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Scenes of passion in literature, on the stage, and on the silver screen, have captivated audiences for years. How about spicing up some poetry with a soupçon of sauciness and savagery (tastefully done, of course). Choose a scene of fevered passion from a favorite novel, play, or film, bring it to life in a poem and post it in the comments below. I had huge fun composing this poem. I look forward to reading yours.
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Green-Eyed
“O, beware, my lord, of jealousy: It is the green-eyed monster
which doth mock the meat it feeds on.” —Shakespeare’s Othello
By candlelight he crept with thudding blood
To take his white-hot harlot by surprise—
That slut who’d rutted with her hungry stud
Had sucked the sun from dark, Venetian skies.
How devilishly delicate she looked,
Sprawled beneath the sear of fever’s glare.
Her silken-rosebud wonder had him hooked
Forever in a sorceress’s snare.
He burned for sweet release—that luscious rush
Of peace to ease his scorching ache and swell.
He shuddered as she gasped before the hush…
He stole her breath and damned his soul to Hell.
The fiend beneath his skin had tortured trust
Then laced his racing heart with viperous lust.
.
.
Oh my soul! That is utterly, fabulously brilliant. I shall try, but not today. I need to revel in the magic of your sonnet.
Thank you so much, Rohini. I thoroughly look forward to reading yours!
The son for which you weep may still be saved.
I thought I brought but hatred to this place:
Look now, finally, at this sorry face,
And tell me if you see a ruthless judge
Who would not, for love, the life of your son begrudge?
Why do you compel me to betray you?
For what: pride?
Or must I beg for him on my knees?
I know the solemn vows I break for you,
The hatred I shall reap therefrom as due.
I’ll send her away and, careless of the result,
Put upon your head the crowning insult.
But this is an end that cannot be denied.
I tell you this: you shall rule here or die.
My heart, desperate after a year of spite,
Can no longer linger on love’s uncertain requite.
I’ve lived, threatened and cried too long in hate:
I die if I lose you, but I die if I wait.
I leave you now, but know, I shall send for you
Directly, and there, standing at the altar,
Where your little son waits for us,
You shall find me meek or furious:
For you shall be crowned, or I’ll kill him
In front of you.
“Life is made up of many comings and goings and for everything that we take with us, we must leave something behind.” ― Herman Raucher, “Summer of ‘42” (Book Version).“
THERE IS NOTHING SO SOFT
By Roy E. Peterson
There is nothing so soft as a girl’s skin.
Tender to the touch, sets the mood within.
Pure pliant putty quivering beneath
Compliant skin; forsooth my fires seethe.
A hint of cologne masking manhood musk.
Holding her close since day was turned to dusk.
Lack of body hair, nothing to impede
Fingers feeling silk, fancy feeding need.
Kisses on her lips; kisses everywhere
Time standing still as such moments we share.
Tremulous tumult there’s a quickening;
Miraculous results, love thickening.
Naked as a lamb that is freshly shorn.
Sighs the silence splits in the early morn.
“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.”– William Shakespeare, “Hamlet.”
FERVENT FLAMES OF FIRE
By Roy E. Peterson
Fervent flames of fire flickering in place,
Cast candescent light on her pretty face.
Poking embers, I add a log or two.
Nothing is warmer than a love that’s new.
My cabin is filled with a pine wood scent
Sharing happy hours that’s how night is spent.
Time suspended, we left the world behind.
No worldly devices here to remind.
We share our love along with future plans
Singing love songs while we are holding hands.
Winter winds have frozen the countryside.
Love for each other is what we confide.
Tonight is the night we will consummate
All our intentions for our future fate.
“The beach is a happy playground for these mermaids, alluring like the sirens who enticed Ulysses. Romeos, beware these Juliets!” – “Amalfi Way” (Short Film, 1955).
TAKE ONE TANNING GIRL
By Roy E. Peterson
Take one tanning girl and some tanning oil.
Rub it on her body so she won’t spoil.
Then take a dive into the swimming pool.
Pretend to save her acting like a fool.
Hold her in your arms while you kiss goodnight.
On the small of her back, press and hold her tight.
When you are in public, then hold her hand.
Whatever her feelings, you understand.
Flirt with her every day of your life.
Get on your knees and beg her, “Be my wife.”
Tell your girl you’ll love her forevermore.
Take your sweet girl to a jewelry store.
Diamond rings put a sparkle in her eyes.
What she may choose will be your big surprise.
“I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.”― Charles Bukowski, “Love is a Dog from Hell.”
THE PAINTER AND THE POET
By Roy E. Peterson
I’m blessed with riches and with untold wealth.
I will play the cards with which I was dealt.
I have a lady with whom I am blest.
She’s my crown jewel with a treasure chest.
Eyes of sapphire. Lips of cinnabar.
Breasts of ivory topped with a bronze star.
Carrera white marble for legs and arms.
Hair of golden wheat like one finds on farms.
A maven model sitting in repose,
Clutching in her hands stems of yellow rose.
What a perfect sight they’re ready to paint.
Artists must have to practice self-restraint.
When the portraits done, how lush look the curves.
I write the beauty the artist observes.
Roy, what a passionate poet you are… thank you for embracing the challenge with gusto with some breathtaking poetry!
I am honored by such praise from one of the greatest poets of our time.
I never read or watch that kind of scene… instead, I wrote about how modern poets have a particular obstacle in having this kind of poetry accepted.
Colorblind
by Joshua C. Frank
I know a poet dealing with derision
For writing of a woman’s supple skin
Whose hue he hopes will fill his field of vision—
To say what color’s now a racist sin!
For when he praised her cherry-blossom pink,
They cried white privilege, said it’s lacking grace,
Yet when it’s skin of maple or black ink,
They censure him for fetishizing race!
Alas, a man can’t wax poetic when
Her skin tone is the trait he dare not name.
I miss the golden, olden days when men
Wrote brazen praise of women, free of shame!
At least the man who loves a girl with freckles
Can rave about her pretty little speckles.
Josh, thank you for this… some very good points made… beautifully. Shakespeare is full of love, lust, malice, and murder… he’s a great go-to source for inspiration on passion.
Fine poem, and good point. Even to admire the suppleness of muscle or speak of “skin like a baby’s” may get you in trouble.
You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” – Jane Austen, “Pride and Prejudice.”
SHE MESMERIZES ME
By Roy E. Peterson
Hair down to shoulders mesmerizing me.
Eyes glow like sapphires fascinatingly.
Shape like two snow globes tantalizing, free.
Strong legs are supple like a firm ash tree.
She is as fresh as a pussy willow
Lying with me on an eider pillow.
Moody are the moonbeams through the window.
Winds on the waves reach our bungalow.
Nights nurture love that cannot be denied.
Echoes of passion that come at high-tide.
Cares of the world have all been set aside.
Paroxysms collide in a riptide.
Soft is her silk skin to my tender touch.
I am in love, perhaps it is too much.
Men don’t make passes
At girls who wear glasses.
— Dorothy Parker
An Answer to Dorothy
You’re wrong — we’ll make passes
At girls who wear glasses
As long as they’re lasses
With cute, curvy asses.
— Joseph S. Salemi
Highly amusing… and very honest!
Love it!
This is a piece I wrote a while back. I’ve cleaned up the language a bit to post it here, but hopefully I haven’t sacrificed too much pungency in the process.
VILLANELLE FOR A WAGE SLAVE
The time has come, my work is done,
My one and only choice is clear:
Tomorrow I will bring a gun.
And if those bastards think I’m one
To eat abuse with grace and cheer,
Their time has come. My work is done;
It’s over now, my race is run,
But I won’t shed a single tear.
Tomorrow I will bring a gun
So I can have myself some fun –
I’ll wear a grin from ear to ear.
The time has come, my work is done,
And once the payback has begun,
Those pricks will piss themselves with fear.
Tomorrow. If I bring a gun.
The chance I will is next to none;
I’ll tell myself the same next year:
The time has come, my work is done,
Tomorrow I will bring a gun.
Shaun, I love these passionately savage thoughts conveyed in a masterly villanelle. The subtle changes in the repetends are the golden touch in a poem that I am certain many will relate to. Thank you for rising to the challenge. Very well done indeed!
Of Aucassin and Nicolette
Infatuation, lust, and love, desire—
Above all else, desire!—I wanted you,
Both flesh and soul, the whole of you entire
To urge and surge, to meld and merge into
A unity so deep and so complete
That none, not even God could make undone
Or put asunder. Thunder-drummed the beat,
The cadence of my heart that bid me shun
My faith, my birthright-destiny
And throw it all away for you! So let
Us become one, set free at last to be
No longer Aucassin or Nicolette.
Beyond mere lust or love, one flesh made new;
Forever you in me and me in you.
James, WOW! This poem blazes with passion wrapped up in a love that transcends the earthly and has made me want to familiarize myself with ‘Aucassin et Nicolette’ – thank you very much for rising to the challenge!
“Everybody’s got to have a party girl to be with him when he’s feeling wild.” – The song, “Party Doll,” as sung by Buddy Knox.
PRIMPING AT A PARTY
By Roy E. Peterson
Primping at a party. Glad I came.
Voluptuous vixen, Venus by name,
Fantasy fixation, feeling mighty fine
Eyes of eerie emeralds ensnared mine.
Beware sinewy sultry s-shaped curves.
Serving sweet spiked cider, watched how she swerves.
Lavendar lipstick covered luscious lips.
Happy place hidden between her hips.
I ambled o’er and kissed her on the cheek.
Lust would have been lost if I had been meek.
Primal palpitations pulsed through my vein.
My imagination drove me insane.
I invited her to another feast.
We left for nether realms to calm the beast.
“If we both were born in another place in time
This moment might be ending with a kiss
There you are with yours and here I am with mine
So, I guess, we’ll just be leaving it at this
I love you. I honestly love you. I honestly love you.”
Lyrics to Song, “I Honestly Love You,” as sung by Olivia Newton-John.
I HONESTLY LOVE YOU
By Roy E. Peterson
There is a song I think you ought to hear.
Olivia Newton-John causing tears
In her voice sings, “I Honestly Love You.”
The words of this song are meant for us, too.
“There you are with yours,” if we meet again,
Is the status quo that we both are in.
If we could go back to one place in time,
It would be when I thought you could be mine.
Time waits for no one. I found out that’s true.
My love was secret. I did not tell you.
I poked around and heard you were engaged.
I should have been bold, but I was teenaged.
That is no excuse, but that was way back then.
Now I wonder about what could have been.
Poet Note: I was twenty when the one for whom this was intended and I first met.
Roy, thank you for the poem and the beautiful footnote, which adds greater depth to your words. This song is one of my favorite’s… it’s sung with such honesty too… that’s what makes it so special.
“ “It’s a profoundly strange feeling, to stumble across someone whose desires are shaped so closely to your own, like reaching toward your reflection in a mirror and finding warm flesh under your fingertips. If you should ever be lucky enough to find that magical, fearful symmetry, I hope you’re brave enough to grab it with both hands and not let go.” ― Alix E. Harro,. “The Ten Thousand Doors of January.”(Book)
WHAT’S THIS STRANGE FEELING
By Roy E. Peterson
What’s this strange feeling that’s come over me?
It feels like fever of a high degree.
The doctor told me I should stay in bed.
“That’s where it started, doc,” is what I said.
I met a veritable love machine.
Her love was something I had not foreseen.
She opened my heart. Then she came on in.
She loves my loving. I enjoy my sin.
There’s nothing better than agile lasses.
She’s the teacher. I am taking classes.
She is my book while I am her lover.
I thumb through my book beneath the cover.
Tenderness is what sets our love apart.
I can’t tell where I end and where she starts.
Gad! A lot of reading above to do. Here are three on Puccini:
La Bohème
Consumed with shock and sharp recrimination,
Rodolfo stands aghast beside the bed
of his Mimi. He cannot wrap his head
around Schaunard’s “Coraggio”— exclamation
that signals to the poet that Mimi,
his true love, lives no more. What can he do?
Those months of illness … if he only knew …
Heartbroken, he confronts the irony:
You spent the winter with some other guy
(no doubt some gentleman with well–lined pockets—
the type girls like to gift with pictured lockets).
And now, Mimi, you’re back, but just to die?
Both of this flawed pair’s partners gets our votes:
These lovers bring a lump to all our throats.
Tosca
Her lover’s life’s at stake. For it her honor
would soon be snatched. Thus Scarpia thinks to con her—
that odious, rapacious, drooling bully
who would presume her chastity to sully.
But ah! His letter opener is at hand,
his vile blood is the prize it will demand!
She’ll bathe the villain’s corpse in candlelight
before in futile hope she takes her flight.
Beleaguered Tosca’s nearly off her rocker
at scene’s end in this “shabby little shocker”
(Joseph Kerman, Opera As Drama).
Turandot
Timur is left alone to contemplate
the hour ahead that will decide his fate.
He knows that Turandot is on the ropes,
and so is confident in his high hopes.
We listeners never bother to ask why
he treasures Turandot so. We just eye
that tenor as he belts out “Nessun dorma,”
operatic heroism that’s pro forma.
We love it, for (or though) the song demands a
fine set of lungs, like those of Mario Lanza.
Yet such belong not just to stars, but ringers,
as has been shown by certain country singers
(Austin Brown & Rob Lindquist, available on YouTube).
Julian, how magnificent!! Opera is a great source of inspiration, and your poems reflect just that. You have inspired me to write a poem with Carmen in mind… Bizet’s opera swept me off my feet many moons ago when it was performed in Greenwich Park in London… it was in the maritime building’s courtyard, and the acoustics were sensational. Julian, thank you very much for rising to my challenge!
Thank you, Susan. I often need something definite & immediate to get me off the ground with writing, and you certainly provided it.
Carmen is definitely worth a go. Good luck with it! (Re Kerman on Tosca: at least the “shabby little shocker” has the heroine doing instead of being done to, as in Carmen, Pagliacci, Wozzeck.)
here’s one about the indelicate way British Columbia’s forests are courted (Social Credit was the governing party of BC from 1952-1991, MacMillan Bloedel was the dominant logging company in the province in those decades) – TAKING SOCIAL CREDIT FOR THE CYCLE OF VIOLENCE
Oh, Forestry Resource Base, come to me,
And let me liquidate your old-growth stands
(if under-utilized resources all are free,
We haven’t any need for marriage banns).
Since we are all resources, so must you
As inventory lingers, wasted, on the shelf,
Now find extraction comes; it’s nothing new –
Resource to me, resourceful to myself.
We must be quick, it will not hurt your pride,
A thousand like you wait across the hills,
The chains and cables, roads and soil slides
Are only there to emphasize the thrills.
Be still Resource, and let me Mac and Blo,
From this clear cutting new resources grow.
Tlell, Haida Gwaii, 11 April 1989
Thank you, Fred. A most unusual reaction to the challenge… though I’m certain it was written with a great deal of passion.
What power indeed, Mark! I particularly like the closing stanza – it reminds of the Eduardo Galeano quote: “We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.” Thank you for rising to my challenge!
Dear Susan, you’ve set the bar so high!
what’s that saying, aim for the moon you might reach the stars
mm, more like fall in the mud in this particular case .
To Her Coy Date
We’ve been dating for a week
Am I not the one you seek?
You enjoyed yourself today,
And you agreed for me to pay
But we haven’t hit the hay
As you haven’t made a move
Even though you’ll pass out soon.
Take your shirt off, don’t be a goon
Come sit here get close to me,
That’s right , don’t be so ill at ease
So we women have our needs…
Now don’t tease, rip off your jeans.
Look I promise I hardly ever bite
(Only if you ask me to, I might)
I may no longer be twenty-two,
But I’ll make your dreams come true
Feel this, my body clock is ticking
And if I don’t have much success
I will have to freeze my eggs,
I’m mad, do I really need a brat,
But it’s my body, my choice in fact.
Oh what’s the point of being coy,
Life’s far too short not to enjoy!
Ok, I give up, why do I bother,
Leave you plonker! Sad, misogynistic,
Miserly, freeloading, frozen todger.
Mia, was this the one you were talking about that was inspired by my poem “A Modernization of ‘To His Coy Mistress?’”
(For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, here it is: https://classicalpoets.org/2022/06/17/a-modernization-of-to-his-coy-mistress-by-joshua-c-frank/ )
Yes! but I wasn’t confident enough to post because I thought it would ruin your page. Obviously I am making fun of what I think of as modern day behaviour and your poem is so lovely and right and hopeful.
And the part about my body my choice is definitely influenced
by some of your posts and concerns
This challenge made it easier for me to spruce it up a bit so that helped. Even so I can’t believe I actually posted.
it would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.
Mia, don’t worry about “ruining” my page. I’m honored that one of my poems has inspired another, and that my poems and posts have influenced you and your poetry as well. Please feel free to post such poems on my pages anytime.
Joshua, thank you, I really appreciate your encouragement .
Mia, thank you! I love the fearless passion of your writing and the wonderful use of the very British ‘plonker’… I also love the angle you’ve approached the subject matter from… through the eyes of the predatory feminist. All is fair in lust and war! 😉 Great stuff!
“In time, the hurt began to fade and it was easier to just let it go. At least I thought it was. But in every boy I met in the next few years, I found myself looking for you, and when the feelings got too strong, I’d write you another letter. But I never sent them for fear of what I might find. By then, you’d gone on with your life and I didn’t want to think about you loving someone else. I wanted to remember us like we were that summer. I didn’t ever want to lose that.” ― Nicholas Sparks, “The Notebook.”
YOU WILL KNOW I WROTE IT FOR YOU
By Roy E. Peterson
Once when grace and beauty adorned thy youth,
Within my heart my feelings churned forsooth.
You seemed to float somewhere above the ground.
Thou art still that rare diamond which I found.
And like that diamond, mists cannot becloud
Thy light within that shines beneath the shroud
That elements of time cast over thee,
As it cast its own shadow over me.
Forever young thou dost in memory
Float through my dreams into my poetry.
I stopped counting years a long time ago,
But your love still burns in my heart I know.
I hope this sonnet someday you will view,
And you will know that I wrote it for you.
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” – Lumiere in the Disney Film, “Beauty and the Beast.”
WHEN BEAUTY TAMED THE BEAST
By Roy E. Peterson
Ladies go in hiding. Tempt not your fate.
Danger on your doorstep. Don’t stay out late.
Lock up your windows. Bolt down your doors.
The beast is about. Hear his feral roars.
Gossip knows no bounds. Gossip plays on fear.
Hear now the gossip, as the beast draws near.
Some men call him drunk; some call him insane.
How much hateful bile can a heart contain?
Beauty had returned to the castle town.
Who could be the beast, she asked with a frown.
He was once her playmate when both were young.
She sang once again the old song they sung.
Hate dissipated. Like meat for a feast.
Love changed his heart when beauty tamed the beast.
Hello Susan. If you will allow me to interpret “favorite novel” as referring to my own book, here, for general entertainment, is the final chapter in my tale of The General and Mrs P.
The story so far. These two, whom we can presume to be in their later years, have become an item. Sadly however, things have not worked out on the general’s part in the bedroom. Dejected and depressed, he’s been to see Mistress Whiplash, a lady who helps out on these occasions. Now we find the general on another bus with Mrs P.
For American readers, in the UK, the bus route 111 would be read “one-one-one”
The Number 111: A Happy Conclusion
A charge worthy of Balaclava
But who’s that couple having so much fun?
It’s General Wilfred Sloane and Mrs P.
They’re sitting laughing on the 111:
It seems that all has ended happily.
He’d parleyed under truce with Mistress Whiplash;
The terms of their engagement were agreed.
Before she could then bat a coloured eyeless
The General had advanced at lightning speed.
With sabre drawn and cries of “Tally-ho”
And memories of glories in the field,
He’d summoned up the fires of long ago
And found again that will to never yield.
He’d thought of Waterloo and Balaclava;
Of Blenheim, Agincourt and Omdurman.
He’d thought of Oudenarde and Talavera
And felt that certain pride in being a man.
He’d overcome her token coy resistance;
Her token underwear he’d quickly breached.
And with the help of some adroit assistance
A furious charge the General had unleashed.
And so he’d found an answer to his trouble;
His weaponry again performs its best.
No longer does his valour fail in battle,
And chivalry has passed its highest test.
Paul, I love this bit of side-splitting fun with plenty of saucy, thigh-slapping innuendo. Excellent! Thank you for rising to the challenge with poetic aplomb and a huge grin.
Susan, not the scorcher you requested, I save those for Connie –
The Lip
Surely before I have felt as though heaven
were pressed to my lips such as this,
Yet touching your smile is so sweet I imagine
there never has been such a kiss.
Riv’ling the ruby, cottony soft,
as warm as a slow summer breeze.
The ultimate passion…love – at its purest –
thrives upon lips such as these.
Oh how they beckon, though ne’er do they speak,
The coldest are warmed…the strongest made weak.
Slowly they render, ‘til all strength is gone…
each kiss, like of wine, a new sip.
They capture…consume…and completely control…
What power doth reign from the lip!
What power indeed, Mark! I particularly like the closing stanza – it reminds of the Eduardo Galeano quote: “We are all mortal until the first kiss and the second glass of wine.” Thank you for rising to my challenge!
A Kissing Book
Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure: this one left them all behind. The end. (Grandpa, “The Princess Bride.”)
“Since the invention of the kiss…,” he read.
“Oh I forgot, you don’t like mushy stuff.”
The nine year old, no longer mostly dead,
Admitted sheepishly, if slightly gruff,
“I guess I don’t mind that much after all.”
So Westley, Buttercup, succumbed to bliss
And leaned into the sun, to all but fall
Into that purest, most impassioned kiss.
Through sword fights, torture, shrieking eels, they’d paged,
Through dark disguises, poison, and changed names.
The sick boy caught the fever from the aged,
Thrilled to the book and ditched the video games.
When Mom looked in, she found him on the mend,
True Love’s newest initiate. The end.
Great send-up of a memorable book and movie!
Thank you, Julian. Enjoyed yours too and I will have to look up those country singers.
Monika, thank you very much for this beautiful response to my challenge. I love your inspiration – one of my favorite films! I believe that passion born of true love cures all ills… a scorching kiss of the purest kind is the best medicine.
A fun and irresistible challenge, so thank you, Susan! I belong the cult that counts Princess Bride a classic.
“It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini that she wore for the first time today.” Song, “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,” as sung by Brian Hyland. (1960 Pop Song).
SCINTILLATING SWIMSUIT
By Roy E. Peterson
Scintillating swimsuit sitting on sand
Closely clasps the corpus I think is grand.
Racily revealing one who is tanned.
Reaching out to touch is what I have planned.
Salacious swab of sunscreen on my hand.
She nods her noggin. She must understand.
My massage makes headway to her waistband.
My heaving heart half-obeys my command.
Frivolously feeling with my freehand,
Stirs something special. I am in quicksand.
Bikini beauty, body on the strand
Smirks and smiles, and then skips over the sand.
Diving in deep water drowns me in dreamland.
Thus sank sunny Sunday in the Southland.
“All things achieved and chosen pass,
As the White Horse fades in the grass…”
“Ballad of the White Horse.” G.K. Chesterton
WHILE I WAS PACING
By Roy E. Peterson
While I was pacing myself back and forth,
She came riding a white horse from the north.
Festooned with garlands of yellow flowers,
She dismounted and stayed several hours.
Unbridled the horse lay down in the grass.
I was beset by a lady of class.
My world was changed in the blink of an eye.
A heavenly body from head to thigh
Arrived at my side from the Pleiades
Like a star brought by the autumnal breeze.
The face of an angel, voice of a vamp,
The fire flamed higher within my camp.
If ever such star befall me again,
I would count myself a Prince among men.
“Only with the wings of love can you fly.
Only with the light of love
Can you see the star in a moonlit sky.”
― Debasish Mridha, “Verses of Happiness.” (Book)
TO OUR WINGÉD FLIGHT
By Roy E. Peterson
Day wanes as shadows are cast from the west.
The world’s shutting down. Earth prepares for rest.
Light that’s reflected from the moon above
Paints the pathway for those who are in love.
Flower scented lanes increase love’s desire.
Hearts in secret burn with a flaming fire.
Heaven’s fire must flee to a brooding realm.
Captain of the sun has taken the helm.
Peaceful night descends into darkened grave.
Lovers walk about in the starlit cave.
Hand holding hand feels the warmth of the heart.
The moon’s reflection makes a golden art.
As the nightingale sings into the night,
Hurry then, sweet love, to our wingéd flight.
“But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.”
– Sir Walter Raleigh, “The Nymphs Reply to the Shepherd” (Poem)
NYMPHS IN THE FOREST
By Roy E. Peterson
Nymphs in the forest dancing all around.
Naked bodies gyrate by firelight.
I’m in the bushes making nary a sound.
I could watch forever on such a night.
Maybe I’m half-wishing I would be found.
I have never seen a sexier sight.
Maybe they’d lay me on their dancing ground
Making out with me in the bright moonlight.
It’s hard for me on this eve to expound.
Eyes like burnished bronze; bodies like calcite.
Then they spied me; the effect was profound.
That is when my face turned an ashen white.
I could not imagine a much better night
Than making out with sprites by the firelight.