auld lang sex

fill in the blanks with your choice:

Should auld lovers be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should auld lovers be forgot
and days of auld lang syne?
And here's a _________, my trusty friend
And gie's a __________ o' thine
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

I’ll be promising four entwined '07 resolutions on my new blog DO365-- to self, family, community and world. Join me there.

But the overtly sexual component is posted only here.

And it’s a simple one—
To be honest in my sexual needs. To expect men to give me —yup, expect— by ensuring, as best I can, that those I touch in the new year, be he one or a few more, be worthy of valuing
the beauty
and
wonder
and
silliness
and
passion
and
humbleness
that is laced within the power of sex.

And peace. Bravo to the exhilaration of tease and chase (I smile and get tingly remembering all the many moments—) but let my lovemaking, and even fucking, always end soulfully sated with continuing physical after glow, both for me and he both. It's time...

Have a sexy year, everyone!
And what’s YOUR sexual resolution? Post if you dare…..

XO MMVII

Christmas Red and a Lullaby of Love

This Christmas Eve, a tribute to nurturance of babes, birthing ourselves and our loves. Two very beautiful poems by women that touch the depth of male and female humanity through the symbolism of mothering bodies-- woman’s blood versus that of war; and the vulnerable innocence in our most honest of lovemaking. Peace, so the babies of the world will know it in their lives better than we.

“We Need A God Who Bleeds Now”
by Ntozake Shange, from A Daughter’s Geography, St Martin’s Press 1983

we need a god who bleeds now
a god whose wounds are not some small male vengeance
some pitiful concession to humility
a desert swept with dryin marrow in honor of the lord

we need a god who bleeds
spreads her lunar vulva and showers us in shades of scarlet
thick and warm like the breath of her
our mothers tearing to let us in
this place breaks open
like our mothers bleeding
the planet is heaving mourning our ignorance
the moon tugs the seas
to hold her/ to hold her
embrace swelling hills/ i am
not wounded I am bleeding to life
we need a god who bleeds now
whose wounds are not the end of anything.

Your Fingers Have So Slightly Felt
by Dorothy Pucay, published in Saje, Students Art Journal,Etc of Cal State Fresno, 1982

Your fingers have so slightly felt
The spot you may rest your head upon.
Feel it…
In clouds so feathery,
You’ll sink euphoric
And never ache for solid ground.
For I am mother to you and the present.
But your fingers have only slightly felt
This spot you may lay your body down.
No...
You are much too young for weariness
And much too old for sleep.
(Am I mother enough to leave you,
And enough to cause you pain?)
I wake and watch through infant eyes,
This play of hearts.
Are you in it?
Are you with me?
And can I take your hand and lead you
Deep down into the labyrinths of the night,
Where we shall lose ourselves in panic and fright,
And like babies, we shall scream for the breast
And for the milk?
Your fingers have so slightly felt
For an answer.
And I am enough, but only enough to be here.