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The Best of 2014

ny girl
by john e

upon the roof
by john e

by Nettie Kestler


Haiku 2012
by Various Authors

Haiku 2001
by Various Authors

Limericks 2012
by Various Authors

Limericks 2007
by Various Authors

by Various Authors

Horrible Erotikishka Pomes
by Various Authors

By Ashley Lister
Kisses Crops and Canes
Kneel and Worship
Sonnet 18+

By john e
The Voyeur Leaves
Acorns and Moss
Molly Was Not...
Doing Without
A Sometimes Belligerent...
antecedent obliteration
It Slips Away
Your clothes

By Nettie Kestler
Falls to Mabon

By Nick Nicholson
All Days Valentine

By Nikki Isaak

By Raziel Moore
Does poetry have rules?
Where is my poetry?

By Rose B. Thorny
3 x 3 x 3
That Old Refrain

By Valentina Bonnaire
  Acorn and Moss
by john e

call forth the scent - that's where it starts,
two shades away from musk, straining
to hold delicate counterparts
in dewy gauze, short of raining.

i first hear the trembling of leaves
overhead, precision subtle.
a stray yet focused light relieves
the sun-starved hollow, rebuttal

to my unlit eyes, mischievous
ease of scene-setting, reducing
the mundane, leaving luminous
opportunities.  i breathe, bring

to my body fragrance and light.
can this occur for me alone?
the delicacies observed fight
to be more: sense furies disown

themselves in the struggle.  and now,
in this dream, or wish, or transport
i move along, bare toes (just how
had your spirit - lively escort -

persuaded me to step shoeless?
in this desire controlled i'm one
with you, leaf-tapping to digress
lightly into light: even sun

is a hued tone, spotlight ablaze,
simultaneously muted.
i'm one with you, and so outgaze
the woods.  you wish me unbooted:

i dream your dream for you).  tell me
you're not the moss, yielding and damp.
you'd not explain away, you see,
heartbeats connected to the tramp

of my entry, the progressive
tenuousness of step toward you.
say you are not this reflective
brightness, illumination through

a timid drizzle, and i will
still inhabit this mute soft air,
still whisper how you come to fill
the solitude, how everywhere

you wait for me.  seeing acorns,
two hard dark nubs, lighter than brown,
darker than rose: this too forewarns
me, before exciting me down

my own deep clearing.  no hiding
of want within.  parts of me rise,
desiring company, chiding
me with the hard strength of surprise

for my reserve and reticence.
yes, you are here.  your flesh is bared,
elbows and knees in confidence
press my wet dream moss, longing stared

back, nipples hard brush the carpet
of soft life within life, burn light
inside light, so the rivulet
runs back to me, fluid delight

in fantasy.  watching you bow
to raise your own slow wantoness
to a blind need you will allow
my eyes your wild excessiveness,

the vulnerability of
natural states, the natural
state: vulnerability, love
of openess, trust bestial.

you wait for me in my forest.
exposed, opened to sun and rain
and my tongue, my self.  without rest
i pleasure you, until we drain

all subtlety from my daydream
by our wet bodies locked in spasm,
clawing and growling the mad theme
here, in this pastoral chasm

charmed by the animals we are.
i lose myself, and all is more
of itself, wondrous; and far
within, mad wordlessness in your

voice brings us together in this
vacancy.  we slowly embrace
on soft earth, under softer kiss
of rain.  then sadly i erase

your body, silence your hoarse lust,
watch the slight furrows in moss spring
up to claim occupancy just
as before; i watch as each thing

affected by your beauty leaves
this imagined relationship
and becomes itself, misconceives
my desire, lets my body slip

backwards, away from the clearing,
the acorns and moss, until these
too are imagined, are nothing
but images you left to please

from an artful conversation.
i've imagined each piece, and placed
you there; lustful adoration
by thought and fingers interfaced

with memory.  here is some verse,
celebrating your vision.  moss
and acorns, semen and sweat: curse
the true sun, the dark woods, the loss

of our scratching each other in
the dirt; curse the loss of the dirt;
curse this poem, this civil dustbin,
and curse these longings i divert.

© 2001 john e. All rights reserved

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john e


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