Recently, someone whom I care for and remains a good friend, inspired me to start writing poetry again.
I’m trying really hard to not only open up my creative/artistic side once more, but also to be brave enough to share it publicly. My first one seemed to fall flat, so I’m very uncomfortable sharing this one.
I wrote this for someone specifically (she gave me permission to share it), and I’m proud of how it turned out. I’ve been experimenting with combining poetry and in-relationship sexting to make something new to me and I love the result. Hope someone enjoys this.
On the Table
Our days were long and our patience thin.
Stress, anxiety, restrained within.
Cuisine acquired on return roam,
to be shared, consumed, in settled home.
Sustenance meal and comforting care,
laid out bare, on the table.
After meal swallowed, I lean back. Full.
Eyes closed, until your hands grip and pull,
at my neck, shoulders, massaging me.
Relaxing. Calming. Towards stress-free.
My eyes unfocussed and downwards sank.
Resting blank, on the table.
It stops so sudden, I jerk awake,
hoping you have more that I can take.
Around my front, you smilingly walk.
Oh the words they’d say, if eyes could talk.
You undress yourself. Your gaze is hard.
Lean backward, on the table.
You push up fast, and then settle down,
lifting yourself up off of the ground.
Body welcoming, your eyes … they gleam.
Legs spread open, as if in my dream.
I grin, face in and once more I feast.
Hungry Beast, on the table.
You gasp. Your moan is almost a purr.
My tongue is firm. Fast. And it is sure.
Both push in, enjoying our dessert.
Needing this so bad it almost hurts.
I am lost in the sound, feel, and taste.
Focussed haste, on the table.
It is not long before lost control.
Tremors ripple through your body whole.
I stand up. Undress. So far. So near.
Memorize. Imprint this image clear:
Trembling beauty. She wants her fill.
Hungry. Still. On the table.
Another meal for my carnivore.
Both breathe heavy as I feed her more.
Hip to hip, your legs wrapping around.
Finally our lips seek and are found.
Hands caressing, feeling, squeezing tight.
Lurid sight, on the table.
Our words announce the end is coming.
Hearts are pounding, and ears are humming.
Entrée delivered to willing crowd.
The final exclaim is strong and loud.
Dinner finished. Appetite appeased.
Bodies pleased, on the table.
We stay together for moments more;
This is what we were most hungry for.
I help you get off, feet touch the floor.
Relaxed. Peaceful. And no longer sore.
Our pent up frustrations released. Gone.
Still linger, on the table.
- Fred Holstine
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
dicentra:
You make sex sound so poetic. I know that's the point of a poem but you get what I mean. I like the way you related it to food. Very you!
fredhincanada:
@dicentra Yep. It almost screams “French Toast.”