Friday, November 21, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Will She Be There Tomorrow?

©Will She Be There Tomorrow?
Mona Arizona, November 2014
All Rights Reserved

We'd coffee-housed six cups,
talking and laughing and planning,
never knowing four feet of
snow had suddenly descended.
As we parted,
her to her upstairs loft,
me to find a cab home,
she kissed my cheek
as a sister,
as a mother,
as a concerned friend,
and I left. The outside door clicked
closed behind me and
I took in a sight I had never seen
before —an empty city.
There was no sign
a human had ever visited this
outlandish, white place...
no cars,
no people,
certainly no taxis.

The grainy crunch of too-thin shoes
on fresh, icy snow, the warm, labored
breath of this determined pedestrian, and
the soft expletives of wonder
as each turn revealed
something new,
something refreshed,
something redefined,
were the only noises in this silent city.

I had a long walk ahead of me,
a walk across the ancient heart of the city,
a walk I'd certainly never experience again,
at least, not unprepared for snow.
The wonders of the newly naked city
took me away from my direct route home.
Thankfully, it's always warmer when it snows
and my spirited walking made up for my lack
of gloves,
of hat,
of scarf,
as I kept tramping and crepitating
on my northerly route. I had
a good hour to think about
curling under quilts in my warm bed.

I came upon a park only heard of,
never seen; a park with the only
nude statue of a woman
in an arresting pose. She rested
on her right hip, her only contact
with the pedestal she had been placed on,
her shapely legs, toes pointed,
her torso cocked upwards,
her left arm held straight out
along her line of sight,
her fingers cupped as if
she might be sighting something or
holding (contemplating) something invisible.
How delicately iced with snow she was
along her length and yet she lay
as if roughly thrown into the garden.

My steps hurried me to her as she
lay posed on her hivernal emptiness,
delicately iced with snow,
looking both serious and coquettish
at the same time, enticing me to touch
her strident, out-thrust legs,
her tempting nates,
her deliciously carved back,
with no one around to officiously say
"No touching!" I approached her,
reaching one bare hand to her
no doubt frigid, icy flesh.

She looked cold lying there in the snow,
impervious to my reaching hand.
Did she look down at it?
Suddenly, I was embarrassed,
as though she had read my mind
so easily; I looked into her face.
Was it my imagination?
Did she take my ungloved hand?
Did she place it on one of her high, pert breasts?
The tits of a young woman.
The icy cold nipple
sculpted in detumesence,
nevertheless, hard against my palm.
It was a breast that was more
than a handful, if an honest man
would admit he had held and weighed one.

She reminded me of Aristide Maillol's
life-size bronzes of nude women.
Did she laugh? Could she read my mind?
Was it her taking my hand lower,
down to the gentle contours
of a young woman's belly,
up onto the proud haunch
of a woman unafraid of work,
along the calf of a woman
with the strength to keep going,
down to the toes, which I now saw
were splayed in orgasmic bliss?
I was again drawn back to her head
with its peaceful yet puzzling expression.

Heaven help me! What was I thinking?
That she was inviting me to take her
here in this icy garden.
Was she opening her legs for me?
Was I to be her lover?
Was that enigmatic hand grasping
an invisible cock she sought
to pull into her wet mouth? Well?

I must have looked like a fish
out of water with my mouth
opening and closing as I looked
for an answer to her aggressive questions
because, suddenly, she was laughing
that rough, raspy laugh of a woman
laid out in rapture to torture men like me.
It was from that sensual glissade
that I pulled my hand away
and imagined every foul word
louts and perverts would say about her
tomorrow when they saw her,
when they reached out a hand,
when they touched her,
when they stroked her nudeness.

Was she a sweet, innocent woman?
A woman who knew no shame
in her naked body the artist
assuredly did not want sullied
with the lewdness of men,
the blaming of jealous women,
the fantasies of lonely men like me?
Was she looking at me again?
I must have goldfished again ...
Was that her sigh of goodbye?

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: Declaration

Mona Arizona
All Rights Reserved

My leeching tongue is drawn
to the delta of your thighs,
to Eldorado —pole seems too
foolish a word for such wild splendor
—to the feral, the effluvia
of your interior, and reaching
it's destination, it explores
your body as a tributary.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Mimi-Mona Erotic Poetry: On The Morrow

©On The Morrow
Mona Arizona, October 2014
Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved

When we meet on
the morrow,
make love to me.
Slowly .
If it takes until tomorrow,
I don't care.
Begging, please, make
my body do
things I never knew that you could,
knew you could...
Over and over until we lose count
of how many times you make me come.

Let me be your
drawing you
close to me
while we kiss and I quote Byron.
Old friend,
sweet lover,
you don't have to
hold back,
you don't have to be shy;
we will have the time of our lives.

Scoop me into
your embrace,
fist my long,
chestnut hair,
and kiss the breath from me
as though
no one
exists except
for us;
nip my earlobe with your
teeth and send shivers down my spine.

Nudge my thighs
with you knee;
cup my mound;
my hissing breath.
I want your demanding mouth
claiming my parted lips and my
naked body that will strain toward yours.

your wicked
fingers over
my moist,
sensitive part,
then sinking them into
the tight depths
will elicit moans,
will make me quiver,
will make my world splinter.

Your deep,
guttural moans will
rumble against
my mouth as it
grinds against
yours. Let your hips jerk
upwards and desperately
plunge into my pleading depths
until your own rugged cries
hang in the air.

(painting by u2ro)