. Page Three
...please, just scroll through the six pictures and
fourteen writings of this page; remembering, there is
a reason for their sequence, and this is the gateway
to the erotic page eight, but you'll have to look
close to find it...
When Sweets are young,
They're like the blossoms in the trees -
While Sours are like
Honeybees buzzing in the breeze:
But as Bees grow and stretch their wings,
The Sweets grow into fruitful things -
Like apples dangling in the trees:
As wee Bees turn into Possums -
Climbing through the leaves and taking chances,
Ravaging the fruit between the branches;
'Til Sweet and Sour Possupples evolve -
Like you and me and he and she revolve
In every other, universal
Possibili-ty, "T", tea, and tee-off...
...Some drive to play their fun and games
In choosing names
For all they see and do to have -
'Stead of thinking.
Careless blinking -
Caring more for things than winkings!
Where I grew-up, the girls played right along with boys. You know: stick and
At least, most girls did; until...
These girls teased us in to searching-out our differences and fondling with
…Like when Sue Ann Stoten… would grab my ball-cap and
hold it up
football in the vacant lots, rock-hockey in the streets, climbing trees
and swimming in construction ditches, rummaging through the local dump for
raunchy match-book covers, old, broken roller-skate wheels to build orange-crate
cars and scooters, scamming neighborhood intruders, smoking stink-weed stems or
stolen cigar stubs in our secret places, rummaging through the trash on pick-up days
for pop bottles and anything you thought you may be able to use
to scab a
thing or two together with, or trade for a few cents so you could go on down
to the sundry store and buy wax candies, cheap toys or whatever.
we got too big, too rough or, too, damn raunchy. …And even then, there were
a few girls whom still could handle it, survived through-it all, and even gained
an upper hand as we mellowed-out a little and played more civilized.
a different type of play in their more sweeter, hidden, secret places;
and when they learned how vulnerable most boys could be to embarrassment,
they really refined their teasing to an art-form. A natural, sexual evolution
through our puberty, I think... it left sweet memories, anyway...
against her breast teasing me to take it back; and the day all that evolved into
a test of daring each other, between the houses in broad daylight,
by trading
turns reaching down each others pants to really feel the differences...
And scents of sweet, young jisms, mixed flowing with the smells of nervous sweat.
And all our emotional curiosities were heightened, to be... one throbbing
rigid hard; while the other seeped swollen, pulsing soft, and we found-out that,
kisses, mixed with touching, could be really neat, and ever so much sweeter when
traded, instead of stolen.... You know; like in...
I'll let you if you let me...
by m.l. farahay
WHAT A LADY IS…
My Momma is…
And so, I asked my Momma,
OH, well let me tell you, my dear son,
And so, I asked my Momma,
Oh, you just be yourself, son,
Still, she's never told me what a lady ain't,
a very thoughtful soul.
She's always had a lemonade,
on hot and humid summer days,
to refresh the palates of deliv'ry men,
and beg them in to shade…
What's the neighbors going to say?
Those old gossips bitch and moan.
They don't think a lady ought'
be handing-out free pieces of
whatever it may be.
if your old Dad was here,
I'd be giving it to him;
but these sweet men pay me with more
kind words of thankfulness
than, things your father had forgot…
And now that, he is gone,
they all linger here for me
to pleasure with a lemonade,
hot chocolate, or a piece of pie,
or maybe, to with-stay the weather -
whether it be cold or hot…
And I'll just have to tell you,
my curious, little whelp,
you keep your neighbors' fears
wrapped-up in their regrets…
'til you, yourself, can learn
what a true, real lady is, or not.
What about the ladies, Mom?
How should I approach
those ladies that, I think I like?
and look for an open heart.
Look for clarity in twinkling eyes
which, ought' be looking back to you,
when they have truth to speak.
Oh, and never say No to a lady, son…
and I thank God for that !
You are much sweeter than
The sweetest waters from the deepest fountains,
Much purer than
The purest air from above the highest mountains,
So much clearer than
The clearest streams,
And lovelier than
The loveliest of dreams,
It seems,
You are an angel.
by m.l.farahay jb np bs kc bv cf af 59
Allured by your beauty,
The melody of emotion
Abundantly enthralled
Expectation retains me
I discover myself submissive
…For at such a turbulent time,
…And should you happen to
But will, merely, close my eyes
…Trying, ever again, to recover
...Till then, I'll try to refrain,
by m.l. farahay jb ? 59
captured by your voice,
firmly persuaded,
I can engage no other choice.
retains me to your trance,
while incomparable rapture
beholds me not the least,
literal, chance.
by your infatuating affection,
from your insurmountable attractiveness,
I find no protection.
to your unequaled pleasure.
Your unique, reflective smile,
I continuously treasure.
to the half, tranquil glitter in your eye
and vibrate with unmanageable emotion…
To resist, I dare not try.
my mind is no more sane,
and ovation rambles through
my torrid, pleading veins.
prudently turn your lips my way,
I'd not take time to think
nor action to delay;
And let my emotions flow, directly
through a single, solitary, kiss.
from the blossoming, beauty of
your virginal pureness and stay
each day praying, we be true lovers
to joyfully melt each other in pleasure;
only... when you are ready and wanting
to share your wonderful treasure.
and bend to maintain this virtuous,
unyielding bliss that, I may...
but kiss you once, again forever.
Society has tried to beat so neat
…But I could, now, care less
I wish you only knew...
a wayward path for me,
I suppose, their only repose
would be to laugh at me.
Except, perhaps, if they could see in me
the complex dreams that I do long for.
of what they may implore,
for I have fallen to adore
a love all ready to be taken…
And wonder, why can't I awaken
from this dream as hopeless as can be?
A dream for which I must remain ashamed
in feeling so tempted by
the loveliness of you…
And further wonder,
why did I decide in me
to try and confide in thee
of all these hopeless dreams.
They must seem to you
like some mystic, mirrored,
images of youth.
could only see,
you have been the one
who has inspired me…
And if you only desired me,
I would rise above complacency
and self unrest…
To be prepared for any quest,
in this dream as hopeless as can be…
To win your love already taken
in my dreams with themes from which,
I hope never to awaken…
Less confidently.
Of a wind-swept field
What might I find
Of a soft, sienna beach,
What might I find
Of a rose-colored dusk
Of a spark, in the cold of night,
What might I find
Of all hell's temptation
What may anyone find?
with grain blown rolling and bright,
Of a fresh, dawn sky
radiantly bathed with morning sun's
first waking light,
in the wane of the wind
trimmed in it's breaking,
to whisperingly roll
through the fair sandy strands
of your soft, satin hair...?
Just the illuminous aire
of the dawn's daring gold
holding right...
the bold, glowing light
of the sky's heavenly blue
renewed in your bright,
smiling eyes.
Yourself wrapped 'round
with the radiant beauty found
in the perpetual majesty
of each morning's skies.
whose burning sands to surf do reach
to refresh the passionate hour's swift heat,
Of a surging, white-capped wave,
whose soul's defeat
lies in it's desire to stand and stay
where this soft-set beach
and it may meet,
but your smile's refreshment
reflected in the sea's cool treat
of emerald-green waves continuous advance
and untimely retreat.
Yourself like the beach
with I and the world
poised but as waves
washed to your feet.
with vibrant, golden sun
horizon bound,
Of a silent tenderness in the heavens,
and the first star of evening
just found...
What might I find,
silently silhouetted
and sharply defined?
But devilish thoughts
angelically lined…
A shapely, splend'rous profile
precise and proudly standing;
when self-consciously bending,
illusively lending
the aura of an angel from
heaven's splendor landing.
Yourself, like the sun,
to each horizon burning
with silently parted lips
deeply longing
for laughter and love
and laying dreams' charities
to cover life's realities
relentlessly returning.
glowing knowingly through the distance...
Of a warm, bright flame
vainly trying to recall
her certain presence' instance,
in burning sun's last flame?
But the illusion of her mystic image
glowing more brightly than
the twilight from which she came...
Up and flying into the night,
away from conscious realities
rational might... and on into
the imagination's immortal delights,
preposterously prefiguring my sight
in unrelenting dreams' domain.
Herself, her radiance, and reality
left here implanted in...
fondest memories' fertile remains
to entrance the eye and tempt
my mind to imaginaries in...
a war of love unfairly fought
beyond realities' vain
contemporaries.
blinding reason's guide,
Of heaven's splendor
spurning reality aside...
...But their own mind from time,
somehow, torn between the two and
there left struggling through
it's own dark dungeon's
dampness gray.
Myself unsure of just what to do
to keep her precious reality
from becoming, too,
in some uncertain way...
just another illusion in,
in the passing of a day?
I'll never let that one,
brief moments joy fly
too far away from me.
by m.l. farahay 59 jb ?
Like a gift left unlabeled until it is lost,
Like a tree, whose great strength lies beneath,
Crush the seed and the leaf would ne'er be,
So, like the kiss of each wave from the sea,
There is a blue mood of love that,
When shared but, too, briefly, leaves still,
The remained want of love for one will.
From its seed, grow the root and the leaf…
If the leaf does here fade from this tree,
Then the tree may meet death as relief.
Nor the twig or the trunk of the tree,
Nor the touch of each kiss felt from me,
Nor the pulse of loves hearts pounding free.
Come, taste deeply the fruit of loves tree,
For your desire must grow deep to but bleed
My shy doubts out from this fertile love's seed.
by m.l. farahay 60 bv
The value of youths' dreams,
For as years fold,
…And as youths' dreams be like
And youthful minds do want
So, youthful dreamers
Do not grow up
And you'd best loose
For aging waters
youth will not know,
Until time has of them
no more to show…
youths' dreams are lost in night,
Unless their dreams are dreamt
in their own light.
but not the same,
So, youthful craved desires
remain untamed...
their yearning's fill.
Although, they'll learn,
young love's a turning will.
with your grand desires,
Let passion be inspired
to light your fires.
to be above youths' flame.
Let flourish curious thoughts
that with time came...
your youthful purpose now,
although, against
what ages may allow...
out of time will turn
to quench the fires
of youthful dreams 'ere burned
by m.l. farahay nm 60
I never knew the old man or where ever he came from.
There's a wild horse with no rider coming out of the sun.
Life's like a mustang, a wild, untamed thing.
So, grab hold of the mane, and spur on your wild dreams.
Don't look to your back, don't make any deals.
Just take what you're dealt, and deal what you can.
The joy is in loving, the pain is in loss.
There's no trophy, no ribbon, no win, place, or show;
Love's like a horse with no rider running easy as pie.
He wasn't there to lend a hand, though we met once or twice.
Yet, by the way that he lived, I picked up this advice:
So, run with the wind, kid, don't quit till you've won.
It will bite you, and kick you, and throw you out of the ring.
Just spur your dreams on, kid, spur on your wild dreams.
Your life is a race with luck at your heels.
Don't look for a promise, there's no magic plan.
Your birth was the ticket, your life is the cost.
But that everyone finishes, God only knows…
So, go fly with the wind, kid, don't let love pass you by.
Go dance with your dark-horse, before she kicks mud in your eye.
by m.l. farahay fw 62
Oh, wow, jump-up, get tough, and shout like a fool.
Not trying to be coolly reaching-out or about me,
It's you I am stark, raving mad about, now.
Where winter's chill has yet to come, all the warmth of
Colored leaves, with sunshine bouncing down, awakes me.
Leave me, or take me to some winter wonderland,
And cool, or best this red tempest running through me.
I can't quiet this drive from within, when the crunch of
Crackly leaves conceives a steady din that, says in me,
Go, go, go, go, go… no hard or soft ground can stop me.
No planes, trains, or other traffic can pull reins on me.
Shout, if you will, but watch-out if you see me when siblings
Turn orange in the fields and cornstalks grow yellow with age…
When sage and berry-bushes are trimmed with autumn winds,
And ev'ning shadows grow longer, earlier everyday,
I can't stay still, nor will I try; but lie before me and
I'll catch you up in arms quick as smooth, round, brown stones
Can roll down hill over dry grass… and you can bet
Hot sassafras, your sweet, fresh pumpkins will be mine.
It's time, toot, toot, toot, make way for the Autumn Horn…
Men shall rise, and equally, they shall fall
The manic crazed may wake and climb o'er graves
Echoing within my potted stupor,
Some may wilt to gripe with ripe, foul mouth lisping,
Drinking lies leave me dreading sighs waking me…
I've always loved to sit and drink with friends
...And later, let moments of truthful memories
when desire burns in their repentance lull.
to hear the merriment and laughter from
some tavern near… then chant his idioms
of mystful waking… shaking haughty ghost,
the host of cemeteries and places dead,
to hear his words, and in such worlds be fed
to rise to merry laughter in the quiet
hours after thick, smoke-filled rooms are woven
with the looms of evil's deceptive din…
like weighted ball and chain around the neck
may do, to inhibit sane reactions
shaking loose elements uncovered
to my senses more the magnified with guilt.
or bloom bragging about the evening's reapings,
while gray wisp wind about their throats and heads.
Inside, some rumble of thunder's shaking me
from deep within to see ill abnormalities
in this all, too, common ruse of life…
I wonder why, in all proclivities, we strive
to call it celebrating when it so often leads abuse?
or strangers... or even alone without
the choice of who may raise the argument.
drag all my balls and chains from out the past.
In the hour, celebrating all, and fasting from...
sour grapes that may outlast rejuvenating joy.
Perhaps, it's the conflicting contrast that drives
our lives to toy with challenge and share the vibes?
m.l. farahay pk 60/61
I think I've been taken up to heaven
Surely, God is the epitome of
This mortal shell of mine, so outward worn,
Oh, what worldly wonders time's tricked me with
and I have often fallen sore tempted
Wrong in that, my pleasure wrought naively,
Like Mom's and Dad's and most other members
close or, even, friends of strange acquaintance
prone in recollected memories curse
Now, I find myself, so undeserving,
Surely, God is the epitome of
I wonder, have I been taken up to heaven,
and laid in an ornery angel's head.
spirit laced with humor in grand design.
has born the blunt in my abuse of time.
in teasing me with ev'ry pleasure known,
to many I had no idea were wrong.
gravely wore many others' spirits down…
of my immediate family and...
in some one night stands forever lying
of conscience re-defining itself.
rewarded with unconditional love.
spirit laced with laughter in grand design.
or fallen in a horney devil's bed?
m.l. farahay 67 nb
.