From Man To Woman

From Man to Woman                                                 Arna Baartz *2006

 

Beautiful and kind

heart open wide

like womb

or

time,

soft

edges undefined.

Man is here

wants to be

loved we see…..to exist is all.

Making the rough

the tough

spearhead,

the phallic reaching, mother womb

fertile fields a sad man’s tomb.

A question soft and true;

See me? I see you. Please see me? I’m here too.

Out of hand,

far too grand and now we’ve lost the point.

A blood-tipped point,

the taste of salt,

a rusty thing no-ones fault.

Beautiful and gentle

a cry…..short and true;

See me? I see you.

Please see me,

I’m here too.

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Flower Skin

 

Flower skin at dawn

petal thighs,

open silk and fragrant

it nests there.

 

Simply touching skin

momentary fire,

a wealth of frothy wave

it crests there.

 

Unbearable softness

something sighs,

colour in satin throat

it rests there.

Love Swept The Breeze Away

 

Fresh and cool it entered

then swayed and left,

or seemed to,

me and you,

the saddest

flowers

in the sun.

But the heat that kissed the space just above my skin

told me the truth

I didn’t know until then.

Time entered and sighed and I listened so hard,

I pressed my ear against the

tight spot  in my heart.

Feathers ruffled, a moment shuffled,

the breeze stung my eyes and made me cry (it didn’t mean to).

Breath filled me and called me and kissed me

on the inside.

Love shifted and swayed and seemed to say,

a word that only

the tight spot,

deep in my heart needed to hear.

one

soft,

perfectly

fragrant

word…..

Noah’s Boat

‘GO’ God said

‘DO the thing, two by two and you.’

‘Do I have to?’ Noah cried.

‘I don’t like animals, I don’t want to put Mrs. Noah in my boat.

I just want to watch the sun come out alone.

All by myself,

I want to float,

on the top of the world

just me and my boat.’

Two Weeks


Two weeks,

aeons when

succumbing to the insanity of Love.

Two weeks of yearning buzz,

confused bee’s

flutter in the chest

while ivy struggles for clear path.

Two weeks of living,

incomplete, drenched existence

stormy child

frightened, dying.

Meeting oneself on a muddy track,

holding back, not holding back.

A jungle of a life time when

eating an endless dessert of tinned plum,

red, rich,

sickly, sweet.

Two weeks.

Stop!

I turn against this instructed combustion

and welcome clean and easy light,

a glow of love without the eternity.

Calm the drama

rest the finger picking

and wringing of old bells and hands.

Be still  bee’s

you know your queen,

fly straight.

Two weeks,

a string of life lived,

a little plant growing through

a brazen crack.

Two glorious weeks of crisp sheets

and windy nights

and peanut butter

and coffee and yellow dog and paint.

Two weeks.

 

The Artist


earth lives in wet caress

like polished drops of orange sun

that slide and mould the contours  of my soul

you are a sculptor

my breasts are clay that cry and move,

your push and pull sucks me into being,

thumbs press and stretch like God and water flows in

open pores like moody tears and music to a pool of stone

a deep note inside a song

the touching is a thrill of song itself

you are a musician

melody comes thick and sweet like sugar in hot tea,

black tea, sprinkled on my body, crisp flakes

contrasting with the felt on which you rest your open palm

full grasp of flesh like biting into something rich and salty

a lick of wicked script

a tongue teaching me

the words, of wild and graceful tune

you are a poet

large earnest loops of love trace letters down and over me

holding me still, bending my will a lyrical freedom

heart beating like bubbles bursting

big thick molasses bubbles, bursting slowly, like punishment

a wash of soft paint,

a brush of colour in my belly

pleasure laquers the canvas with vibrant oils

you are a painter

Beautiful House, Beautiful Mind

Crisp, clean sheets, alive with wealth and comfort, flap and flicker.
Throughout the ages, my sheets have graced the lines of life, in the green garden of my house in the blossoming flourish of my mind.
My pencil flits across naked pages in the warmth of my sunlit study, in this large clean house in my beautiful open mind.
Dough rises under fresh muslin and the tea is brewing in my scented kitchen, filled with the magic that feeds me.
The pantry holds fort, with its spices and condiments, sparkling jars of jam and honey in my wonderful clean rambling house in my beautiful poignant mind.
My body slides against pure silk of dusky pink, little red robins and butterflies; the claw foot bath is running in my candle lit bathroom, like a bathhouse with its story telling tiles and green falling vines. The baby frogs watch and bath in the condensation on the window.
The aroma of love fills the steamy air, soft dark locks are caught behind my ears in a clasp of perfumed cedar.
This bathroom ,this fresh watering place invigorates and glows in my peaceful, soft lit mind.
The curtains at the windows flutter a welcome to friends and the wide rolling hills I see, are perfect for the golden familiars, human and otherwise.
Together we frolic and gambol amongst the wildflowers growing under our bare feet.
I am connected through the earth of a million years to the source of forever.
The sun is touching me, kissing me and cleansing the corners of my home, my world.
An ode to the sweet, fragrant mind.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold

Kevin Hotter

Los Angeles Freelance Writer • Comedian • Photographer •

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