Category Archives: mature

Making Love With Music

This was one of the first poems I posted on WordPress.
I don’t do a lot of re-posting, but a post by one of my friends reminded me of it,
and I thought it could use another airing.
Thank you for reading.

Making Love With Music At Shag Phelps' birthday bash, in a small dark bedroom, on the far end of Alan's trailer, we found ourselves laughing and naked, doing the dirty dance to a drum solo, and strains of electric mystic Iron Butterfly 'In-A-Godda-Da-Vida, baby…' Flashes of strobe and heady weed streamed through a carelessly ajar door. The earth swirled and tilted when I arched backward, just to hear you swear as my hair tickled the bare tops of your thighs. 'Oh won't you come with me...' Thirty years later, a soft country ballad is mingled with snoring before the first verse leads to pause. In still darkness I walk through this big house alone, while ghosts taunt from shadows. 'and walk this land…' I put the album carefully in place, turn the volume to an unfamiliar low, and close my eyes to drink the music. If I lean way back in a younger woman's arch, I can almost feel the hair that is no longer there tickle the skin of my bare and lonely waist. 'Please take my hand…' Shirley Alexander © 2005


Filed under mature, memories, poetry

Presents From Jim

Presents From Jim Nineteen sixty-nine. The autumn fair was in Athens. I was sixteen. You had finished your senior year. You threw well aimed darts, and loaded my arms with cheap stuffed toys; soft treasures for my bed. Arms and objections occupied, I leaned tight while you held me from behind, whispering unfamiliar syllables into my warming ear. I remember your hands, and how I wanted the force of them firm around my breasts; fingertips exploring chilled hard nipples. Old enough to want, too young to recognize the scent you were leaving on my expectations. You stood silhouetted against carnival lights; Ferris wheel colors haloing your dark hair. I grabbed my instamatic; snapped a hunk of you as you left for California. And I am still here. Shirley Alexander © 2009



Filed under mature, poetry