Scorched With A Giggle

From your eyes the scorch of an angel

Words, feathered, pronounced on my skin

Caressed more lightly than fingertips could

Sexed without trace of a sin

Eyed by two green and a soul search

Two hazel stared in return

Glint upon glint sparking arrows

That’s where our love-life began

Voice bathed my flesh and it shivered

Washed me in words welcomed, warm

Filled up my core and delivered

Heat from a new-risen sun

Irises reached, enlarged pupils,

Signs of what still had to come

First look, first words, were the herald

Of a sex life that’s been second to none!

I was tagged by Jessica to write a sexy poem for Sexy Poetry Day.  But I’m obviously still a fourteen year old when it comes to talking about sex – I can’t help giggling.

Regardless, I dedicate this poem to my better half who, despite life’s marital ups and downs, still rocks my boat and makes me giggle. I was nineteen when we first met, he with my oldest brother, me with my mum. Sparks flew from the get-go, which was a tad embarrassing all round. He was warned off by my brother, me by my mum! But love will out. Sparks will fly. And sex requires some giggling, I’ve always felt. Think about it. Heaven sure has a sense of humour. You couldn’t make it up yourself!


How Be It Dream

If, in inner eye

of languid 


is felt

is seen

a million

multicoloured prisms

streaming on the beam


on pin-pointed purpose

to bestow



two-spirit gendered

ancient deity

suffusing and infusing

seeking soul surrender

in semi-conscious

state of sensuality

caressed and kissed

by ported rays

on zephyr’d fingertips

aroused from drenching

sun-blessed sleep


as felt

as seen

how be it dream

Masked And Uninvited

Pale feathers shielded eyes inked black with passion,

kohled, surrounded satin,

smouldered spark,

templed pulses, throat betrayed, with flutter, fanned desire,

silk neck adorned of pearls

clasped at back.

Fingers fussed release at all tight fastened,

white robe of velvet shuffled,

heaped to floor,

corset fumbled urgent fascination,

lips and hands possessing hearts’ desire, 

possessed, possessor, pleading each for more.

Mask and heels and stockings still bedecked while

flashing eyes and stumbles

tripped to bed,

semi-dressed for ball, quite uninvited,

normalised by marital,

newly weds!

Okay, this might count as ‘mask with romantic‘ if I wasn’t extracting the Michael a bit. Just a wee bit. Time to get out of the sun, I think. Too much fun in the sun to be had with masks. Must get a visor…

Parisian Sin

Add colours to your palette,

Greens and cobalt blue,

Yellows sourced from saffron,

Pigments of purple hue.

Dabble with the rainbow layered,

Brush upon the silk,

Breathe life into my picture,

Create me from paint spilt

Upon my skin, a tattoo’d blush,

Effusing limb to limb,

Your mark diffused in attic’d light,

Parisian in sin.

Spread, apply, with fingers deft,

Decree a new form born,

Unequalled art in tone and touch,

Picasso’d by lovelorn

Revisited each time to free

The picture held within,

Blend the magic twixt we two,

Masterpiece therein.

Unencumbered chaise and rug,

A naked revelation,

Smudged together, canvassed flesh,

Signed, ‘Love/Lust’, artist’s temptation.


Nascent Temptress

Yves at Mindlovemiserysmenagerie has invited poets to contribute to the prompt ‘Vernalagnia – the romantic mood heralded by spring’.

This is mine.


 Daffodil in bud


lick of lips anticipates

coy kiss, soft purse, 

a pout of parting, promise

still to come,

a sideways glance, budding

hope, emergent

another lick,

more conscious, now


Well-slept sap arisen, bubbling, brewing, plump’d provocation, 

scented breathlessness,

poised, lush,


Spring of step, eyes shutter, wider, flicker,

flash of iris, flagg’d arousal,

flirtatious kiss, grown deeper,

nascent temptress.


Iris in bloom


Whore – a short story by John Ian Bush

Part One


I’m willing to admit that my interest in Goldie isn’t healthy. I started watching her last summer when she moved in the house across the street. Before last summer I use to spend my nights watching this documentary show about life inside prisons, but she’s more interesting to me now.

She’s short, and I like short girls, and she’s got long golden blond hair, and I like that too. She’s always wearing really revealing clothes, though, and I hate that. I hate to think that other guys get to see that much of her.

The first summer I started watching her, she wore these really short jean shorts and tank tops that showed her stomach and hip bones. I like her stomach and her hip bones, and I’ve never thought about those parts on any other girl before.

I should mention that she’s a known whore, like a prostitute I mean. I don’t wake up during the summers anymore until one in the afternoon because I usually stay up until four or later to watch her bring her customers back and forth to her house from the train tracks, that’s where the whores normally set up shop here in town.

I watch her at night partly from jealousy, I hate every old bastard that gets to have her  while I sit in my room lusting after her and fantasizing in my underwear, and partly I do it to make sure none of those perverted old johns hurt her or try anything rough with her.



Part Two


I finally did it. See, I’ve been selling my ADHD meds to a dealer friend of mine down the street, he gives me thirty bucks for every bottle. I saved the money for six whole months so I could pay for a turn with Goldie.

I wanted to look good for it. I got my hair cut, I shaved, I trimmed, I went to the store and picked up the best smelling cologne I could find, and when I got back home, I picked some flowers from my mom’s rosebush in our back yard.

I went to her house after dinner, she answered the door dressed, but with wet hair and legs and feet. The first thing she asked me was if I was looking to have some fun, and I said I was and she waved me into the living room.

“Are you wearing perfume?” she asked.

I told her I was and I handed her the flowers.

“Sweet heart, this isn’t a date,” she said politely. “I cost a hundred.”

I handed her the money and she gently pushed me to her couch and kissed me. “You look familiar,” she said.

“I’ve been watching out for you,” I said.  “I live across the street and I’ve been watching out for you.”

“You’re sweet,” she said. She started undressing. She wasn’t wearing the short jean shorts of the summer before, but this little black skirt that barely covers her ass, and instead of tank tops, she was wearing a tight little t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear or a bra, but that was okay by me.

When she took off her shirt, the first thing I noticed was that she had a belly button ring.

“I’d like your stomach more without the piercing,” I said. “I’ve always liked your stomach.”


Hard Hands, Soft Voice

Abraded cares from workday hands,

Calloused by our needs,

Hardened strokes from fingertips

Toiled and soiled to feed.

Voice still soft, it wears it well,

Years of tender tone,

Gentle words, firmer touch,

Juxtapos’d to make me moan.


Three Candles

born to be

three candles, restive,


aimlessly, in dance,

enclosed in red,

filter gloom within

one room,

still’d, silent

sounds below the level,


reflective balls

upon a surface


pops invisible,

they rise to air,



flutter’d darkness,

oblivion observed,

I wander there.

no one touches like

the touch of water,

submersion soft,

a sensual

soporific haze,

three candles, struck from one,

a scarlet wonder,

ending sweetly

waxen musings

on a rainbow’d melted day.


Sipping nectar deep in stamened flower,

Erect to galvanise and to entice

Penchant of the butterfly that hovers

Tasting once, enjoying, tasting twice,

Offer savoured, sweetest delectation,

Concubined to heady flower held aloft,

Inducement of the rainbow borne on wingspan,

Partaking of the dewdrop silken soft.