the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

Poems with the tag ‘sex’

Something’s in the water

(A meditation for Mother’s Day and Christmas)

“Something’s in the water.” Chuckles surround.
“I’m due. Get ‘em out with spicy Thai.”
Down in straps infants spit-up over shoulder and lapse
the recurring flow–before nine and after one,
suckling two, singled out, like the single ones so few
within the stained. Glass. Body–broken.
Created to create, duty to do, should we adopt, a different view?
Turn a cheek when asked if trying instead of
shoving our Brothers and Sisters, sighing:

A gleam in God’s eye, a moat in mine.
Doused at a shower: games and pastel flower
present from the eye, a tear, ducks out early dashing hope
upon the rocks by Babylonian stream, the placenta’s quite salty,
but ’tis sweeter than bare melancholy.

Christened: yet another granny or grandpa’s claim,
last week’s was not averse to holy, genocidal names–
ache and money enough can get triple the glow, the pound,
the flesh, the ounce add up every week, you know, weighing down,
C-cups runneth over to nursery wants ten more
fingers, ten more toes, to fight the battle
in the basement of babies booming below.

Impregnated with fertility in winter–in spring:
proud pistils sing standing up theirs in-carnations
on Sunday two of–May the un-mothered run away.
But no matter the year, we worship a child in the end:
bowing to our cherubs in bathrobes, tiny babes in bulletin,
sliding through choruses on the backs of asses to Bethlehem.

For God so loved the world that he sent an advent series
every year to remind the shepherdess, in her barren fields,
to treasure up these things and ponder them.


Pommelled fruit

Back up against a tree,
golden foliage shelters the curves,
freckled islands, a desert
of smooth sand, gripped by palms
soaked in the sweet, salty sweat of a summer night
squeezed of the juice from a fallen fruit.


God had a sense of humor

God had a sense
of humor that he didn’t share with His angels
entertaining Adam and Eve as they created Seth.
Laughter was heard on a wedding night
between the pain and the pleasure:
ingredients for a sticky sauce
that adheres family portraits and
slippery noodles to a single, circular wall.


Pretty models: the contraceptive of truth

I want some ugly (just a little, please–on the side)
but I guess we have a lot of–of makeover shows,
which just goes to show the need for:
an equal opportunity leer of leg hair and some
lips to drip of metaphors and intellectual orgasms,
a mouth to keep me masticating my pens up and down,
and some hands to remove these synthetic condos
that prevent my copulation with truth


She reads road signs (in love with potential)

time is not what seniors have, I think
of classroom teaching
not wild, kinky sex when gazing
into the telescope of time
and those eyes,
I draw lines connecting now and potential
hopefully parallel to I:
fitting seventeen sides into an eighteen sided hole
and eighteen into
nein* teen, because I’m an adult.


My Mount Olympia

When the lint on the invoice envelope’s edge, looks like a man running for you,
I want a mother, I’ve always said, to hold me and melt me into her breast
for the heat rocks me to sleep
as if I could do anything but rest
bordered in your arms
you bat away the bees
around you that swarm
to taste this ambrosia
that never leaves me starved


The night after

The dial-tone returned, and I lied silently down
re-associating us into singular pronouns,
surely, I’ll wake from what my subconscious’s unwound,
for yet no tear or murmuring of sound,
but this phone’s clock blinks only three here,
maturity or just callousness as I fear?
Can’t help but call grace, mother–
forgiven, madness today, forgiving madness another,
forcing resentment resolved
by persons entirely uninvolved,
waiting for our critics critiquing,
sick of “but so sweet and cute”– as if comforting?!
and rehearsing witnessing words of an evangelist,
cramming faith into a one minute gist.
The night after–kettle corn is popping,
adhering to uncle’s doc’s rule of no butter sopping.
Launching kernels into the air, I catch 22:
if I hate or love, I consume you.
If you must consume me to live alone, again
Then, eat and let the rest of our lives begin.


The sadness

The urge
the tube top
the water
the beer
the muscles
alone
the dreams
the pool
the pain
the regret
alone



© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.