The Bath
—Painting by Alfred George Stevens, c. 1897
THE MOUNTAIN OF LOVE
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
Your voluptuousness is luscious!
You are a mountain of love for me to climb.
And look!
See me scurry among your canyons and wooded valleys!
I climb ever upward,
my dear,
surrounded by the flesh of your love.
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
Your voluptuousness is luscious!
You are a mountain of love for me to climb.
And look!
See me scurry among your canyons and wooded valleys!
I climb ever upward,
my dear,
surrounded by the flesh of your love.
_____________________
EROTICA
—James Lee Jobe
A kiss
that could make an angel weep with joy.
A tongue flick on rubies,
on diamonds.
Lips as soft as a dove,
shining and moist.
Arms
as warm as the gate of heaven.
Skin
that you caress deep into the night,
even as she sleeps,
so soft and dear.
Legs,
so smooth and plump,
every inch to explored
like LaSalle on the Mississippi.
The headlands of that river
are as sweet as honeycomb
and as wet as the rains of spring.
To enter there is to surrender
to your dreams,
your final hopes.
A lick
that tastes of springtime in heaven,
the taste of a mango ripe
and bursting with a juice
that reinvents you.
A lick
like the promise
that you know
only tomorrow can hold.
Breasts
that rise with her breath,
and fall with your own heartbeat,
nipples to kiss and suck;
a perfect breeze,
a perfect sunrise;
they pale in comparison.
You know that no tribute is worthy,
that you are not worthy.
The sounds
she makes in the wild moments of love,
gasps that reach into your heart,
as she arches her body back against yours,
her hard bottom full in your hands,
squeezing,
squeezing.
An orgasm
that is the eruptive burst
of a new born volcano,
wild,
hot,
and fiery.
An orgasm
that leaves you both weak
with the tears of fresh love.
An orgasm
that forgives you of your pitiful sins.
An orgasm like the love of Jesus,
washing the feet of the poor.
Is there more
to this life?
Yes, much more.
But you don't care.
Not anymore.
There is only now.
There is only her love.
There is only her love.
A kiss
that could make an angel weep with joy.
A tongue flick on rubies,
on diamonds.
Lips as soft as a dove,
shining and moist.
Arms
as warm as the gate of heaven.
Skin
that you caress deep into the night,
even as she sleeps,
so soft and dear.
Legs,
so smooth and plump,
every inch to explored
like LaSalle on the Mississippi.
The headlands of that river
are as sweet as honeycomb
and as wet as the rains of spring.
To enter there is to surrender
to your dreams,
your final hopes.
A lick
that tastes of springtime in heaven,
the taste of a mango ripe
and bursting with a juice
that reinvents you.
A lick
like the promise
that you know
only tomorrow can hold.
Breasts
that rise with her breath,
and fall with your own heartbeat,
nipples to kiss and suck;
a perfect breeze,
a perfect sunrise;
they pale in comparison.
You know that no tribute is worthy,
that you are not worthy.
The sounds
she makes in the wild moments of love,
gasps that reach into your heart,
as she arches her body back against yours,
her hard bottom full in your hands,
squeezing,
squeezing.
An orgasm
that is the eruptive burst
of a new born volcano,
wild,
hot,
and fiery.
An orgasm
that leaves you both weak
with the tears of fresh love.
An orgasm
that forgives you of your pitiful sins.
An orgasm like the love of Jesus,
washing the feet of the poor.
Is there more
to this life?
Yes, much more.
But you don't care.
Not anymore.
There is only now.
There is only her love.
There is only her love.
The Mermaid
—Painting by Howard Pyle, 1910
THE HOLLOW
—James Lee Jobe
The soft valley of blessed greatness,
the hollow where even Jesus worships.
Love's canyon of heavenly bliss, the pass
I take between great mountains of love.
That sweet spot between your breasts,
that ever waits for my kiss.
_______________________
THE MOMENT OF FIRST LIGHT
—James Lee Jobe
We are naked in the first moment of light.
A tangle of arms and legs,
keeping warm with each others skin.
Held by love,
intimacy,
and the sticky passion that we spent hours ago.
I cannot let go,
please,
just let me hold on.
Your breasts are a measure of our truth.
The taste of your skin anchors me here to this life.
Your animal sounds in the night are rich poetry
in a language I haven't yet learned to speak.
The sounds of birds slip in through the open windows.
I wake up wanting you,
the earliest trace of light is just so against the blowing curtains.
I trace your face with my fingers until you smile at me.
Without speaking we both shift our bodies just so,
and I slip into you,
into the quiet.
Into the soft light.
Into the quiet.
We are naked in the first moment of light.
________________________
Today's LittleNip:
In our minds, love and lust are really separated.
It's hard to find someone that can be kind and you can trust enough to
leave your kids with, and isn't afraid to throw her man up against the wall and lick him from head to toe.
—Tori Amos
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for today's lusty poems!
Exhausted Maenides After the Dance
—Unfinished Painting by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, c. 1873
