A Seduction

I’ve been typing up poems today, reading, and trying to write new ones.  So, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote that I don’t plan on submitting anywhere.

A Seduction
On seeing Bonnie England’s Female Nude: 49

Female nude, 49, lies on her side waiting,
anticipating my touch.  She’s one of the few
who actually knew of my exploits—
I didn’t choose her.
She has chosen me, leads me
to believe I can’t get her,
so I do, and she uses me.

Today, she is faceless.
I remember her body:
lush breasts, full hips, small waist.
I remember the way her muscles tensed
when she moaned, but most,
I remember how she posed;
like a model for a painting—
attentive, still, patient.

I wrote this while I was at the Bottega waiting for a wine tasting.  I had a few drinks and was looking at some of the artwork in the back.  I wanted to write about a painting, and I chose a painting by the previous owner of the bar, Bonnie England. If you live in or around Wilmington, NC then you should check out the Bottega Art & Wine Gallery downtown.  Most nights it has live music, they host monthly poetry readings, weekly wine tastings,  monthly writing workshops, and always has fun and interesting people.  Here’s a link to their website: http://www.bottegagallery.com/

Ballooning

What happens when the wind takes a spider’s web?
She finally finds her defiance in flying—
Is she free from nature,
even if only by nature’s device?

Then she falls.
Returns to the routine,
drinks the insides of another caught
in all she knows to do,
other than sleep and the universal
need to reproduce, and she remembers

where she was before the wind blew—
and how she came to be
and it is marvelous,
because she knows they are the same.

Complications

for writers

I married my pencil.
She loved me as I loved her,
we made love, producing poems,
creative non-fiction, and a bit of fiction
in the sense of drama and comedy.
It was special.

Until I met my computer.
We flirted, she had much to offer,
not only an outlet,
but an endless source of information.
We had a brief fling.
My pencil felt betrayed,
and I felt I had wasted away
the best relationship of my life.
We divorced.

I asked out a laptop.
It was interesting:
Doing anything, anywhere, at anytime I wanted.
She flaunted her appeal,
but her insides were refurbished parts,
so it only lasted a while.
The pain of an ex ran deep
and it was hard for me to believe
she would break down,
but she did, and left me.

I miss my pencil.