My Poetry

April is National Poetry Month here in the United States. I have been writing poems since I was a very young child, my first influence being my first grade teacher. I still remember the first poem I ever wrote, an assignment in her class:

There once was a pickle
Who had a nickel
To buy the deodorant Tickle 
So it wouldn't smell like a pickle.

Cut me some slack, I was six year old. Over the years my poetry has (thankfully) matured, going through various phases - teenage angst, college activism, quarter-life crisis, etc. Below are a few samples of my work, along with my notes. I hope you enjoy them and that they give you a glimpse into the inner workings of my writing.

First Date Rules: Then and Now

No

(sex)

Kissing on the first date;

Second is

(expected)

Optional.

By the third date, you should know if you want to

(f*ck)

See the guy again.

This poem is actually based on advice I was given before my very first date. A friend - who had a reputation as a player - told me "No kissing on the first date; second is optional". He saw the look of shock on my face and explained to me that he had no respect for a girl who would kiss on a first date, and explained the rest of what is written. I have updated the "rules" to reflect changes in society. As for me, I live by my own rules - and the adage that a lady doesn't kiss and tell...although I will say, this next piece is something with which many women can identify.

Second Date

“Please”, he moans softly into her ear

A delicate entreaty

She has heard from so many potential lovers spurned.

She wants him to be different

Because she wants him

(to love her);

But she needs him

(NOW!)

To understand

That she is not that type of girl.

He speaks that well-worn line about “respecting her” in the morning

As if he would stick around that long,

Not finding a reason to slip from her

(bed)

Arms

Cloaking himself in the darkness as he goes.

The spell is broken by the memory

Of the men who came before him

And left her wanting.

The fire that burned inside her has shifted;

Like Prometheus’ gift

Its flames can pain as well as please.

Her ice blue eyes have lost their sparkle

She pulls away and asks:

Will you call me

(ever?)

Tomorrow

To tell me you had a great time tonight?

Will you tell me you want to see me

(naked)

Again

And ask if I am free midweek?

Or will you tell me that you have too much going on to pursue a relationship

(with me)

Right now?

That it’s “too soon” after your divorce/break-up/death of your Tamagotchi?

That you respect me,

But need time to process through your

(slut phase)

Emotions

Before committing to one woman.

Would the sex we have tonight speak of a commitment longer than

(your cock)

It takes for the moon to set?

She can see in his eyes that she has hurt him.

She can hear his sincere passion

As he pleads that he is

“Not that type of guy”.

Nor does she think he is;

But she doesn’t want to find out

The hard way

That they were both wrong.

The final piece I will share was written as an ode to my breasts. If you keep up with my (sporadic, I know) blog posts, you know that I love my breasts. Mom, this is where I'll ask you to stop reading...my poetry can be quite intimate. Some of it is based on reality, some of it upon real insecurities that all women have - as a wife, as a woman, as a lover. This next piece is a combination of the two.

$60 Bras

Her breasts were pale cream in color;

Round and firm they were

Like grapefruits

Only sweeter.

Dipping only slightly

To tell him they were real;

To give lie to the rumor that she nipped and tucked

To correct the ravages of Father Time.

Mother Nature had gifted her

But it was he who felt blessed –

To touch her was to immerse his rough hands

Into pools of velvet softness.

Her nipples, so small yet so sensitive

Responded to the slightest touch;

He liked to blow kisses from across the room

And watch her shiver with delight

As the breeze raced across them.

She told him that he was wicked,

But he could see by the devilish glint in her eyes
She wanted more

And he wanted her all the more for it.

He loved to watch her examine herself

And hear her sigh with relief when she found no lumps.

To his surprise, he would sigh as well

Selfishly realizing that he, too, would hate for her to lose one.

She would always let him watch as she spread body butter over her already silky skin;

She asked him to do it for her,

But he believed that while a woman’s tits should be soft and supple

A man’s hands should not –

Though a twinge of guilt would always sting his conscience

When she winced in pain as his calloused 
(soul)
Hands
Raked across her chest.

He asked her once how she kept them so perfect

When other women her age had

Stretch marks

And sagging loads.

She looked at him quizzically

And he realized he had slipped.

They had been together for so many years that

He was not supposed to know what the breasts of Other Women her age

(felt)
Looked like.

But he did.

As quickly as the look came it passed

Like a summer storm;

If she knew, she hid it well.

So he asked again, to be sure.

“A dedicated care and maintenance regimen”

She responded.

“And $60 bras”.

In his shock, he didn’t notice

The catch of a tear in her voice.

KJM
04.12.2019