Tag Archives: poetry

Voke’s Wagon

I have no idea where “Love” is in my

record collection, though I

know it’s in there



Sick on the ill-digested

emotions of others I

ponder words and their

unexpected plosions, the


way words kick back at your

expectations, won’t mean

what you want them to

mean, defy you, brazen and


bold, but bugger them just

provoke thought

invoke memory

evoke emotion.

Old Dogs Still Have Teeth

Do you see us as

dogs learning new tricks,

desperate to please

new masters?

Was your new world

designed to exclude the

grey-haired masters and

mistresses of

old-world thought, those who

solved a problem before you could

develop an algorithm?


Your biggest mistake?

Making it too easy for us

old, clever folk, so we

slip into the booth

beside you and smile and you

can’t escape.

Memory V

Do “is” and “was” and “will be” collide and fall into an undifferentiated heap of time?

Siri Hustvedt, “Memories of the Future”, which has been my companion and prompt throughout this series of poems.


When we reopen

might you also

reopen love?

Maybe love is in the



I remember your

mouth on me, my

mouth on you, the

hot, wet inside of you, the

squish of your

sweaty breasts on my

flat chest.


We all want the open air, yet the

tight, kempt air of a

steamy bedroom summons our

stoppered desires.


White freesias pop open in their

vase of clean water, the

sun dipping behind them, a

nascent moon somewhere in that

deep blue sky we have

extraordinarily lived under

throughout these

strange months of

excommunicating our own

loved ones.


Warnings are everywhere, as they

always have been, but now have

bizarre power:

“No Entry”, “No

Through Road”,

“Keep Your Distance”,

“Baby on Board”,

“One Way”.


When we reopen

might you also

reopen love? For

just one day?

No….an increment of

shards of days from

past, present, future, those

fractured memories from which we

try to make a

remembered life?

Memory IV

What do we recall of

past loves? Are there

letters? Gifts?

Mementoes? Something

bought together that has

somehow stayed in your hands?

A book recommended? A

piece of music? A

particular place? A

view? Or maybe it’s a

scent or a way you were

touched, a crooked morning smile, a

way of speaking, words

said, or words you wished

hadn’t been said? Or

more recently was there an

email or a gif or a

post on Twitter or

Instagram? A secret

message on any one of a

hundred sites? Will you

remember what all that

meant? What you felt, what you

thought was so

important and is so

irrelevant now but

lingers on in your


Memory III

Life picks a way through

thorns, which some feel

sharply while others

brush past but each

thorn retains something

torn off, a shred, a

tatter, sometimes a whole

skein of memory which

hangs there forever

beyond recall.

A Minuet for Company

Sometimes I dance a Bourrée

or an Allemande, a Gigue

when happy, a Sarabande

when sad, a Courante to

cheer myself up, a

Minuet for company for

even when company is in

short supply, the

air moves as though there were

skirts whirling

somewhere nearby.

Memory II

In the shivered mirror of

memory one sliver

slides down to

touch another

creating something that

never happened.


Her sage-green nightdress
sways on the washing-line
as though she were within it,
dancing in that “I
don’t care” attitude, that
subtle bump of rhythm that says
Come Hither,
Go Yon.
Want me?
Find me.

Braced for Love

He remembered the first girl he’d kissed at school,
how their braces had clashed, how they’d
laughed, then got that serious look and
got on with the business of kissing determinedly.
Well, his teeth didn’t need bracing now but his
body did, as did this woman’s, and after so many
kiss-less years, the yearning was
palpable as mouth leant towards mouth and their
chair-wheels clashed with the same sound as
brace on brace, and for a moment they
stared into each other’s eyes, then laughed and
got on with the determined business of kissing seriously

Memory 1

It’s strange how memory

rearranges things like

walls in a studio set so that

certainties become

uncertain and

faces blur so even your

own face in

old photos seems to have a

querulousness as though

wondering whether to

remember or forget.

Temperature's Rising

Sexy Times ~ Warm Feelings ~ Hot Flashes ~ All That


The Anne Billson blog

A Submissive Wife

Married Submissive, Exploring the kinky side of life.

Life of a Kinky Wife

Marriage with a Twist

The Weaver of Words

"Poetry is what happens when your mind stops working, and for a moment all you do is feel." -Atticus

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Stories, Poems and Titillating Epitaphs


In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.

My Liver's Trying to Kill Me!... Oh Wait.

A Journey to a Healthier Me.

The Wild Heart of Life

"He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life." ...James Joyce

Veronica Love-Wylde

Erotic Poet and Artist - Welcome to My Sensual World

my controlled ascent

living and loving as a married submissive in my D/s marriage


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Because a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste...

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