The erotic is a girl’s voice pleasing,
Although many a man seizing
On a word
Has oft times misheard.
The erotic is a girl standing closer than she need
Which does a man’s desire feed,
And seem
Rhymes with dream.
The erotic is a peach
Seemingly out of reach.
A ripe fruit dangling,
His feelings entangling
The erotic is a state of mind
And you may find
That the seeming hot
Is not.
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
I long for
A knock
At my door
And for
Passion to unlock
In loss of shoe and sock,
But please, let it not
Be as before,
A girl, half there, longing for
The door,
And me
Wishing that she
Where more . . .
I kiss
And partake
In bliss,
Then wake
To my greying head
And an empty bed.
A short black dress
You wore.
Making it easy for
My hands to explore
Your unstockinged legs.
Yes I confess
That I remember the dress
So black and tight,
And the hot
Night, though not
To my shame,
Your name
The skin
On my feet
Has toughened with age.
Is it a sin
To think on the soft skin
Of the feet
Of young women
With whom I engage?
It can not be so
For to write a rhyme
Is no crime
And a girl’s feet are a fine
Sight at night,
With their legs bare
To the caressing air.
Although, having removed the stiletto
Shoe, I know
That girls have tough skin too.
As I listened to jaz
I felt a pang
As a young woman sang,
For I thought on the last time
I heard the jaz
In this place, with you,
So wrote a rhyme
As it was all I could do.
