of Poetry by Volponia, Volponia@aol.com
All rights to the following are reserved to Volponia
Copy/duplication is prohibited
ME (c) 1998
Fix me with the bright gaze of azure eyes
Pierce through the many skins of my disguise
Into my brain your keen blue arrow flies
Entrance me with your whisper; let me hear
Within the shell of my receptive ear
The deep and tender voice I so revere
Give me the ripened contact of your lips
The sweetness of your tongue’s tip as it slips
Into my mouth, and there my nectar sips
Trace once again a thrilling line
From chin to throat, from ear to neck to spine
Write in sign language, "Woman, you are mine!"
Feast on a gold-and-ivory-coloured mound
Tipped with raspberry; listen for the sound
Of my ecstatic moan; hear it resound
Open the silken temple with your thumbs
Press on the pulse that beats like myriad drums
Capture the pearl whence all my glory comes
Part every fold; enter the temple gate
Traverse the passage; my soul lies in wait
To greet the noble holder of my fate
Turn me; seek out the untouched passage there
Part me and plunder all the secrets where
No one has gone; all of me is your share
Plant your triumphant flag on every part
Pierce me throughout with your love’s burning dart
Bury your being in my open heart
Copyright 1998 by Volponia@aol.com
. Do not distribute, reproduce or misappropriate this work in
any manner, by any means, to anyone, without the express written
permission of the author.
Comments, suggestions, critiques are welcome.
Real love, unbound by time, finds its delight
Within the depths of the beloved’s eyes.
Youth’s morning gone, inching toward final night
We know what yet we have, and that we prize.
Where once we charmed with youth’s round, dimpled face
Now we enchant with wisdom’s deep-cut seams
Absent the lusty power of youth’s embrace
We cherish gentle touches, common dreams.
Farewell, the nights when passion rode us hard;
Welcome to morning’s deep and thrilling touch,
Practiced embraces, quoting of The Bard,
Our share of joy may ne’er have been so much.
Youth gazes on us, through us, sees us not,
Thinks it possesses all of ardor’s ground,
Our secret is, old fires still burn hot
We smile in secret at the bliss we’ve found.
Blow, winter wind; fearless, we heed thee not
Copyright April 1999 by Volponia@aol.com
All rights reserved.
not reproduce without the express permission of the author.