Bucket of Lust

Straddling the console, bodies twisted
in bucket seats, desire undimmed by
discomfort; passion pushes aside
the gear shift stuck between,
they are oblivious to it.

In the back of one mind
or the other
want for a bench seat pokes through, the other
wonders whether this was a wise move.
Perhaps this is best left for those younger
bodies – a fleeting thought – this question
does not break the build of sexual tension.

Fogged windows mirror the emotion
uncertain in the afterglow
each silently wanting
to ask
was it good for you?




An Invitation

Inspect my imperfections,
the dimple
on my thigh
and battles scars
of child birth.
Run your fingers along my shin bone,
the subtle bumps
earned in childhood play
– and my young-mother-stumbles,
when I fell
pursuing little boys in danger.

Study the flaws
reflected in my mirror
each time I undress
when I see myself
with a critical eye – and wonder
what he saw
to find
beauty in the image.

Place your hands on mine
caress the length and detail
of this body;
discover me
with your eyes – accept
this invitation
to participate in life



Standing in the Middle of the Room

Avoiding touchy-feely-painful parts,
concentration centers on physical.
We dance alongside our love, as always,
aiming to profess – confess undying
passion we rarely ever exhibit
anymore. When the mood strikes, thunder-clap
sex emerges lightning fast – rain washes
scents of it from our bodies, no longer
still entangled in sheet, panting passion,
murmuring words of wonder; we leave out
emotions standing pink-elephant-esque
in the middle of the room, not wanting
to spoil one second with reality
all our differences – money, family, friends.



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…


Next Steps

I watch the antics of youth play around
in front of me and wonder – was that me
all those years ago? Awkward, shy, clumsy
in the presence of the opposite sex?
Which of them is the mirror of my past?
The tall, thin, angular boy or the girl
watching with side-long glances and wishing
for the courage to speak her mind out loud.

Elements of each thrive inside of me;
clumsy and awkward when you are present,
too shy to speak my mind when we’re alone.
Thrown back into my history today
I recognize the path I started then,
and know that, now, the next steps are my own.

© Siobhan

Look Up

We never look up – anymore.
Our eyes are glued to the surface,
the ground below our feet
where each day we tread carefully
the same steps
one foot in front of the other,
just as we were taught.

Does anyone teach their children
to skip or whistle anymore;
that it’s ok to laugh out loud
and smile for no particular reason at all? 
We worry too much
about what
everyone else is thinking.
We need to look up
once in a while.
See the sunshine
and the clouds;
feel wind and rain and life.