucous place.  Music, that music.


It thumps, the bass hounding her senses, driving

That curvaceous body to rock to the steady rhythm while

Her hair, twisting and curling frames her face that doesn’t see,

Not a single person, although they all see her.


She is sex on high heels, legs long and hips calling

Practically begging for some strong man to take them

In his rough hands and to guide her to his own beat,

However, she is a nymph, there and gone, diaphanous.


Try as her suitors might, she dances alone, a singular

Siren out in a sea of people she cares not to know but whom

Desperately, achingly call out to that gorgeous creature

Despite her ignorant attitude as the song blisters on.


The music stops, changes, transforming and she blinks

Her big blue eyes as though coming out of a trance, laughter

Echoes in her own ears and a blush covers those cheeks as

She returns to her table, to her drink, to her man


He is all wolfish smiles in the deadening light and devil grins

As she sips at the pink concoction, his voice whispers into

Her ear, causing a tremble between her legs, a dampness

Between the thighs that had only just been entrancing on the floor.


He speaks of punishment for being such a naughty little girl

And of the passionate rocking against the headboard of their bed

Later on that evening; his whiskers tickle her cheek and send a flame

Down her spine to settle ever more in her stomach.


“Was I a tease?” she asked with a coquettish look of feigned

Wide eyed innocence and he nods, his own eyes growing wide

As another song with a steady beat rises and she does too,

Off that bar stool and into the crowded dance floor.


His qualms about her leaving her are none, for he knows she’ll return

Once that song’s spell has been broken, and again he’ll whisper

Naughty words and subtle sneaks about how much trouble she’s in

And how much fun he’ll have bending her over


A smile stretches across his face he spies her; she is the envy of all,

A sexy creature with no parallel to him.  She is his and he is hers,

Both thoroughly underneath a spell woven by love and

A certain kind of dance.


Requirements of a future home

There will need to be a soft couch

A place for cuddling with fleece blankets

For tickling, popcorn,kisses,  and movies

Projected on the opposing wall

A couch where we can both fit


There will need to a wooden cabinet

For the china inherited from my Nana

For the picture frames from both our sides

The knick knacks from travels and

For the treasures our future brings


There will need to be a closet

Where your pants and my skirts

will mingle between washing

Where our shoes will sit and

the linens will gather that perfume


There will need to be a study

Technically it will be  library

Where our books will sit and more

Shall appear every time we

Head out to a store, to place


There will need to be a washing machine

For the days when paint just won’t come out

Of my dress pants, or the oil stains turn

Dark on you work shirts.  And especially for

The socks that carry their own scent


There will need to be a dog, and quite

Possibly a cat.  There will need to be something

Furry and soft and loyal, happy to see me and you

Something to play with, some one to adore

Perhaps a German Shepard and a Scottish fold


There will need to be a bed

A bed with calming blue and brown sheets

A bed for sleeping, for reading, for playing games

A bed for working late and for breakfast in

Most importantly, a bed for loving you

Clean Sheets

Tugging the yards of fabric

Warm from the dryer, my feet carry

Me back to the room, quickly I tuck sheets in place.


He grumbles, sleepy, displeased that I have roused him

From the tempting mistress, Slumber

Coalescing, he flops on the fitted sheet, a smile on his face.


I stand at the top of the bed, Whipping the sheet

Until it is straight along the lines of the mattress

His grin grows as the warm sheet and comforter follow


Tucking him in, I feel a memory pull at my consciousness

Of my mother doing laundry, promises of clean sheets

Long after the sand man had visited


I recall her stepping into my room, and

Draping the warm sheets around me.  They felt

Like love and happiness and comfort


No wonder I love clean sheets