Strength of a Memory

Moments come and go when the ache for you
is so intense, I’m certain I will burst
into flame; the longing to caress you,
taste you, saturates me, my every pore;
my mouth waters at the thought of your mouth.

Strangely, my body does not remember
other hands and mouths, other intimate
partners with the strength of your memories –
perhaps their passion did not run as deep
for me – desire not as evident.

I wonder how long it will take for these
sensations to run their course, fade away
– parts of me (yes those) don’t want it to end;
others hope its soon for sanity’s sake.

~ Siobhan



Making love is inelegant; bodies
twisted around, contorted in pleasure
unaware, ignorant of aesthetics.
Graceful or awkward, their movements become
second-nature and unimportant
to the expression of their desire,
this blend of carnal and spiritual
hungers, blinds lovers to the outside world.

Too close to be a simple fuck, they feel
connected; it is no longer just sex
or procreation – it’s an expression
of need and want coupled with emotion.

He pulls her hair, tilts her head back, as she
whispers “I love you”, her eyes wide open.


March 26, 2011

Eyes Wide Open
Cool palms cup heated flesh, desire’s warmth
spiraling down her body. Familiar
tug of want pulls her hands to forbidden
pleasure – releases needs pent-up inside
for too long. She does not close her eyes now.
Once hidden, shuttered under lashes, she
allowed imagination to control
her visions, paint her partner’s picture.
She’s no longer afraid of memories,
wants to see her lover’s face, hear his voice.
It is no secret she craves life’s passions;
revels in the sensation – nakedness,
body pressed to body, becoming one;
eyes wide open, she is fascinated.

The Space Between

She cannot speak,
tongue twisted around words
already spoken. Emotions
confused with wants and needs,
close her throat – and his ears.

The space between them expands,
becomes a gulf too wide to reach across;
so she turns on to her back
and floats, alone and wanting – willing
to be on her own.

Knots pulled tightly
loosen slowly.


Naked Canvas
Just when she thinks she’s picked up all pieces
of her broken heart, a misstep across
the kitchen floor finds one more shard ready,
willing, and able to pierce the soft flesh.
She questions, cries. Alone for the first time,
uncertainty lurks in every corner.
Each groan of rafters, creak of the floor boards
becomes a ghost walking through and stopping.
With each drop of blood on cracked tile, she feels
his promises, elusive as the wind,
come back and disappear just as they did
before, when he shattered both love and trust.
He watches from outside the circle of
her warmth, offers solace, comfort, passion
– not for her, not now – as she stumbles on
the memories scattered through their house – once home.
She pulls pictures from frames, throws paint on walls
to cover images of love-making
cast there by candles lit, now long gone out,
passion and desire – following suit.

With each stroke of color, she heals again,
a naked canvas, new life, waiting for her.



She wonders why it’s not easier now
to tell lies than the truth – is it the pain?
the edge of rejection?  Remembered hurt
that serves itself up as a distraction
from work – the world – or a clean kitchen?

She is afraid of losing everything,
uncertain she deserves to be happy;
certain she cares far too much anyway
what others think – their opinion of her
existence, and if she matters at all.

Neruda calls for poetry that’s raw,
expressive, soiled with life-stained lessons.
Did he know the future and declare love
and loathing will walk together always…


A Mona Lisa Smile
He watches the sun caress her body,
basting her curves with tiny beads of sweat;
his eyes trace a path across clavicle.
He longs to follow each drop as it slips
beneath the cling of fabric, soaking in,
giving her a glow, enhanced with secrets
she guards behind closed eyes and subtle smile.
She has no need of white sandy beaches;
the hot marble and cold fountain water
quiet her want; her desire simmers
just below the surface, waiting for him.
Under the Paris sky, he enters her
dreams, whispers of the wonders below them –
love, beauty – and a Mona Lisa smile.