the gray green frogs
that often
silently squat as still as bricks
and blocks
around the pear-shaped garden pond
are frisky
restless
they plop in and out of the weedy water
boasting bigly as they billow out
many a full-throated croak
- a raucous gasconade
that both far and near
splashes upon the ear
they declare
a coming of a wetting
as bimbo thighed
legs akimbo and wagging
they swim
through cloudy waves
of mincing midges
- and other madcap
bity water-skimmers
a sure telling of a drenching
with a later drip
of rainbow glimmers
Categories:
thighed, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Neon vodka splashes into plastic cups.
Booze-hounds doze
over imaginary throbbing bikes,
their noses tucked into studded chests.
A thick thighed woman whoops
and cusses for no apparent reason,
adjusts her rocking bar-stool,
squirms while cajoling with a low-cut.
“Give her a long slow screw”,
mumbles a gray bearded angel with a leery wink.
Beside him, edged into oily leather, his wing man
strategizes some hasty unzipping.
Later, hid in the dirty light — he just might
if she waits for him outside by a wall
one leg lifted.
~~~~~~~
FYI
“A long slow comfortable screw against a wall,” is a cocktail:
ice
1 part vodka
1 part sloe gin
1 part Southern Comfort
orange juice, as needed
1 part Galliano.
~~~~~~~~
Categories:
thighed, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Wulf they called me; they called me
long ago, in track and fathered field,
muscled and thighed for the dash to kill
and share the beating blood, the quarry’s
stumbling heart
yet I have kin too, and brave the arrow
and shot you send; nay giddy lad your prey’s
yourself, in your eye’s window, and the wind of
fell and moor, bows to no man, no brother of the
cub, or sceptered raking horny club;
see tis the moment of wind, and bloody fur, that cuts
the screaming cat and rabbit to fearful death, and warms
the wormy hearth, the wulf-mother’s den; the spirit
so nourished yet rushes on, into the black minds of men.
Categories:
thighed, nature,
Form: Free verse
and I sipped the coffee and it was good, so good;
then, a dancing troupe came by, young ladies from
Dubai; and they lined the curb,
right there in the street, and blinded me with their
mouths and intuition; and when they stopped and
made to move away, I said,
“why not stay a while, it could be fun?”
And the smooth-thighed, black-eyed leader jibed,
“no, best not, there are other men we wish to
tease, and anyway, poets don’t have money,”
and they left me with my coffee; and it was good,
so good.
Categories:
thighed, fun, poets, sexy,
Form: Free verse