…faded the leaves of living memory.
An hour ago when the wind blew high
At my lady’s window a red leaf beat.
Then dropped at her door, where, passing by,
She carelessly trod it under her feet.
I have taken it out of the dust and dirt,
With a tender pity but half defined.
Ah! poor bruised leaf, with your stain and hurt,
‘A fellow-feeling doth make us kind.’
On winds of passion my heart was blown,
Like an autumn leaf one hapless day.
At my lady’s window with tap and moan
It burned and fluttered its life away.
Bright with the blood of its wasting tide
It glowed in the sun of her laughing eyes.
What cared she though a stray heart died –
What to her were its sobs and sighs.
The winds of passion were spent at last,
And my heart like the leaf in her pathway lay;
And under her slender foot as she passed,
My lady she trod it and went her way.
So I picked the leaf from its dusty place,
With a tender pity -too well defined.
And I laid it here in this velvet case,
Ah! a fellow-feeling doth make us kind.
by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855-1919)
Public Domain Poetry
Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)
Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.
We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*
If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via email@example.com. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.
* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.
someone had a notion to peregrinate
that someone got potted, got someone else laid
i faked a riveted smile then poked my nose
resolutely into my tummy button
the passersby took their morbid snapshots
each burst extracting the soul from time
still i did not change my compromised pose
i had no use for these silly social critiques
i took a pen and unbolted my daybook
i wrote this heading: “how i lost my summer”
buried myself alive under the rose
in hopes of rising from the grave by fall
“Tous les genres sont bons, hors le genre ennuyeux.” (All styles are good except the tiresome kind.) Voltaire, L’Enfant Prodigue, Preface.
My dearest readers, I submit for your judgment my new collaboration.
Well… I should admit that erotica isn’t my forte. That’s why when I received a request about a collaboration from eroticmusings my first thought was something like, ‘Какого хрена…’ But later I scratched my nape and mumbled, “OK, let’s try.” (I’m bold unbolt after all!)
I can’t say that it was easy, but it was great fun nevertheless. Thank you, eroticmusings! (And I’m sorry if I was too dominant here.)
A dank day. Rain gives the leaf slaps in the face
exactly how you slapped me yesterday.
I obey you. Rain drops seep through foggy lace.
Reality sinks like a castaway.
A cuneiform flows along your spine.
Your Code of Hammurabi is fair and plain.
Guilty as charged! I’m naked and supine.
You enforce a judgement with serene disdain.
I recall menthol smoke and a ruby trace.
Silk fabrics. Ice cubes on the sweating tray.
Long viscous waves of desire softly erase
friable mounds of anguish along the way.
My heart rhythm gasps with a rapid splitting sine.
I squirm in a climax. Again… and again.
Last lines. I jerkily empty a glass of wine.
I’m ravished by my favorite novel and rain.