Category Archives: Guest Contributors

Ceres

Here is a poem for the season ~ like a zaftig ode to Autumn: bountiful, curvaceous, round, pumpkiny. A succulent feast!  

by Lesleigh Owen  © 2006

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Autumn’s smooth, puffy bronze cheeks,
 salty sweet chin
 Gently creaking sounds of awakening,
 Bones groaning like the cracking
 of a rusty cellar door,
 Autumn, with her dusty-wheat-scented breaths,
 whose round, curving, gently drooping body
 polishes the world into
 smooth, gray contours

 Her eyes,
 like newly-discovered amber
 with never-popped air bubbles,
 warm the room like vanilla-scented candlelight
 as she envelops the world in her
 spicy rolls of flesh

 Summer’s not the time for me:
 Sunlight that casts angular shadows in wide-open mouths
 No more feeling the scrape of sand
 sloughing over my dense curves,
 trying to whittle down my folds of flesh
 into smooth, plastic expanses of cookie cutter skin
 No more poppy-scented laughs
 that chime like dissonant dinner bells
 and abrade my delicate ears

 Bright white light
 Take away my sight
 Thin, hungry, sweaty bodies,
 arms shaking, smiles flaking, biceps quaking
 Frozen in flashes of sunlight on teeth
 False idols of perfection
 that die before they can ever
 live a full-bodied life

Autumn, that sweet, round, wise, dangerous old woman
 arrives slyly in her orange, Cinderella-like pumpkin –
 as round and majestic as people –
 tossing dried, crackling, russet leaves like confetti or candy:
“Throw me something, grandmother!”

Autumn: Happy, crisp, nutmeg, rounded season
 My mouth opens and closes in happy little O’s
 over words like “orange” and “clove,”
 circular, bouncing words,
 round, rich, and warm.
 Leaves bend and snap beneath my ponderous weight
 while the scent of earth weaves like cinnamon
 through my sinuses.

 Yawning, indolent light puffs gently through
 twisted branches and desiccated leaves,
 shining golden orange
 like heaps of buttered, cinnamon-scented, steaming mashed yams
 or lightly-oiled strings of spaghetti squash

 Walking this cooling, linear stretch of sidewalk,
 I am tempted to bite into the toothy, yellow winds
 that crease around my body like well-starched sheets,
 to jump high and far,
 passing through the low-hanging laundry
 snapping in the sky,
 jump miles away from all scents of limestone and exhaust,
 to throw my gray, woolen poncho over the clouds
 and roll in the decaying scent of leaves
 that stick to my face
 like allspice on a baker’s hands

 I can finally breathe beneath this nubby grayness
 that stretches like a fluffy headscarf
 over the dome of the sky.

 Seasonal bounty,
 Harvest time, time for rest
 Shelving our immature dreams
 And discovering reverence for plenty

 At night, I eat ginger carrot soup for supper
 and slurp pumpkin custard from heirloom dishes
 My squash-shaped body, –
 honored for its softness,
 its abundance,
 its life-affirming heaviness –
 snuggles into the scratchy red blanket
 crocheted for me by my mother
 while I bounce children and tradition
 on my plump, arthritic knees
 and sip cocoa and warm candlelight.

 Fatness and autumn:
 Round, pumpkiny, bountiful:
 A sensual feast

Fatness and autumn, –
lush and earth-scented as mounds of warm flesh –
dance together in gentle spirals
 like leaves in a windstorm

 Come evening time, Autumn and I sit
 like old friends,
cackling on the front porch,
 bellies bouncing together
 while heavy, purple mugs of chamomile tea
 warm our loving, generous,
 fleshy hands.

Autumn Woman ~ Tali Marotz

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Filed under Guest Contributors, Poetry and Prose, Visual Delights

Bound and Butterscotch

Contributed by guest author (anonymous)

~*~*~*~*~*~

In my own mind, I cannot remember a time that I wasn’t in my own skin, aware of myself. I thought that was natural for all women, but the older I get the more I realize that being aware of oneself is a rare gift.

Even first thing in the morning, I am totally in tune with my body. I like the way my skin feels just out of the shower, when I’ve dried my hair but that place at the nape of my neck is still damp and smells fresh like rain. I like the way my legs feel when I smooth cold lotion on them. I am crisp and clean and sexual in a decorated way. I like the line of my skirt and the gentle rustle it makes when I move. I like the feel of a camisole between my skin and my blouse.

It’s very erotic being dressed and prepared, kind of like being bound up or packaged. A gift.

Most days, I feel a certain tension, a sexual energy, like a little electric current. Part of it lies in the fact that I leave that ‘mother’ part of me behind and decorate myself as an offering. That’s what a girl is really doing when she paints and powders, you know: she is preparing herself. I am not distracted by children or dishes or laundry or unpaid bills or telemarketers. I am honed in my mind and all of the fertile thoughts inside. In the rush hour commute to work, there is ample time to let my mind wander.

By the time I hit the elevator to the sixth floor, I’m damp between the legs and my body is alive. I’m aware of my sexual power. I am always aware of my presence in a room. Feeling the response from those I interact with, I wonder if they sense it, too.

The blouse I’m wearing today is unbelievably soft. It is tight at the waist, tucked into my skirt, and my breasts look full and firm beneath the sheer material. The sleeves are pushed up on my forearms exposing all of that tender,  creamy white skin that matches my neck and that hint of cleavage that you might peek through the top two undone buttons if I move just the right way.

The black skirt I’m wearing is cut two inches below the knee. It’s lined, elegant, with a generous slit in the back that to bend over from the waist would be indiscreet, so I’m forced to kind of kneel if I want something from the lower shelf. My legs are bare and I have on my favorite pair of black sling-back shoes. Not running-in-traffic shoes. I am adorned with a simple watch, large silver hoop earrings, and my hair is up in a loose bun. My reddish-brown hair normally falls just past my shoulders, but today the little upswept French twist looks better with this blouse. To see the back of a woman’s neck is reserved yet suggestive.

There are no accidents here… I feel female and sexual and alive. I wonder to myself if he will like what I’m wearing and smile. I’m sure I’d already by half-undressed and bent backwards over this desk in a most unladylike fashion… hands greedily clutching my hips, pressed hard against the desk, his mouth hot against mine, probing, searching out my tongue. The feeling of being devoured, being consumed, one leg on the floor, the other wrapped around his thigh, greedily urging him into me… 

The phone rings. Work again.

I let the eraser of the pencil I am holding rest gently against my lips before making notes on a pad of all the things I need to accomplish before the end of the day. I’m staring out the window at the lake behind the building, watching traffic go by while I roll this and that fantasy around in my mind like a hard candy in my mouth. I feel it click against my teeth and roll it past my tongue from left to right, then back again.

Butterscotch.

My legs are crossed, and I’m bobbing one high-heeled foot up and down, the shoe dangling off the end of my toes. It’s a lazy but charged feeling. Like static electricity. I sweep tendrils of hair from my eyes and click that hard candy against my teeth once more.

And that… is how I am today.

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Ample

(contributed by guest author Ramon)

Time for an admiring man to speak up,

Of the subtle beauties of the plump gal.

The woman with more, not less. What did Tom Wolfe say? (regarding architecture): “Less isn’t more, less is a bore”.

Her architecture draws me, and sets both heart and loins aflame.

The repeating curves: pleasurable to look at (and study), far more to handle and caress.

Better still, to grab, to press.   No frail petite china doll here, but robust, female and real.

Excess?  Sure, why want less

Than you can fit into a handful? (as the French say).  The efficient ‘European’ versus our American cult of More.

A famous (petite) Latina singer apologizes for her humble breasts.

I’ll take the mountain range.  A deep valley for hands, face, manhood.

By contrast, male on extreme female.  Kneel over me, ample bosom, soft and jiggly.

Anonymous turn-of-the-century Czech artist

Bigger gal with your broad magnetic hips and round bottom, sensuous and mobile. Not lazy in bed but energetic, at once hungry and generous, in line with the generosity of your body.  She gives more.

Silky contours, inside and out.  Enough to sink into, hands, teeth, and totality.  Explore it all, this vast land of love.

Not sinewy or sharp. No straight lines or angles; this is a gentle geometry of arcs.

The hesitant man’s fear: that the bigger woman needs a big man.

But she accepts her lover and is glad for his dedication. No need to fear her rejection.

She knows there are many ways to please, and be pleased.

A nibble of the toe, a kiss of the (dear!) double chin, a pluck of pink nipple.  A caress behind chubby knee, puddle on pillowy belly, the rub of plump thighs. All warmth and wetness. No need to hold back; she won’t.

A woman to be loved and cherished.  Give her all she deserves, and more.

Yes, More.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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