He Says

 
he says he loves my tree trunk legs

wrapped hard around

as he plunges into dark forest

wet

drawn in to depths not touched

before

his sinuous glide his questing tongue

his thirst for the lost streambed

the fragrant place to spend unending night

he says he loves my stretch-marked belly

round with aftermath of births

striations bold and white against tanned skin

elastic youth surrendered

taut

and then some like a sausage

bursting

from its casing spilling life

for spirit’s eventual delectation

he says he loves my fallen breasts

no pert and innocent globes of light

attracting men of any age like moths

to flame

but redolent of milk-days past

sustenance taken and supplicants gone

the world opened out to their glowing futures

source depleted but hungry still

his impatient lips demand/provide

fulfillment

he says he loves my wilting neck

tall column still proud but flagging

skin obeying planetary laws

and heading south

his eyes still drawn above

to the smile he’s always cherished

diamond flashing -

pretty girl

he says

he says he loves my grey-streaked hair

decades long

he loves it long to bury hands in

to breathe in to inhale

soft like feathers to trail across his skin

fluttering

there/not there as fleet as life

skimming across the surface of his mind

like memory

he says he loves the way I laugh

in orgasm

not threatened as some have said

to Joy in that expression

mirth

and lie exhausted inventing poems

only pulling away to write them down -

Wild Poet Woman

he says

© 2019 pamela twining

Skeletons

secrets

old and buried

stories never told to anyone

too deeply underground

desiccated

covered with a carpet of lies

covered with a blanket of self-delusion

the youth we were

the myths and legends

we convinced ourselves of

it Was the way it was

no questions

how complicated life is once the web is wound

and we are caught in sticky tendrils

of our own extrusion

struggling for a moment

then giving in to the inevitable

it becomes easy to erase the realities of the past

and blanket them with sweet nothings

they become like ancient puzzles

pieces worn

edges chipped and rounded

lost memories packed away

in the attic of childhood

the picture no longer whole

shapes purposely whittled away to fit

the narrative we chose

and what of Truth?

what of the bright and shining verities?

the open innocent candor?

ghosts materialize before our eyes

their shades displaying forgotten honor

the death of love and trust overshadowing

sparkling lie

distracting all with a believable fiction

and that’s what we lived with all these years

only now recognizing what we’ve done

the righteous reality revealed

in all its unremembered splendor

we were innocent once

but took that to the grave

of our youth and indecision

we made up our minds

to remember the alterations

not the original garment

like making a disguise

out of costume

out of whole cloth

like a naked emperor

whose story is finally done

© 2019 pamela twining

Awakening

                                                                                   photo: Catskill Weather
    

i can never be old in springtime

when ice washes down the streets in rivulets

suspended soil swirls

patterns in the hurrying streams

lethal ice javelins lengthening

sound a steady drip...

                        ...    drip...

                              ...     drip...

as chill still winter nights bring cold air back

to remind that this is just a respite

the soil sweet air a tease of spring

as long as sun rains down on starving folks

just out nJoying the fleeting savory perfume

awakened sap rises in the sugar maples

and tapped trees pour their sweet life fluids

shared out into buckets

collected

and slowly boiled to syrup

still needing the frozen nights to create their magic

I can never be old

when the creaky groan of winter loosens

and the whoosh of rushing water

quickening juice of Life excites

memories of all the springs before

and School will be out soon and

fragile spring burn into summer

and I’d be on my way to something new

I can never be old

on springtime Sunday mornings

when all the town’s at prayer

and I escape to forest glen

where worlds exist beneath thin skins of ice

collapsed in upon their fractal past

patterns bubbles waving mossy grasses

fiddleheads unfurling

the air a breath of chill

and skies as crisp as a painter’s vision

all red and gold and purple-grey against the blue

surprising as the scent of woodsmoke

caught amongst sheltering branches

just lightly touched by infant green

lush yet spare an acid enigma

klimt would understand

but just now in this delicate stasis

newborn watercolor pastels and

hints of scents forgotten in frozen air

all the dreams of youth are there

and School will be out soon and

summer stretches out before me

the garden blooming  

            possibilities endless

                        Worlds unexplored

© 2019 pamela twining