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Poems by Lisa Shields


Djinn

I slip in soft as satin
flowing subtle against you
and arch to mold your contours
but no pressure
no weight
against your skin like paint
so you wear me like cashmere
soft and warming.
Even in sleep
you yield to my touch
and though you do not wake
your hand finds my hip
and rests there
half curled
half comforted by the warmth.
I lean my ear against you
to hear the calm and steady beat
the quiet whisper of breath
and it is enough
to lie here
and be even this much in your world.



Flannel Shirt

Butter soft,
wearing thin in places,
but if I place my hand
in the center of your chest
the soft nap teases my palm
with the steady beat
of your constant heart.
I bury my face in your chest,
rub one cheek against the old plaid
and smell soap,
and ever so lightly, a man.
I arch like a kitten,
and lean foward
laying my nose against yours
ever so lightly.
Slowly back and forth
eskimo kisses
like Nanook never dreamed
watching your eyes
catch the spark
and leaning in
to capture one pouty lip
with mine.
You groan, and reach for me
catch that wild plume of hair
wrap it firmly around your hand
and hold me fast---
so you can kiss me
to breathless silence
until I understand
that you are damned serious
on the issue of loving me.

You hold me tight against your shirt,
and I am grateful for the strong hands
to catch me when my knees turn traitor
and all I can think of
is long drugging kisses
and the beat of your heart
beneath worn flannel
this chilly night.



Dancing On the Starlight

Oh I am a bold, brazen piece of work,
holding out my hand
blushing furiously
and suggesting
that you put your arms around me,
pull me close as clothing
look me in the eye
and move with me
to music
like I was the lover
of your dreams.
I am daring---
crazy---
and so in love
that I'll risk "no"
I'll risk my pride
I'll let it ride
for one more spin
in your arms...
dance with me
beneath the stars
watch the wind carry my hair
and love me
like tommorow doesn't matter.



Autumnal

Chilly tonight,
sweater weather
and I pull out the flannel sheets,
fluff the pillows
and spray a mist of cologne
on the cases
before I rummage for bed clothes.
No wench wear tonight---
I hanker for something combed cotton
and comforting
but company would be delicious.
I putter a bit,
knowing that when I come to bed
my toes will be floor chilly,
and I wonder if I'm feeling brave
enough to plant cold feet
in the small of your back
as you doze---
and then run shreiking
thorough the house
as you promise revenge
but settle for a full lip kiss
and it does not matter
that there is no satin enticement.
Your hands find me
and they are warm---
but my skin is hot,
your touch is sweet
and you sweep me up
in a wide hug,
and carry back
so you can hide me
beneath the old quilt
and welcome the fall
in the warmest of ways.



Yielding

The meaning of the word
got lost in the neo-guerilla
post feminist
army boot wearing
I-can-open-my-own-door, asshole
world of my youth.

When a man treating a woman as a lady
became demeaning,
I lost my right to yield gracefully---
even when I wished.

Yielding is the moment
when a woman is consumed
and consent is delicious,
and yes, men can yield too.

Yielding is the kiss
given freely sweet as apple cider
crisp as New England Fall,
and soft as the first flakes
of a night snow.

Yielding is the instant
when gut, heart and head
whisper or shout
a yes that cannot be mistaken.

So with an nod to my sisters,
I humbly assert
that I can yield when I choose.
You there in the back?
If you take a mind
to grace this wrist
with a kiss,
tell me I look lovely
or whisper something yummy
in my quivering ear,
Let's just say
I'm giving you the right of way........




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Biographical sketch: Ms. Shields is a full time human with a number of part time jobs. She has worked
as an editor, ad copywriter, and is most recently a mother, and an elected official in a community of 10,000. She works in a library, occasionally teaches poetry writing in her town,and was educated by nuns in her youth---which explains much.

Lisa Shields recommends:

Dancing On The Grave Of A Son of A Bitch by Rita Mae Brown
Reason: Diane Wakowski's work was very freeing to a young writer who had been educated in "the classics"...

Recommendations for writers:

Learn to show, not tell...spend time searching for the perfect word---cliches can kill a good work...and be neat please...spell check can save you from being thought an idiot...


 


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