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By Ashley Lister
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Sonnet 18+

By john e
The Voyeur Leaves
Acorns and Moss
Molly Was Not...
Doing Without
A Sometimes Belligerent...
antecedent obliteration
It Slips Away
Your clothes
ny girl
upon the roof

By Nettie Kestler
Falls to Mabon

By Nick Nicholson
All Days Valentine

By Nikki Isaak

By Raziel Moore
Does poetry have rules?
Where is my poetry?

By Rose B. Thorny
3 x 3 x 3
That Old Refrain

By Valentina Bonnaire

Slut-Hoe ...
by A.J. Heard

Plastic Virgin
by Anthony Beal

Deflowering the...
by Arlene Ang

Open Vegas Robe
by Charlton Metcalf

by Daddy X

Don't Leave
by Eileen Malone

by Ella McCrystle
  Molly Was Not Her Name
© 2003 by john e

In those days I was neutral about woods.
I'd walk through them, sometimes enjoy,
to get to nowhere, really, now I recall.

I was quiet back then,
and so had a place in any crowd
tolerating a little mundane mystery.
After all, I could go off, anytime,
possibly? and funny enough when drunk
to keep around.

None of it was important
except I can tell you about one night
when some of us were nearly drunk
near the edge of the woods,
and still drinking, a lenient night,
and Molly was drinking with us.

Molly sounds right here, but that wasn't her name.
I've forgotten her name.

Molly went off to the woods with a guy,
once in a while. Someone would be talking
and joking and she'd lean on him. Pretty soon
they'd be alone together right in front of us.
Then the woods. She was pretty quiet too;

we were quiet together that night.
I'd love to say there was a full moon
and just enough space between some branches
to show it. But I never looked up.

The darkness made me feel for Molly's eyes,
and her lips; her eyes were everywhere,
lips revealed by yielding pressures.
On the pine needles.
The spells of her slow hands.

I used to drink every night, with a bunch of guys -
these guys, those guys - here and there.
Some understand too well; some will never at all.
I want to leave those scenes sketchy,
for all of us. But I can tell you

that her long dark hair was a tickle of wind
through my fingers, her eyelashes trailed
my hot cheek, and I strained over Molly
as I fucked her, holding her bottom up.
Thrusts brought waves we rode
until she called me down and against her,
and I plunged a grunted yes.
We knew the world within us, moved
together to split it open, and we did.

We talked later, and I don't remember
any of it. Sat on a log and killed time.
That's what it felt like, after the woods.
The next time I saw Molly she might as well
have been Pat or Lori. And the time after that,
and the time .... But that doesn't diminish it
now, even as I ungracefully chip
to sculpt some marble of what I am.

We might drink, or fuck,
because we like how it it is
always becoming, always turning.
A dark turned to light,
glimmers of redemption reflected
off our shaking bodies.
We find we are not who we are.
This is never diminished.

© 2003 john e. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Poets live for feedback!
If you enjoyed these sonnets, please send comments to
john e


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