Linda Pastan says:

linda pastan

” Because
the night you
asked me,
the small scar
of the quarter moon
had healed –

the moon was
whole again;

because life seemed so short;
because life stretched out before me
like the halls of a nightmare;
because I knew exactly what I wanted;
because I knew exactly nothing;
because I shed my childhood with my clothes –
they both had years of wear in them;
because your eyes were darker than my father’s;
because my father said I could do better;
because I wanted badly to say no;
because Stanly Kowalski shouted “Stella…;”
because you were a door I could slam shut;
because endings are written before beginnings;
because I knew that after twenty years
you’d bring the plants inside for winter
and make a jungle we’d sleep in naked;
because I had free will;
because everything is ordained;

I said yes.”


Pillow Talk

this one’s
mildly NFSW.

of course,
stands for:
Not For Sure What ‘ )

I was shuffling
through some of
my old antique
postcards today….

My philosophy is
that there’s no
sense collecting
anything if
you’re not
willing to share it.

I pulled out
a couple of antique
Lovelight” cards
from around 1910,
which were pretty
unique… even for
their time.

That’s considering
the fact only about
6% of the homes
in the United States
had electric lights
at the time.

These cards make me
want to try and imagine
just how romantic
and sexy spooning,
kissing ( and other
stuff, of course )
in the light of a
10-watt Edison bulb
must have seemed
to people then.

I also came across
a lovely card from
the 1960’s with a
poem by Anne Sexton —

“Put your mouthful
of words away

and come with me
to watch the lilies open
in such a field,
growing there like yachts,
slowly steering their petals
without nurses or clocks.”

Mind you…

Not that a beautiful verse
like that has anything
to do with our post today,a

( perish the thought )

……other than the fact
that I came across it,
as I was thinking
about coming up
with some
innovative way
of combining
some of my
beloved old
postcards with
my crappy old blog.




Since I’m obviously
all out of innovative…..

I think maybe I will
wax badly poetic
for this post.


… it’s either a
serious case
of an overheated
medulla oblongata
from the passion
in these old cards,

Or I definitely can feel
a poem coming on………..

There wuz a young girl
from Pawtucket….

No, wait……

……… not THAT one.

How about
this one 


Lie still whilea
I tell you

The gist of
what is true

And tho it makes
me a cheater

I’m going to
change the metre


So much
has changed
o’er all these years,
to hear the facts,
ye must lend
yer ears,
’tis true, it is
such simple text
that so much
of life
comes down
to sex


Sex is such
a wonderful thing
In the summer,
fall and spring
No wonder
it’s so pop
Choose bottom,
middle or top 


Such it was in 2
olden days,
that women
oughtn’t act in ways
to smoke or drink
or cuss or swear
she oughtn’t even
let down her hair

* aa

‘Course now those
rules are dumped
(for her)

She can even
dress up like
Lily Mun- (ster)

Her legs and chest
she need not cover

She can even
have a furry lover



bearIt’s alright, ’cause
we don’t care
After all, he’s smarter
than the average bear
If confused you be
o’er what
love requires
Remember only
you can prevent
forest fires


What men want
is easy to tell
It’s been the same
since Eden fell
Info on what
women want
is scanty
Since they invented
elastic for their panty


bonheurSkimpy outfits
grab your eye
Come on looks
that make
you try

What she’ll do
and what
she don’t

You might
find out
later that
she just won’t .


bettie_pageSex in pop music,
sex in modern art
Porn for the young,
viagra for old farts
Every where you go,
sex is the rage
Every school
boy knows-
that’s Betty Page!


Sex is easy to find,
don’t wink
or smirk
Hey- what
about that
pretty girl at work?
Careful though-
don’t make
that pass
Unless yer certain
that she wants
yer ass


Cause sexy as vegasbaby
she was when hired
She sure as shit
can get you fired
And tho Las Vegas
was once real nice
It now is NOT
the place for Vice


If you wanna
get wilder than
you used to be
You always
got S&M
and B&D
But I’d watch out,
before you bite
Cause she’s crazy,
that Mistress
Snow White


I don’t complain z116414071
I’m not INSANE
I think sex
is really Jake
And like the
Beatles said:
The love you take
is equal to the
love you make.


PS: Yeah, I know
it sucks as a poem.
Hey- I never said
I was Walt Whitman! 


Cheers !


Elizabeth Bishop says:

elizabethbishop“I am in need of music
that would flow

Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted,
trembling lips,

With melody, deep, clear,
and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying,
old and low,

Of some song sung to
rest the tired dead,

A song to fall like
water on my head,

And over quivering limbs,
dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest,
and quiet breath,
and cool Heart,

that sinks through
fading colors deep

To the subaqueous
stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a
moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of
rhythm and of sleep.”


Elizabeth Barrett Browning says:


How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!
— and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


Emily Dickinson says:

“Morning without you
is a dwindled dawn.”


Annie Winifred Ellerman says:


Aphrodite of the blue sleep, the bird-black sea,
I thank you that at last my body is at peace.

I toss these flowers from the flowers, your feet,
From the pear buds of your ankles,
The white hyacinths of your limbs.

The love-hour is ended.
Swallow-wings, dreams of a spiked iris,
Gipsy your eyes.

The hollows under your knees are sweet with love.
Your knees are quince-blossoms, bent back by the rain.

Blue of your eyes,
Blue of the Greek seas that has no name,
Am I lifted
To the porch of Aphrodite on your wings?