Hallowed

Ode to an Apparition

What deceit I view, nay, venal sorcery
that bears your apparition hither.
What sweet, shy you may appear unto me
quick dares more premonition to wither.
If I could see you truly and through the veil
the moment would only swell further.
If I would feel you move me and pierce the mail
the torment would only strike surer.
Black art that brings you and hastens the vex
to madden and scourge my marrow
back dart on the wing and chasten the hex
to placate and purge thy harrow.

Jalepeno

Ready ripe blush rising skyward
up salsa skin so hot
so smooth that I can
almost feel these podded seeds pulsing
against my palate...
Hurry hurry harvest-
hurry hurry have it
before it frosts
and I miss this florid fruit.

Racey Risque Ringing of the Bards

The 18th edition of the Ringing of the Bards—poetry carnival—has just been unveiled, and it is stellar.

It is being hosted by the six "sexual deviants" of WetPoems© (may not be suitable for the workplace), and only "poems of the naughtiest nature" were considered. The challenge was to "unleash the fiercest pheromones" on the Ringing public, making it "the tastiest ringing to date." Due to the nature of this Ringing, the members of WetPoems tried to be especially accommodating to the participating blogging poets: "We realize that not everyone is ready to acknowledge their inner naughtiness, but we hope that by providing the option to anonymously submit to this ringing we give all of your inner sexuality and sensuality some room to play."

This frenzied orgy of poetry will not disappoint...come one, come all.

Woza

Solace seeking
African nights
have no center...
no crux
crest
or core-
no birth
beginning
middle
or ending
no shift
or swinging door.
Here the she-silk spinning
never comes to end
and strands that halt
the Zeitgeist zipper
graft hangmen’s
Zulu Zen.

So the thunder
insists upon distance
behind tall fences
containing the game
and my lover
Eroica extant
will be tattooed
with my shame.

While the dunes
keep marching westward
to the beat
of the shepherds drum
and the eyes
of Africa
as yet still dancing
while in her mouth
still none.