My Indecent Spell

indecent spell

It is in

blackened chambers

I cast a spell

on you

only  you

my spell

one of darkness


delicious, decadent desire

that will lick up

every decent

thought you had

and bury them

in folds of my devil

where pulses

milk your fuel

and guttural screams

fill me

more than once




Sins Scream in the Dark

Welcome to After Hours friends.  Beth Amanda back for a Friday night post.  This is obviously from my archives.  I had been writing less than a year on Twitter when this was posted there.  Sometimes it’s fun to look back, and most times, I’m asking myself “Did I write that?” When new doesn’t flow off the pen like it should, going back can be a great trip.  Enjoy the evening readers!

Yours To Devour

aching flesh

Waste none

of my aching flesh

lying bare

before you

adore each inch

with your eager eyes

feel me closer

with every fingertip

sliding over curves

journeying deep within

my softness

taste all my scents

my delicacies of femininity

with your lips and velvet tongue

devour my essence

like you

cannot ever

get enough




The Voice in His Hands

talking hands

His hands

did all the talking

whispering tones

tickling my neck

and shoulders

playful words

running across breasts

down slender sides

teasing tummy

and sensitive hipbones


began pure poetry

words sliding effortlessly

down insides of

shivering thighs

weaving passionate lines

over and around

begging petals

until suddenly…

a changing tone

with flip of my body

masculine strength

of rough language

kneading both cheeks

urgent voices in his fingers

commanding compliance

as he pulled me

to my knees

his conversation with me

now heightened

to demands

and my screams of

obedient pleasure

finally silencing him




My Mug. My Life.

I am kind of giggling that I could write about a coffee mug.  But thanks to Christine Ray, a line in her poem  “A Poet’s Love Song”inspired this piece, and I just had to run with it!


I stared at the chip in my favorite teal colored coffee mug.  The mug with the typewriter font B on it for Beth. The chip happened not long after I bought it, and I don’t know how.

I felt like I was staring at my life.

Like the mug, my life is a beautiful color.  Although, it is not always the same color because different days and experiences bring different colors.

Like the mug, my life is daily filled with things I love. Family, good friends, good times, thoughts and dreams.  Oh yes, and coffee and wine.

Like the mug, my life constantly gets refilled.  Mainly, it’s the people in my life who unknowingly do that for me.

Like the mug, I sometimes spice up my life by adding in things others’ may never think of doing.  And I savor those moments of secret indulgence.

Like the mug, my life is not perfect. I never know when a chip will happen.  I don’t always know how it happens. But my life has bumps and scuffs, and those oftentimes leave scars that are permanent yet not debilitating.

Like the mug, chips won’t keep my life from being able to be full and happy. Hurt, heartache, and loss happen. But I continue on and sometimes ignore those chips.

My mug.  My life.




Revisiting Backcatablogging – Midwest Fantasy Writes and a Response Poem “Spinning Naked Singing”

One thing I missed last week was Back Cataloging, well, it wasn’t missed as much as it wasn’t reflected in my posts. I have spent a good deal of time over the last several weeks reading Midwest Fantasy. If you take the time to browse through her posts pinned below, she will invite the reader into her world with very sensual and modestly erotic writing that expresses a depth of a sensuality connecting to a deeper spirituality of self-discovery. She affirms wonderful, sex-positive idea of Woman. While the legs in the icon at the top of the page may seduce the reader, getting insight into the depths of this interesting and very decent human will be the reward.

I welcome her to the Go Dog Go Treetop Cafe.

A reflection:

Spinning Naked Singing

Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty
Tied to the post barks at the convention of standards
She turns to the mirror, gagged, looking for a safe word
Unable to spit it out.

Who is prisoner, who is warden?

Wrapped inside this lace prison strips beauty
Of depth. In the fathoms, sharks swim with barracudas
She turns to the mirror, looking for an oxygen tank,
A rifle to shoot at the gag.

Who is hunter, who is hunted?

Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty asks, naked,
Why don’t you untie me, stare at gently falling flesh
In the mirror, laugh, then smile at the unravelling
Spit out unsafe words until the tank explodes

Who is safe, who is safe?

Lace lumped on the floor, the mirror looks back
At beauty dancing, spinning, whirly-dirvishing
Singing words that explode, spitting them out
Like poison sucked from a rattlesnake bite.

Please explore more, just a few favorites:

Naked Heat


naked heat

In this naked heat 

of us

I lost

all sense of me

two smoldering fires

ablaze as one

frenzied flames

reaching heights

unknown before

it is no longer

you and me

it is the naked heat

of we