Sin

sin

Let me tell you what I know;
since that day, my heart beats
in syncopation with yours.
Any distance between us
is distance that muffles my heart;
our sin sealing my bond to you.
My mistake - thinking this trembling
a synonym of lust.
A curious cyanide process*,
extracting faithfulness from cynicism.
Perhaps it was an ill-timed synapse
throwing me from my center,
throwing me in synchronicity to your orbit,
burning as I spin
like the suns in Constellation Centaurus.
Perhaps it is my soul beating inside,
in sympathy to my heart,
that has built a synagogue of yearning -
of yearning for your exposed soul.


Ariel


*cyanide process = a metallurgical technique for extracting gold from low-grade ore.

My Momma Didn't Raise Me Right But

My momma didn’t raise me right,

But Florida Evans did.

 

Perhaps Others’ roots are different,

where their ancesters came from;

roots for me are my past and my “training” –

others’ demand for my service, my body.

My momma didn’t raise me right,

            But Florida Evans did. 

Trust me – if I am in a room with a man

I can smell it, feel it,

attuned to it since I was two.

I smell the tobacco on your skin,

the testosterone underlayer –

I will respond to it both consciously and unconsciously.

My momma didn’t raise me right,

            But Florida Evans did. 

But part of will say “Have some pride.

Hide your passion, your willingness –

You are only what you decide to be!”

It’s not skin but pheramones –

what your skin encompasses

does not determine you.

My momma didn’t raise me right,

            But Florida Evans did. 

I know the difference

            between a darkening room and television;

I know desire does not begin

            with an upswelling of music –

more … people accepting what people are,

nature pulling against nature – completed in 30 minutes

letting situations become … Dy-no-mite.

My momma didn’t raise me right,

            But Florida Evans did.

And sometimes it is winning just to persevere –

resisting going to the common. Wait for the laugh.

Sometimes it is just waking up.

Sometimes it is just giving in.

My momma didn’t raise me right,

            But Florida Evans did. 

Ariel

But At Night

But at Night

 

Yes, I’m a liberated woman,

Working side-by-side men;

Pulling my own weight.

I’m one of the guys.

During the day – listen to my opinions.

You damn well better be politically correct,

            Treat me as your equal.

During the day you damn well better treat

            Me as your equal. 

But at night –

            I want to let loose.

Bit at night – take me and give me your demands,

            Take me and give me your aggression.

But at night – rage your passions;

            Twist my hair and pull back my head.

Take me and pull off my clothes;

            Let me feel your hard hands claim me.

But at night – let me feel your mouth on my thigh;

            Let me fall on my knees, you standing in total trust.

At night, I am not your helpmate;

            I am your opposite, your challenge –  

And in the morning … you damn well better

            Treat me as your equal.

 

Ariel

 

Taken In

Taken In

 

I was told

Following Tiger

Takes you into the jungle. 

Yes, that is where you take me,

Somewhere wild and humid,

Uncontrollable,

Deep among vines

And pungent orchids,

And I am not safe. 

Though I do not particularly wish to be there,

There is something intoxicating,

Addictive in the experience. 

I am drawn back

Time and time again for yet another taste.

 

            Ariel

Sensate

 

Red head caressed

My petal’s sensual flame.

Thy passion rose in it,

Drunk on

A river of secret honey.

 

Ariel

The emphasis is on the "pull"  <cynful grin> Hint; This is NOT making a bed; helps the reading if you have an extra pair of hands to help the "pulling".

Made My Bed

 

I make my bed every morning

            After I discipline my body with 2 miles of exercise

            And after my husband rises.

A  habit cultivated, I cannot leave

            For the day until my bed is made. 

Exhausted, I return to my bed

            & pull off the 12 year old blankets

Then straighten the wrinkles out of the sheets

            & pull their patterns flat.

Pick up the musty lavender velour, spread

            & pull its corners ‘til arranged

Letting its heavy sides cover the full bed

            & pull its sides until

                        Almost reaching the ground

                        Almost completely covering my bed frame.

And then the bedspread falls, arranging corners

            & pull down the sides until

Lilacs fall off my be, their flat patterns float

            & pull down & over.

I then gather the dark curtains that make my headboard

            & pull them back, morning light growing in them,

& then the pillows. I gather them

            & pull & plump & fluff then stand them

Arranging them until my bed looks

like a magazine cover

that would catch someone’s eye

at a newsstand until they reach over

            & pull it off the shelf to examine;

A flat picture that hints of rest & comfort

            & pulls you out of reality.

 

A habit cultivated, I cannot leave

            For the day until my bed is made. 

Ariel

Driving To Dallas

 

There is no pretending I don’t need you. 

My passion driving

            Like an Audi at eighty-five miles. 

I won’t pretend I’m not being consumed by need. 

I again turn to him

            And he cared for me,

As I cared for his needs

            When he was broken,

And he took me in

            Knowing of my need.

There is a long history there;

            We are not lovers but friends who love. 

I won’t need to pretend he is you. 

No tears this time will be shed -

            We retreat to his bed.

Not lovers,

            But friends who love;

He will shut the world out

            As we fall into his bed,

So familiar as when it lay

            Beneath his parents’ bedroom,

And he raised his passion

            To meet my desperate need –

I had immediate need of you

            And he filled it. 

There is no pretending. 

And as hunger and hope emptied,

            He filled that too.

For this time, my dammed need

            Is allowed to set our rhythm

And he allows me, passion

            Releasing and releasing again. 

Exhausted, we laid entwined

            In his arms and long legs.

There is no pretending they are yours.

            Not lovers, but friends who love.

But as he slept, still driven by you,

            I rose & purged myself of him;

Purged his sweat from my body,

            My body of his food,

My mouth of his taste,

            My core of his seed.

Purged it of everything that was not you

            And then, stripped again to my essence

I again returned to his bed;

            His arms habitually enfold me.

Not lovers, but friends who love. 

There is no pretending they are yours. 

He did not take offense,

            Even knowing as he did

The precautions I took – filling my womb

            Inhospitable to his seed.

 

We are not lovers. 

In the morning

            He will rise above me again

Aware that, heartbroken, passion unmatched

            Will drive me again without reason.

On instinct, on impulse;

            It will not be safe.

The day must be met

            But not alone – My layers fall,

Peeled away and our rhythm again

            Is paced by my incessant need.

He will console my desire again

            And then feed me as you will not,

Take me back into his life for that brief time

            Then let me drive away. 

We are not lovers now

            But friends who love. 

There is no pretending he is you. 

We are not lovers. Now.

Ariel

TDB  HAS