2019
READ IT TO ME
by Dee See
​
​She had been in that same aisle since she came into the library this morning, seeming entranced by books of poetry. I wondered out loud what aspect of it she enjoyed. I had never found much enjoyment in poetry in the rhyme and rhythm of words very much, although I appreciated the skill of the writer to put it all together. Now the fact that she found it inviting and captivating made me think about it again.

I wandered over to the section of the library a bit dark, but still bright with the textures of books lining the tall stacks. A fashionably old library not cluttered with computer screens, but soft elegant places, velvet padded benches and seats strategically located at the end of the aisles. Inviting one to find the book and sit for a moment at least to absorb the selected tome. Inviting to the reader and no doubt inviting for the author to think of it being enjoyed there.
(READ IT TO ME...continued)
​
What magic must be spun in places like this where the mind spins the mysteries of the author into the readers own reality or sense of adventure of love and hope. It is all so special and full and deep.
​
She stood there for the longest time leafing through one book and then another, probably by the same author. Finally, she retreated to the far end of the aisle to one of the cushioned benches. I followed in the adjacent aisle and sat at the end a few feet from her and I could see she was reading a book by an author I knew, but didn't categorize as a poet.

I asked her how she knew this author, although not knowing her name, simply speaking her name was enough for her to know I was talking to her. Her eyes lit as if by the flash of a match to light a candle as she turned toward me and smiled. The fact that I recognized the author at all seemed to be enough. She explained that she had found her when she was a teen in school and was immediately in love with her poetry. She felt attracted to her and wanting to know her, to talk to her, to further understand from her what she was writing about.

We sat there for nearly an hour and she talked most of the time. I was enthralled with her life and her joy in it. More than anything, I wanted her to continue talking, so when she paused, I forwarded another question, and another question, and then another that would send her into a frenzy of bright and flowing explanation of something I found beautiful. It was her words, her thoughts, her ideas that were galvanizing my emotions.

​Does this library have to be the prison of our first contact or can I somehow entice her to another place that we can talk more, learn more about each other?

I asked her if she had read a particular title of a book by the author we had been talking about and she gave me a quizzical look and answered no! The look on her face was of exasperation, and she asked me to describe it. I suggested that it for sure was near us here in the library. She sprung up and asked, “Where shall we look?”

I pointed down the aisle she had just come from and I said I would check the next, just in case. We perused the titles and the author names and paces our movement down the aisles coordinated so we could see each other through the shelves, over the dust and darkened and weathered pages of hundreds of books.

When we were about two-thirds of the way down the aisle, she screamed "here it is! Would you read it to me?" as her hand reached through the stacks and I cupped it; we connected for the first time, but not the last.
​
METAMORPHOSIS
by Jeanette LaFrancis

Her larval stage spent feasting on milkweed.
Metamorphosis.
Her wings grew increasingly beautiful.
Extending her limbs, she rose
reigning over the family  Nymphalidae.
Nature's beauty reflected in her gaze.
Brush-footed wanderer rested in her mane.
Her enigmatic spirit mystifies those who seek her attention.
Caress of the breezes fulfills her senses.
Crimson clouds bring her to her knees.
She lays down on golden beds of grain,
while the moon fluoresces across her naked breasts.
With placidity her heart dances amongst the stars,
knowing that love of self is the essence of any meaningful love affair.
by Lillith Distilleria
I watch the stars in the sky sway to their tune, a melancholy sound of those that gaze upon the earth with yearning in their hearts. A longing to be a part of what they see here. The splendid performance that is afforded to those so that they may live by proxy, pretending that they too could be one of us. They watch and choose favorites, star crossed lovers that are ripped apart by circumstance or misunderstanding, warlords brought low by nothing but a simple woman that sees the man, not the monster. They see those that defend the innocent, those that love even as it kills them, they choose champions and heroes, discussing the complexities of their motivations and desires. They talk of lovers, they wonder if the man is good enough for the woman, if he appreciates what gift he is given. They swoon over their chosen, though it matters not if he is hero, rich, cultured, or even handsome. They fall in love with the soul of them, the humanity is what makes them love the impossible, desire that which is deemed taboo, or even uncouth. So what makes you think, that if the stars themselves could fall in love with you, that I couldn't?
by R.B. O'Brien (Writer of Nur)
​
​Late-night conversations, 
the kind that last
into the hot, sticky
morning sun, 
where only
the birds’ morning song tells time,
and every word uttered 
removes another piece of clothing,
and each breath travels
to every bare region,
lips cradled,
between every intake
of another moon.
by Kasey Hill

The Devil enticed me
To open the doorway to hell
And I languished in Dantes inferno
Just so to you I could tell
Every last breath 
Of my hearts content 
The path that wayward son
Had been sent 
And we frolicked alongside
The nightshade and posies
Where Death awaited 
My cheeks so rosy
To become blue and cold

 Picture

​





(Kasey Hill continued...)​
For my heart you stole
And ran away to another
While the Devil sat in repose
As I searched for my lover
And I swore once more 
Never again
Forever more
by Mark A Morris

I do hope you’re paying attention.
Because I don’t open myself up to just anyone.
It’s a matter of trust. 
And receptivity.
And if I don’t think you’re listening
To what I’m saying
I’ll stop.
And never start again.
Now, I do hope you’re sitting comfortably
Because I’ve got such a lot 
That I need to say.
I believe that I’m a messenger,
A conduit
For an elemental truth.
Now, excuse me a moment while I wait.
Because I need to know how you feel.
But don’t say a word.
Don’t breathe;
Because that’s not what I want.
It’s got to come from inside you:
The moment.
The urge.
The spirit of the voice from within.
You may think that your words speak the loudest,
That they engage with your thoughts 
To reveal the truth that’s inside.
The 'you' that’s the most honest,
The most articulate,
The most expressive,
The most divine.
My own words are sacrosanct,
Of course,
But you expected I’d say that.
However, you have to admit I’m a special case,
I'm one who’s in control
I’m the dealer
The one who decides.
And if I decide we’ve done.
It’s goodbye
There’ll be no more words.
by Tania Nordin

She lies there waiting for time to be put into perspective,
It needs to be changed, It needs to be grasped,
It needs to be sifted, It needs to be felt.
It needs to be held, but she cannot change her destiny...
Falling through the hole
She drifts from beauty 
To nothingness
Unless her enchanter's bewitching
Can forever be changed.
But until that time comes,
She will fall through to the other side,
And just become a heap of sand,
With no form or need,
Other than to tell the time,
For someone else's hour.
by J Molly BC

She is like a bonfire dance on a summers eve
The crystalline on the snow streamed fields 
The crisp Autumn promise of the Harvest Moon 
And
The return of the Sun in the Spring
She is the kind of girl who listens to everything
Unsaid
The sounds of the Elements
Earths creatures 
And things unheard 
By most
The five senses 
Her inspiration
Her sustenance
Her life force 
These things
She feels so deeply
She loves fiercely
And
Gives back more than she receives 
If
You show her genuine love 
When there is love
She writes in starlight
Her intentions, always positive
She holds the power to change the story
If inspired with acts of kindness and love
She can bring to life the visions in your mind
Aid in your positive goals
Evoke
Your wildest dreams 
Your deepest desires
She can also destroy that which no longer serves the greater good
And lay to waste, the souls of enemies
She keeps going 
As long as there is hope
And Love
Her words come alive
She pens the most benevolent outcome
To keep this world alive and happy
Filled with hope
And the drive to move forward 
And believe 
Until now
The images on TV
The visions of this world, and actions of others 
They are taking a toll on her spirit
She cries 
Her hope and faith for this world is depleting
Love is replaced by greed
Selfishness
Senseless death 
And
Hate
She has no reason to believe 
In this world 
Alas
The sands of time are dissipating 
Look closer
Hurry
Before she slips away
It’s the story in her eyes
The one she’d never finished writing
Help her
Give her a reason to believe
A reason to keep on writing 
For if she dies
We all die
Inspire her
Show her love
Give her a reason
To stay
And keep o writing
The eternal story
In her eyes
And yours
For she is Magick
Her name is what it means
by Debra Price
​I'm filled with a stormy desire
I can't tame
mine, to claim 
It tingles and burns
like ozone, nourishing 
licking tastes, against lips and tongue
It builds and builds 
energy making my nerves twitch
my hairs rise standing on end
leaving goose bump flesh
It rumbles and rolls like thunder
exploding out in uncontrolled waves
rising like the sea to smash against 
my unprotected soul
Billowing, the clouds consume
filling me with uncontrolled rage
Till I burst spewing out the fire
with forked tongues of fury
like lightening, uncontrolled 
It lashes against the earth
tears of heaven 
crying for the broken
washing away the dust and dirt
of uncontrolled emotion
Till it's no more
the energy recedes 
Leaving me cleansed 
opened pathways to renewal
Inspiring a greater passion 
of storms desire.
by Roman Newell 
...and in the evening
when I am more thought than man
the little light
across the house
in the corner of the kitchen
speaks to me
so well.
by Darlene Carroll
Dream and sleep beautiful heart.
Sigh...
It was her!
by Melysza Jackson

Caress the lips of sun and sky

​Tease the meadow flowers

Feel green grass entwined,

Bare hands

Kiss springs warm touch

Strum wild,
Sing bright,
Love first
by Ashlee Shades

Pretty
pink lips,
the perfect
facade,
lustful eyes,
desire
something more,
unattaibale,
no longer
unrealized.
by Dee See
​
The kiss of a touch
The touch of a kiss
Warm with thought
Warm with lust
For your response
To want and thirst
To know your want
Ask me on
Asking for touch
Open and waiting
Wanting to open
That place
That face
The touch of a kiss
The kiss of a touch

​by Sebastian Nox
​
 “It wanted her mouth as a souvenir.”

​Haden gasped, choking on his coffee.

“What?!” He sputtered, latte foam dribbling down his goateed chin.

He didn’t think the old man possessed a sense of humor.

Dr. Irwin Gaspar looked impassive as a Roman statue, except for one raised eyebrow. 

“It’s true, young man. That’s what it said. Well, not in any articulable language.”

Hayden wiped his chin with the sleeve of his lab coat.

“How does..it...communicate?”

His voice low, barely above a whisper. His eyes were transfixed on the large, obsidian butterfly attached to the woman’s face. The onyx wings gently fluttered. It was strangely beautiful. 

Gaspbar glanced at the bank of computer monitors as he spoke.

“Through vibrations, which be analyzed and translated by our algorithmic sequence code. It’s in the primitive stages, but we hope to have a more streamlined and sophisticated process upgraded into the network by the end of the month. That’s where you come in, Mr. Hayden.”

Terry Hayden couldn’t tear his gaze away from the butterfly and the nude woman who wore it like a mask. She was pale as winter moonlight. Her lithesome curves unblemished. She, too, possessed an unnerving beauty. 

Gaspar droned on about protocols and bio safety. Equations and mutations. The sudden appearance of this species of butterfly and the symbiotic relationship it had with its hosts. Soon, the older scientist’s voice became distant, as if he were talking across the hallway. 

Hayden didn’t care about Gaspar and his damned protocols.

The butterfly spoke to him. 

Sing song electricity caressed his brain.

Nothing else mattered.

The woman spoke to his blood. 

They whispered secrets in blue and crimson. 

Soon, he would mate. Three becoming one. 

Then, all would change, when they emerge from chrysalis.

Shedding any semblance of humanity...
​by JoAnn Molly BC

I write desire
I weave in solitude
Beginning, middle & end
With a library of dreams
I drive with heat
And
Captivate with passion
I am Author
​I am the Moon writer
by David E. Gordon
​
Slowly I lift the blindfold off one of her eyes. It darts all around, her body stiffening as the fear of what she might see fills her. The sweat quickly forms and runs down her forehead and across the dirty cloth still covering the other eye. She stares into my eyes, my hand gently resting on her shoulder. She takes in my uniform, the shine of my badge and nameplate clear against the dark blue of the shirt I wear. I can feel her body physically relax as she senses the safety I finally bring to her. As the tears start to flow I gently lift the cloth revealing her second eye. Both eyes now full of tears as they flow freely through the dirt encrusted across her cheeks.

“There now sweetheart, you are safe now.” I smile softly as I feel the tension in her body release and soften. “I am here now. Nothing for you to fear. The bad man has been taken care of. He won’t bother you any more.” I brush the tears from her cheek. “My name is Katarina.”

I feel the soft skin of her cheek and feeling the flush of desire course through me I shove it aside. ‘Not now I tell myself.’ She falls into my arms, her head resting against my shoulder as she continues to cry. Tears of joy and relief replacing the fear she had felt just days before when I... no HE had snatched her. He was the evil one. Snatching this beautiful, sensual woman from her home. Keeping her here in the basement, tied up and feeding her like an animal. She was not an animal, she was beauty personified and I loved her with all my heart. And if I played my cards right she would love me too. HE was evil, I was love. Opposite sides of the coin.

“Come on love... let’s get these horrific clothes off you. We can take a shower then get you fed. How would you like to sleep in a proper bed tonight? After a nice cup of tea.”

I brush the blindfold back, running my hands through her hair. Slowly she leans back and as she stares into my eyes again I can see it. She recognizes him behind the green contacts I am wearing. As her lips begin to tremble I lean in and kiss her softly. They are dry and cracked and taste delicious. My hands holding her shoulders as I pull back, smiling my best smile. Her eyes flicker and I can almost see her mind trying to understand. I have been trying for years to understand myself. How could someone so evil share my space, my mind. I just want to love her as she should be loved. I just have to keep the evil Karl at bay so he doesn’t hurt her again. I see her eyes soften and she leans into me again, but as our lips meet I can already sense her mind calculating how long before she can take advantage of my love and escape. I can hear Karl whispering what a fool I am.

​Surely not... surely one night of bliss with her will be worth it all.
by Xtina Marie​
​​she's 
an artist
first
she
sees things
differently 
than 
most
she's 
whimsical
and oft
times
she's 
too busy
looking
at the sky
instead
of the world
around her
he was 
always
trying to 
fix 
change
modify her
'til she
realized
it wasn't 
her
that needed
fixing
changing
modifying
by Davina Purnell
​
Painting on paper wasn't a sin,
But what she desired was painting on skin .
Wielded brush with fire within, 
The fine strokes of passion across bare skin.
Goose bumps vie with the sweat on the skin, 
As each stroke marks the claim and the magic begins. 
Brush laid to the side, 
In the power and grace of the ride.
by Rachel de Vine
He was late. I heard the key in the lock some twenty minutes after he told me he would arrive. But I said nothing—just sat quite still in the high-backed chair, dressed in the style he expected from me. He watched me, silently, for nearly a minute. A twitch of his finger was the signal to stand. I stood, silently, as he advanced towards me. He didn’t touch me, but circled me, looking at me from every angle. At last, he spoke. “Very nice. Very nice indeed. Walk around and let me enjoy seeing you.” He sat in the chair recently vacated by me. A hand signal indicated I should begin. He wanted a show. I would give him a show. The red satin, closely fitting my curves, slithered over my ass as I walked in heels around the room. I undulated my hips just a little more than normal. Not too much, mind. I would look like a parody of a cheap stripper. I preferred to maintain my dignity and simply hint at the treat in store for him. It’s like perfume. Splash it all over and I would just feel a tart. A discreet dab at the throat, on the other hand, would entice and seduce. That was my opinion, anyway. I might be a whore, but I’ll not be a two-bit whore for anyone. Not even him.
by R.B. O'Brien
Their love 
was a dark love,
a red love, 
a love that 
filled up rooms
and sucked out air.
A love that 
whispers followed,
like fireflies,
into a hot, 
July sky.
A love
so on fire, 
that even Lust, 
herself, 
could only watch 
by peeking out
from behind the
competing glow 
of a summer 
midnight moon.
by Debra Price 
​Unforgiving, wild blood
how fury ripples 
Lashing, the storm
I cry, tears like salt rain
You, brace for the tempest.
Shelter me 
In your harbour
I seek your light
from my darkness 
brace me tight
till the waves 
Of nature
by Jill Bourne
She stood there
Waiting
She watched
each person
embark from
the train

He spied her
her standing there
In that sexy barely there
red outfit 
They rushed
towards each other
and met in the
middle.
He embraced her
His lips found hers
You would think
it had been days
instead of hours
since they had seen 
each other.