My woman # 540

“A capable, intelligent, and virtuous woman — who is he who can find her? She is far more precious than jewels and her value is far above rubies or pearls.”
Proverbs 31:10

My woman

My woman is more than rubies,
more than diamonds, sapphires,
any of those cold mineral rocks.
She is rich with ideas that even I
don’t have; ideas that inspire me
to create new poems, new thoughts,
even see new worlds in words.
She is a light that shines when I
am temporarily lost in darkness,
not knowing where to turn.

With a few brief words she switches
on the light globe of ideas sleeping
in my head, and I see the track
ahead that I can take to reach
the goal I hadn’t seen till then.
I am so grateful to the universe
for this most precious gift of her,
a woman who complements me
inspires me, brings me loving care,
and points out possibilities I’d never seen!

© Malcolm Miller 16.9.2013

Mildly erotic love poems #539

I’ve been writing for years in a group called the Erotic Readers and Writers Association, or ERWA. Love is the most basic and important of human feelings, and I make no apology for singing its praises in physical terms.

*************

footprint, footnote

Lovely feet that spoke to me of female beauty
small neatest toes, and skin of sweetest texture
under my hands and lips as I kissed their
pale sculptured shapes, that no classic artist
could shape to be so warm and exquisite
with curves of three dimensions of instep and
arching sole to explore with hands and mouth.

Your feet were so pretty that I just could not restrain
myself from wanting to caress them,
and when I touched them, I signalled trust and love,
communicating without words, knowing the feel
of skin and shape, hunger to kiss, stroke and enjoy
those complex curves so rich in femininity,
your shapely feet I found so sweet and perfect.

© Malcolm Miller 12.7.2013

**************

woman in my bed

speaking my need to her
I’m confident at last
legitimacy conferred
by a thin ring of metal

winter’s the time for bed
warmed under down-filled fabric
and each other’s naked skin
we ignore the open window

© Malcolm Miller 7.7.2013

That Night at the Hyatt #518

Up to now, I have had my erotic stories and poetry only in the Erotica Readers’, but I have nothing to lose by disclosing that I have been a writer of erotica for several years now.  This poem is about a real occasion which was told to me among other stories which I once thought to make into a book, but gave up for variuous reasons.  It features in the Erotica Readers’ public gallery selection now, as does the previous story, Alpha Beta  #517, after being in the Members Only section.

That Night at the Hyatt

Style!
You had it that night at the Hyatt.
Your red dress, high heeled shoes, and makeup
were only the props for your show.
You were the star, your script,
to play the perfect whore,
proudly professional and convinced
in every movement of your body.
You would have moved with style,
that elusive thing that few young people have
that shows immediately that you are to be seen,
and judged a character with individual
integrity and identity.
No matter the profession that you played,
your part would be done with style, with panache,
with all the skill and craft that you had learned!

© Malcolm Miller

I knew this girl # 508

This little thing appeared in my consciousness as i was lying down for my after-lunch nap.  I wrote it out as soon as I woke up and went to the computer.

It’s very different from the deliberately constructed stuff, like ryhming poems, Patrarchian sonnets, or even ryhming couplets.  Maybe it’s a sort of stream of consciousness  thing.

I knew this girl.

She was not just lovely, but bright.

Intelligence shone from her words

knowledge of many things

evidence of a curiosity

as strong as mine.

She passed every test

that I could think of, aware of stuff

I knew but many don’t.

A companion sent by heaven

to be my friend, my other half,

one day perhaps even to be more.

We looked togerther at the stars,

the clouds, the Moon.

Contrails, lenticular clouds, and

standing waves that left stripes

of parallel cloud across the sky.

She knew them, looked for them,

called me on her phone to share

as I did her.

Who could ignore a girl like that?

 

`         © Malcolm Miller  2013

Love and stealth #495

Here’s another of my poems turned into a short piece of plain text.  I’m doing this to improve my writing skills.  It may be relevant that at one time, in the 1950s, I was a Radar Officer in the RAAF, and, although officers weren’t supposed to, I was sometimes able to get my hands on the hardware.

 

 

Love and stealth

 

Falling in love is nothing new to me, and one day I fell in love with you, anticipating an adventure of an amorous kind such as I was familiar with from past encounters.  I approached you with my usual care, but soon made a disquieting discovery.  You were not some lusty wench who would meet me half way, smoothing the way on whatever road we chose mutually to follow to love.  To my dismay, you presented yourself as a perpetual virgin, always just out of reach of my desire, always unobtainable.

 

Motivated by a healthy and natural lust, I probed to find a positive response to my powerful feelings.  My search sonar pinged, my radar chirped, but there were no echoes.  This was impossible!  No fighter plane, carefully shaped for stealth, returns so little signal back from an enquiring pulse!

 

I have found that most women, even married or in love, reflect at least a little bit.  Their sexuality is active, energized, and even though of course their answer’s ‘No!’ I see a small return on the screen .  Well, that’s how I expected it should be, but what I couldn’t understand was the total lack of a response from your direction!  This left me tinkering with the set, trying to tweak the output power, sharpening the pulse, doing anything I could to ensure a return.

 

There was still nothing.  At last I had to come to this conclusion – that you are without any doubt the most virginal woman I had ever met!  Yet you are not sexless, since your body gives rich signals to a visual scan, which we call beauty.

 

However, when I try to find in you the mirror that reflects my lust, I can detect nothing but silence and an kind of dark abyss.  This has left me mourning for years with a deep feeling of frustration.

 

© Malcolm Miller 1999-2013

Two short bits #494

Two of my poems transposed into short, short stories or texts.  This was a challenge by one I love, to show that, while thinking of myself only as a writer of poetry or essays, I am in fact capable of writing something in story form.

 

I never asked

I never questioned why she was nervous about some things.  In her own time she might be ready to tell me; in the meantime, I’ve always said that interrogation is no substitute for conversation.

I sometimes called the thing between us an ‘iron curtain’.  It wasn’t opaque or impermeable; I could see and hear her perfectly well, and even hold her hand and kiss her.  But somehow we never seemed to be on the same side of the barrier, and it was not my choice.   Jumping over it was pointless, and anyhow it would be an invasion of her private space, not ever to be done unless I was asked to cross.  It was too wide, not by measurement but by some imaginary dimension.

It was clear that some strong feeling gave her the wish to keep herself at a distance; a distance at which she could feel safe.  As long as she had it, there was no way an attacker, animal or human, could come upon her unawares. Well, I think that was how she perceived it.

To me, the situation was quite different. Whatever it was, whatever fell beast or influence she was keeping at bay, her efforts were futile. As I saw it, whatever it was she so feared was already there, behind her back, unseen,  but in the perfect position to strike.  She seemed to have no idea that the invader had arrived long before.

It was in her own mind.  I could only speculate what horrible experience, what assault, what abuse might once have taken place.  There was no visible sign of any physical injury, but that proved nothing.  Some scars are deep and never show on our outside.  To me, her beauty was near to perfect, and my love for her carried a component of fierce anger against whoever had done this to her.

© Malcolm Miller 29.3.2013

Dusty feet

Women’s feet have always interested me.  Only one woman in a thousand has really beautiful feet, but that has never stopped m from looking.  To me, bare feet are a metaphor for a naked body; if a woman will take off her shoes for you, what will she not take off if you are persuasive enough?

She told me that she didn’t want me to touch her feet, because they were dusty.  I sort of understood her fastidiousness, which was because she really wanted me to see her as beautiful.  She really did take off her shoes, and if her feet were dusty, that didn’t change their shape or their nature.  I still felt like kissing each small toe, each curved surface of arch and instep, since all were part of her whom I adored

These pale skinned, flawless feet,  were ready to carry the body I loved into my embrace, for my caresses.  Dust is external, but true beauty is from within, its shapes immune from random dirt.  If dust was on her feet so intimately, why should not I be as  eager to be at least as close to every part of her body?

© Malcolm Miller 2013

Alpha, Beta – a story. #491

This quickie is, as closely as I can make it, a transcription of a vivid dream I had last night.  As to what that means, or where it came from, I can’t say.  Fear of being supplanted by a younger man?  Anyhow, I will never feel the same about going to a conference again!

Alpha, Beta.

Everybody knows about conference affairs.  They add excitement and euphoria to a boring event.  They are ephemeral.

I  met Clare at the Conference.  She was a lovely brunette of fifty-odd, with long hair and wearing expensive designer clothes as if she’d been born to them.  Which she had.

With my white hair and dark suits, or in my jeans, I was professorial, urbane, fit-looking.  I could make conversation she wanted, about art, politics, science, travel, even wines.  I was the best, and I won her as my prize.  We held hands, we kissed, we…. well you know the rest.

At the Conference we all heard of young Paxton.   He was headed for a top university, the dux of his school, a sporting hero, winner of the inter-college debating prize, and had performed brilliantly in the lead role of his expensive school’s end-of-semester musical.

Not actually handsome, he was a fine young man who wore confidence and competence like a shining cloak.  I was amused when he sat next to Clare and began to chat her up.  The Conference was ending with an impromtu concert in which Clare and I were spectators only.  It was not our thing.

Paxton, known as either ‘Pax’or ‘Tex’ to his friends, took the stage and danced, for his item.  Where he learned I don’t know, but his dancing expressed his nature and his future.  It said, ‘I am male, I am a warrior, I am a future leader’ and it reeked of hormones and sexuality.  He kept his eyes on Clare, and his desire and intent to have her was powerfully stated.

Afterwards, he came and sat next to Clare again.  For a moment I was amused.  This lad, a rival?  To me?  And then a moment later I saw from her body language that Clare was no longer mine.

Instantly I knew that I could challenge him and would lose, and look an old fool.  To do the gentlemanly thing and concede was the only way to save face.

They left together, and later, at the Conference Dinner, I saw them at the head table, obviously holding hands, and obviously lovers.

I knew then that my role was to be for ever the beta male.

© Malcolm Miller 21 March 2113

Four nameless poems #487

“…but still the white moon shines
and still the restless heart yearns!”
So thought Hassan in Flecker’s play,
and so he might, since those few words
were simply a translation of the code
locked in some genes for reproduction.
Stories, love songs, plays and novels,
romance in all its forms, are only
manifestations of molecular links
where at base, ions and electrons
are exchanged across barriers of energy
in accordance with the universal laws
of physics.  Thus love has its place
alongside the forces that shape the galaxies,
and show that our desires encompass
both flesh and the most distant stars.

************

It seems so natural to have a woman in my bed.
For fifty years I’ve slept with women,
wives and mistresses, but all that may have ended.
Making my bed today, I realised that years had passed
since last a woman slept with me.
Is this the latest victory of death,
or just another step in growing old?

*********

The old man sits cross legged, touching the strings
his face is lined, but with age and not emotion.
The kingdom shakes, the palace hums with rumour,
he sits untouched, has seen it all before.

A faint smile crinkles round his eyes, he knows
that rulers have their armies and their concubines
and millions bow to them as their great leaders
but real power lies with bureaucrats and bankers.

************

I truly celebrate the flame that leaps,
the passion and the power  that fills my thoughts
and body, the bright star lighting my sky,
the world of colour and pleasure called sex,
the thrill of desire that’s like a power source,
a megawatt  of energy moving my body, my hands,
my heart towards the woman that I want.
The blood that leaps, the flesh that burns,
The lust that gives the power to love,
The parts that stand, the flesh that’s wet
The urge to mate, the heart that yearns.

© Malcolm Miller 2013

An ancient lover and poet #485

Here are two love poems from some years ago.  I have a lot of them! A lot has happened since I wrote them, but as I have said in verse, ‘love lasts for ever/ though lovers always part’.  I am a romantic, and I find myself afloat in a sea of romance that is a bit like being slightly drunk.

The Ancient Poet In Love

1.  Itching In The Heart

What do I feel?  I feel fine, I said
What I feel is sleeplessness, lust, jealousy and self-pity –
Well, that’s part of it. There’s no fool
Like an old fool, is there?
I know all about this stuff, I said, yes,
Love sex and marriage, been there, done that!
Then I was going to be smart, one helluva fellow,
And they’d say, “Did you see him with that woman?
That lovely young woman? That old bugger!
He must have something we don’t have!”
But what happened?  My mind said this is OK
You can help this person, and you like her a lot.
But my heart betrayed me, as I remember now
It’s done before. Disconnect the brain,
Throw out all rational thought.
It’s time to fall in love again, it said.
I wasn’t asked. Now once again I have to pray
To that Goddess I revere who represents
All women and all womanly power and wisdom,
To help me end that itching in the heart.

2.  The Ancient Poet’s Reflections

You are so beautiful I just can’t understand
Why hordes of suitors and would-be lovers
Don’t make a fearsome barrier between us.
Surely you’re more than just a magic mirror
Reflecting what I want to see, me as a hero,
You as the grateful damsel in distress,
Me as a rescuing knight in shining armour,
You as the maiden being rescued from the dragon!
Oh yes, there’s more to it than that –
My need to be loved by women and to give love,
For instance, so strong at times that I’m
A hammer that hits my own thumb and hurts a lot.

© Malcolm Miller 1997-2013

Lover exploring #484

Here are a couple of my poems  from a few years ago that have never been published.  There is no attempt to be obscure.  The reader must make his/her own interpretation.

 

Advance Party            [Explorers]

Tasting the smoothness, friction’s absence
From finger tips that circle, march and countermarch
On your inner thigh. The exchange of messages
Unhindered by traffic through the net
Of nerves not working at capacity
Leads to decision at Headquarters;
A kiss here would feel good, setting up camp
Where scout fingers heliographed the base:
‘Rich territory found, no defences here stop
Advise early occupation.’  Mobilisation
Of my forces could begin. The order to move out
Is filed for now with other vital plans
Against the day of victory that will come,
When lips can taste that satin smooth warm skin.

Time’s Arrow

End of a dream.  Waking, out of my bed,
Time’s arrow points at white porcelain,
Not really the end but the beginning,
Help a lame dog, the saying goes,
It pisses on your hand.  That’s life.
Too late to kick it now, no satisfaction there.
Won’t say “I tried and failed.”  I was there,
Did my own thing, following my programmed course
Until diverging paths stretched real time too far
The weakened signal took so long control was gone.

Wishful thinking ruled the day,
Exploring unknown territory in a 4-wheel-drive
Unaware of tigers in the grass,
Crocs lurking near the river crossing.
You know the country, carry the scars;
I thought that my white hat was all the shield I need.
I knew nothing but my love for you,
My strength was as the strength of ten.
What could I ever know of the survival skills
You learned out there in country I had never seen?

© Malcolm Miller 1998 – 2013