gay – Page 2 – novamartinpoetry.com

Poems

Moon Glowed

The moon with her glow,

I hid from her light

but she called me anyways

from out of my home

and into the night.

Her crushed tinsel dress

shining on high.

My lips found her thighs

and my eyes, bashful

but entranced,

afraid to look up to her

iconic face and powerful grace.

Her crepulescent lips

burning,

waiting, they spoke without words,

as they professed

they wanted, they needed my kiss.

She called me home for our

midnight embrace,

entwined and attune,

two women f@&$ing each other.

Two eons salvaged,

two eras made,

one whole age announced,

only one age now

from hence this time writ.

Poems

I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.

Poems

Dykes Don’t Give Up

Dykes. Dykes don’t give up.

We are loyalty, commitment,

acts of service, follow through,

and attention to detail.

Femmes can be dykes.

Butches are commonly dykes.

Transmen and transwomen are dykes too.

We’re not like straight women,

or bi women, or queer women.

Dykes are patient.

Dykes are open and transparent.

Some dykes might be polyamorous,

but they’re open and honest about

who they love

and what they do with people.

You will almost always know how a

dyke thinks or feels about something.

Dykes are straight shooters.

Dykes speak truth to power if and

when needed.

Dykes are anti-authoritarian and

anti-hierarchal.

Dykes don’t live in fear.

Dykes are kind and celebrate kindness.

Dykes live in light and they believe in

bringing that light to others.

Dykes actually mix well with all

types of people (except for bigots).

Dykes have tended to the trauma of

patriarchy, worked out a lot of stuff

on the path to liberation, and dykes

are here… to set the world free.

Poems

Sapphic Love

Sapphic love heals us.
Us women.
Cisgender and transgender
women.
It heals us from the
trauma of patriarchy.
The marginalizing.
The containment.
The — you should be like this
kind of stuff.
We’ll be however we want to be
together, woman to woman,
in this space.
It it is sweet and kind.
Non-judgmental.
It’s a safe space,
a tender space,
my ladies.
God, my fellow ladies.
This chest to chest stuff.
This lips to lips stuff.
This hard stuff.
This soft stuff.
This trustful stuff.

It heals.
God, it heals.

Poems

Angel Of Color

The Angel fell upon me.

And how she laid across me

she looked like a fallen angel.

So I raised her up, uplifted her.

Her breasts met

the morning light.

God saw this and God created

color.

The blue of day was born.

God gasped, God was overwhelmed.

God gave up.

God gave the colors and the day

back to all of us.

So as the angel breathed out

she shared sacredness with me

and everyone else.

Knowing we together on that

morning had reformed God,

the Angel gave me a dress of

dazzling color

that I wore to

Autumn’s banquet that evening.

She wants me to look like

the changing leafs.

I am a changer and I am

her woman.

Poems

Weak In Her Arms

I’m taller than her.

She knows how to hold me

in a womanly way.

She’s held a tall woman before.

She’s an athlete.

I think that helps her with

confidence and cool calmness.

She’s stronger than my last

girlfriend and my last girlfriend

was pretty strong.

I really like strong women.

Swoon. It’s my achilles.

I love feeling weak in my

babe’s arms.

Poems

Born Male

I was born male.

She looks at them on my thighs.

Soft brushy freckles.

She likes them.

Her lush lush lips go upon them.

She says I’m such a lovely, lovely

woman.

I giggle.

She kisses my soft, white legs more.

So I gasp and I moan.

This feels right. It feels succulent.

It feels more appropriate than

how I was originally made.

So I turn and I turn it on

more and more.

I burn and she melts me.

We melt together

in midnight and morning sun.

Poems

Lines

Don’t give me that line.
Don’t.
Then you might push me up against
the wall.
Or, I might push you up against
the wall.
We twist and turn, exchange places.
Two kittens playing.
Bites on the neck.
Gentle, trustful, suspenseful,
pull of the hair.
Lips and fingers to the nipples,
teasing brushes.
Two artists brushing each other
with passion and lust.
Isn’t it best when artists
burn with passion and lust?
Walk through the warm light
of your side parlor room,
love that lamp light loving
your riveting figure,
bring the gold mirror,
bring me your beautiful nose,
tilt those hips.
Give me that line again, babe.
Give it to me.
Inhale. Breathe. I like when you pause.
Then I feel that wet silk on my
ancient concubine hands.
And we twist, and we twist.

Poems

In A Hotel Room In Albuquerque

In a hotel room in Albuquerque
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to various things you said
speaking in my mind,
like a radio tuning in…

Initially there is static,
my mind is groggy,
the words are unclear,
but soon the more into
consciousness I awake
I can clearly hear:

“Women don’t have penises.”
“Women don’t dance like that.”
“Women don’t have those kind
of thoughts.”
“A woman wouldn’t wear that.”
“I don’t think women do things
like that.”

Then I get up.
Go into the stale bathroom of
my hotel room.
Grab my pink metal tweezers
and continue my tenacious ritual
of plucking out the remnants of
my beard hair, one by one,
as I stand there for an hour
underneath the nauseating
fluorescent lighting,
plucking probably 800 hairs
and plotting out my plan to
move to Berlin to become a
Sapphic lesbian, woman-only,
sensual and tender,
feminist healer prostitute.