Oestrus, This Birth

 

 I made love to the desert,

to the pinyon pines,

to juniper smoke and dried lavender,

planted my seeds there

in the springtime snow.


I sang to blue cornmeal

and Mother Spirits.

I danced to the gnarled riffs of blues guitar,

cradled myself in the music of bluegrass hymns,

slept with the ancestors, 

huddled in woven blankets.

We laughed through hardships,

warmed our hearts with stories.


We were native to each other.


Wildflowers 

of a graceful future 

blossomed from my womb,

intrepid dreams with deep bulbs

for roots.


I left these plantings,

these beautiful parts of myself,

like frozen buds,

there, on tribal land,

at the peak 

of a sacred mountain.


They tended to themselves 

in my absence.

They grew, 

with inchoate longings.


They were souls

that shimmered in the high desert starry night sky

waiting to be formed

by the magic 

of love.


They were medicine spells cast 

like lines

in the subtle poetry 

of the otherworld.


This year,

destiny bloomed,

a green shoot

in springtime.

The seed of your body 

nestling inside my rich and fertile ground;

my sweet scent 

of geraniums flooding your senses.

I am thawed,

warmed

by your raging heat.


This birth

will come

to be.








Nature Falls In Love

Today I am sharing this poem again in celebration of Purim and Nowruz, two festivals of early spring renewal and revelry, that may share ancient roots

erotica poetica

20140310-223149.jpg

In Springtime,

all of nature

falls in love.

The air is wet

with arousal,

fragrant with pollen

and the scent

of raw need.

In springtime,

our bodies ache towards each other

like the First Man

and First Woman did,

the first time they made love,

when the heavens opened up

and the gods applauded like thunder

and a million flowers took latin names

and carved their shapes

out of the green pith

of possibility,

blossoming into a full rainbow

of lurid colors.

In springtime,

clouds cry their heavy tears

that seep into the land,

feeding plants, nourishing roots,

shaking off the sadness of death

that winter brings.

The Earth opens

like a mouth

to receive

the Sun’s kiss.

Love shines.

View original post

Nature Falls In Love

20140310-223149.jpg

In Springtime,

all of nature

falls in love.

 

The air is wet

with arousal,

fragrant with pollen

and the scent

of raw need.

 

In springtime,

our bodies ache towards each other

like the First Man

and First Woman did,

the first time they made love,

when the heavens opened up

and the gods applauded like thunder

and a million flowers took latin names

and carved their shapes

out of the green pith

of possibility,

blossoming into a full rainbow

of lurid colors.

 

In springtime,

clouds cry their heavy tears

that seep into the land,

feeding plants, nourishing roots,

shaking off the sadness of death

that winter brings.

 

The Earth opens

like a mouth

to receive

the Sun’s kiss.

 

Love shines.

Springtime/Astarte

photo-64

I know I am surprising sometimes,

in my rawness,

in my nakedness,

in how I feel tonight,

soft skin smooth and moist

rubbing between my thighs,

no panties

beneath my skirt.

Tickled and tasted

by the air.

 

I am the bees in springtime,

gathering nectar,

making honey.

 

From the fertile center

of myself,

pleasure buds

like flowers do from bulbs,

sensual and fragrant,

ethereal.

 

I was named

for a pagan goddess,

a woman

who’s body’s ecstasy

was a special kind of worship.

 

Like Easter:

I come

in the springtime.