So Unfair.
Last night I had the hottest dream I think I've ever had.
Beautiful, and young I was, with a young and lovely lad.
It wasn't pornographic. I wouldn't say obscene.
Just lusty satisfying sex, the best it's ever been.
Somewhere deep inside my brain I still have those desires,
the passing years, the aging flesh, have not put out the fires.
Alas, too late, I know it, to ride this surging wave,
No way can I achieve the things my mind appears to crave.
The dream was not a memory, some things I've never done
nor have I seen them anywhere, but I was having fun!
Who would have thought, at such an age, when most have given up,
that I'd still feel as playful as a fit and healthy pup.
It's so unfair, so unfair, arousing such a passion
in one without the energy to act in such a fashion.
But if you see me smiling a knowing, thoughtful smile,
remember that the elderly have dreams that still beguile.
© 2013
Marilyn
At school they called me Marilyn;
it was the way I walked.
An icon of the time,
I took her looks to be natural,
thought her and her films sublime;
was shocked, saddened when she died:
a needless, pointless, suicide.
But now I understand.
I cling to life reluctantly, often ready
to despair, especially of men.
I've known so many; most of them
with one thing on their mind.
Though gays could be quite kind.
A life of giving, getting oh, so
little in return: a few, brief hours
of counterfeit affection.
I'm no Marilyn.
I haven't had the work, the money
or the fame. Yet in some lame
inconsequential way I too
know physical attraction's due:
the pain of being used, abused;
insufficiency of love,
a lack of recognition of
one's other, hidden, charms.
Yet all I really long for
is safety in another's arms.
© 2007
What to do?
Too old now to strut my stuff in
slinky clothes and fuck-me shoes
or flash come-hither glances from
mascara'd kohl-black eyes;
arthritis and increasing size,
the pitiless effects of time,
are things I can't refute.
What to do, what to do,
when teenage passion
persecutes a body
past its prime?
© 2007
Old Hands
Why do these old hands ache so much
to reach, to stroke, to hold, to touch?
Why must they make my needs so plain?
My hands are driving me insane.
Though now adorned with jeweled rings
they long for old familiar things:
for flesh and muscle, firm and hard,
across which, once, they'd promenade.
I can, of course, caress the cat
although there's not much fun in that.
She isn't keen on being squeezed;
my hands just wind up feeling teased.
They yearn to feel again the thrill
of using, once again, their skill
to make a lover so inflamed
that one might almost feel ashamed.
Such skills I've had and have them yet
though currently they pose no threat;
and so I dream as here I nap,
my hands, frustrated, in my lap.
© 2005
Skin Hunger
Always there's the awful hunger,
longing for another's touch,
lonely hours of desolation,
lonely days of nothing much.
Yearning to be gently fondled,
craving just to be caressed;
someone's arms around her body,
someone's hand upon her breast.
Eager lips to brush against her,
rousing blood and passion's fire,
urgent writhing bodies blending
in concupiscent desire.
Only those who've ever known it
can appreciate the plight
of a woman lying, sighing,
dying each and every night.
© 2005
Wicked To the Bone
Once upon a time
and not so very long ago
women like me were deemed to be
insane and locked away for life.
If you were someone's wife
of course it then became a duty
but sex without a wedding ring -
how vile, depraved, degenerate!
A baby out of wedlock?! Disgraceful!
Deplorable! Contemptible! Insane!
What more proof was needed
that a woman was a simpleton
in need of protection?
So many babes adopted,
their mothers in asylums, their only
crime a sexual encounter. Unless...
Ah, unless...
Men still had their mistresses
but how to draw the line between
a paramour and prostitute?
Class and economics.
A healthy appetite today
is still occasionally seen
as sinful and depraved.
The ancient triad still exists:
maiden, mother, crone.
Fall outside the borders
and you're wicked to the bone!
© 2005
Hochiwich
(the Romany word for Hedgehog)
Damaged goods, emotionally;
don't know how to be.
Think too much, that's half of it.
What is it to be me?
Stunted growth, unable
to live a "normal" life.
Never got the hang of it:
a child, a girl, a wife.
Sheltered by seclusion
I'm protected from pain
but, escaping from reality,
lose more than I gain.
Hedgehog on a busy street,
intimidated, curled,
prickles up, anticipating;
hiding from the world.
Finally I worked it out,
gave the thing a name.
Peace comes with knowing.
Still, it's a shame.
© 2005
Ready, Willing and Able
What makes a woman stop
doing it with her man?
Does she no longer fancy him?
has she given all she can?
Is it negativity?
Does she feel over the hill,
no longer attractive?
Or possibly she's ill.
Does he no longer woo her?
Perhaps he's forgotten how.
Instead of sexy, she sees herself
as a fat old frumpy cow.
Yes, he ogles supermodels
or busty blondes, it's true.
He knows he'll never go there but
he still enjoys the view.
It may be a personal problem she
can't bring herself to explain
so she counters all his questions
with embarrassment and pain.
But maybe it isn't that at all
(and men, this may sound rough)
but maybe he's simply crap at it
and, frankly, she's had enough!
Maybe nobody told him -
apart from what to put where -
how to please his woman
(that's those who even care.)
We didn't come with instructions;
he's just been muddling through.
So don't just lie there, lady!
Give the guy a clue!
But if you really can't bring yourself
to enter into the fun
I'm ready, willing, and able.
I'll show him how it's done!
© 2004
Ecstasy
I used to wonder what I had to offer those young men
who wrote to me petitioning the pleasure of my company.
But yesterday I read something that made me think again;
intended to amuse perhaps - unflattering, most certainly.
The author gave his point of view on boys of seventeen
(at that age they are easily excited, apparently)
a tick infested sheep in a rainstorm was the scene
supplying an attractive proposition. Bestiality!
Now, though I know I'm getting on, I'm wearing pretty well.
I may not be the object of a raging teenage fantasy
but tick infested sheep in a rainstorm sound like hell!
Compared to that I think my ministrations would be ecstasy.
© 2004
No Longer Pretty
I am no longer pretty
the firm young flesh of yesteryear,
the boundless energy of youth
are gone but not forgotten.
Night after night
untouched and unmolested
I lie here in my room
but sometimes, as the night descends,
I yearn to feel another's skin pressed close against my own,
to touch once more with trembling hands a lover's kindly face
and kiss his mouth and breathe his breath,
look deep into his eyes;
to smell and taste the redolence engendered by arousal;
to know again the tingling twitching touch of someone's hands
and have my privacy invaded,
oh! such sweet surrender!
Exquisite expectation!
and go exploring as before
with hands and tongue and eager lips
to satisfy my hunger
and, legs entwined around him,
with quickened breath and racing pulse
share the uproarious ecstasy
when wisdom and propriety
are swallowed up by passion
and lust devours all.
© 2003
Nights In White Satin
I was in the supermarket the other day
when a very old tune began to play.
Nights In White Satin was the name of the song
and I thought "Oh yes! That's where I belong.
Forget polyester, forget about cotton,
it's time for me to get spoiled rotten;
to spend the night between sheets of silk
and bathe each day in asses milk.
To have a flunky right there on his knees
and a hunky, spunky one if you please.
Forget about cooking, forget about pans,
it's time to stop eating out of cans.
I'll dine out nightly, I'll eat the best
take what I want and leave the rest.
No more leftover scraps for me,
I'll start enjoying life, you'll see!
Forget about lonely, forget about tears,
it's time to put an end to fears.
I've just got to find me a millionaire
a man with few thousand bucks to spare.
One who appreciates quality, yes!
with a really prestigious kind of address.
Forget being poor, forget about mean
it's time to pick those rich guys clean.
© 2003
To Know Love
To know real love
is the deepest desire of the heart.
Deprived of love the heart grows cold
and withers like the autumn leaves.
Like winter's trees, so dark and bare
standing stark against the sky;
or some poor solitary swan,
searching sadly through the mist,
so is a heart bereft.
I have known love;
it was a kind of love such that
none before or since compares.
A love transcending time and space
that was akin to madness.
This was a love that would never be
could never be - and yet - and yet
somehow it survived.
Two souls united -
there was no consummation;
just to look into his eyes
and see my soul reflected back
was all we had for solace.
Yet if by some strange quirk of fate
he and I should meet once more
I know that we would, as before,
experience the heights and depths
of love that goes beyond all reason,
all imagination.
© 2002
What We Want
We want to be wanted
need to be needed
long to be longed for, adored
but so often find that
we're just tolerated
sometimes even ignored.
Living is tough and
we have to be strong,
strength comes from deep inside
where we know we are loved
and we matter to someone
and don't have to run and hide.
Give me some loving
lend me some strength
help me to get through the day
for even this much will be
better than nothing
to send me out into the fray.
© Nov 2002
Culture Clash
Here today it's all
wrinklies this and
crumblies that
no respect at all for what
time has given us.
The years give more than they take
if you let 'em.
My Asian friend calls me madam.
Madam, imagine it!
Had to tell him not to call me that here.
People might get the wrong idea.
It's nice though
a guy says 'I honour you
for your wisdom'.
Wow. Or
'You have so much to teach me'.
You betcha.
© 2002
Playing Games
Where can I find a man who really wants me?
One who really wants me for myself?
All the ones I've met
though that's not many yet
seem to want to leave me on the shelf.
They talk to me for hours by computer
and offer to oblige me now and then
but when all's said and done
there really isn't one
who'll make it definite and tell me when.
I really don't know what they're all afraid of.
I think it's just a fantasy to them.
But what I really need
is a man who'll do the deed.
Amongst the dross where is there such a gem?
It's not as if I'm ugly or repulsive
at least that's what most people seem to say
and my brain still functions well
as far as I can tell
so why won't someone take me all the way?
I always thought that men were ever ready
they claim they'll go with anything that moves
but that just isn't so
believe me I should know
as all their reticence so clearly proves.
Why can't I find a man who really wants me?
What must I do to find a willing mate?
Yes, they can talk the talk
but few can walk the walk
not even even when it's offered on a plate!
© 2001
What do I want?
What do I want? To
Lay with you, stay with you,
wake up each day with you,
play with you, fight with you,
make up each night with you;
think with you, talk with you,
go for a walk with you,
joke with you, pun with you,
have lots of fun with you;
come with you, go with you,
play in the snow with you,
ride with you, hide with you,
be at your side with you;
sit with you, stand with you,
lie hand in hand with you,
drink with you, eat with you,
generate heat with you;
smile with you, frown with you,
go up and down with you,
laugh with you, cry with you,
grow old and die with you.
That's all.
What do you want?
© 2001
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