It's called the Popliteal Fossa,
colloquially, the 'Hough'.
It is that sweet place behind your knee
that looks so like a boudoir pillow,
and yet becomes a tender hollow
when at rest.
A disguised beauty, but ever responsive
to my lips caress.
Such are the small things lovers
hardly ever mention with words
as they allow flesh to speak to flesh.
Categories:
popliteal, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Like a playful cat,the sea purrs in,
Its susurrus soothing us with its softness.
Dappled white,it dances around our feet,
Clutching at our ankles with its sheathed claws.
Some roll over to have their bellies tickled,
Others shrill with delight at its gentle touch,
Younger ones squeal in alarm
As it probes
Their popliteal spaces
To push them down.
Yet on another day,it raced in roaring.
People stood like mice
Admiring its majestic white mien.
Too late did they turn to flee.
It pounced and swallowed its prey,
Dragging them into its feral maw.
Now in shock we stare at the stark images
And find it hard to believe.
Categories:
popliteal, death, loss, sad,
Form: Free verse