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Swain Alexander Mar 2014
Release your full passion upon me ma sorciere bel ete.
Embrace me & hold me in your woman hood forever...
Never set me free.
Only you are yin for my yang....we are moon & sun.
We were never two ships that passed in the night..
You are my everything.
Release your heat and lust upon me ma sorciere bel ete.
My hearts desire...my dreams come true...was & is you.
I am forever lost in you.
Bind my heart to yours with invisible chains de l'amour.
I am your willing captive love......I never sought freedom.
Betty Ponder...Je t'appartiens pour toujours!
The Good Pussy Mar 2016
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Inga M  Jan 2018
hiver vs ete
Inga M Jan 2018
together
they resemble an avalanche rather than a summer's heat
my parents
ShamusDeyo  Oct 2014
GATOR ALLEY
ShamusDeyo Oct 2014
The Little Skiff Slips through the water, following Swamp Trails.
Soft Light of a Bayou Moon in the Mist, on right the splash of Gator Tail
As it hunts in the Moonlight,  Twinkle of Neon Blares through the reeds,
From a Swamp bar Southeast of Lake Charles, Fiddle and Wash board,
Scrap , over Sweet Chords of Accordian Tunes drifting in the mist, As a
Patron of the Bar stirs coals on the bonfire, Drunken Guests Cut a Rug
On rolled out linoleum, Et Toi a Night of Bon temp Roulle on the Bayou
Inside the door, for some Cat fish and Red Beans & Rice with a cold brew
The Old Juke Box Plays Aaron Nevilles "If Tear Drops were Diamonds"
As the Band takes a Break, fiddle laying at Bars end Winks in Orange
To the flash of the Beer Sign, Uncle Solacess Raises his glass to the Moon
A high toast to La lune ete Amour de Coure, A Drunken Fight breaks out
Old Family issues, the contenders hugging and laughing over fresh Beers
As I Stumble out the door, just as the Zydeco strikes up I crank up the skiff
As I float into the fog, Bon Temp Roulle under Bayou Pale Moonlight
C'est bien de te voir, A bientot Au Revoir Bonne Nuit et Beau Reves....
.......................................................­..........JMF 10/114
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Bruno

          he trims a Cuban cigar and places it in his anti-authoritarian orifice:

Foreshadowing the mysteries of life brings the succulent cauldrons of mystical salaciousness to a boiling ardor.  I’ll entice the myriad realms of your enchantress and wring the moisture out of your femininity.  I’ve got a cat of nine tails in my hands- I dare you to stroke me, you sassy *****,  just so you may know my obeisant oblations orchestrations.  No other woman moves me like the feral ***** you employ.  


     Caspian

  Choreographed katas supplement his beast.
He’s adamant and masculine, and plucks the strings of his guitar in anticipation of your ****** harmonies.  Pounce firmly on his erotica erectile like the black panther of his lust’s rebellion.  Caress the protuberance of his virility- mount his exsertion- hair on hair- wanton on wayward- peal him slowly with your agile ictus- he’s ambrosia and honey- extort the fecundity out of him and give it back like a fertile libation.


Roland

He’s like a Mayan calendar.  Excruciatingly exacerbating, imperturbably tenacious.  He’ll draw the sport out of you and make you bounce like a cowgirl on a bronco.  Only to buck you off and leave you in the dust like a flaccid martyr on the ground he tramples.  You’ll reminisce his wily gate where ever you tread, and ****** yourself at the thought of his machismo machinations as you rode his determinism.  


Sol

His exotic lightning vaunts in the celestial canopy.  The blood of new world wizardry, he seduces from the apex axis of his citadel pinnacle.  His warrior heights ooze with the psychic clarity of zoomorphic demagoguery’s rebellion and makes the knight groan with exigency.  The weight of his words, the upward convection of  their accessional draws sweat and *** from your extant.  He can sense your arousal from miles away and seduces your mind like a torrential deluge.


Richthofen

He is manumission, no more the faded vision of  body incarnates ghosts.  He writes of the enrapturing mesmeric-ness of its inebriation to tantalize his wanton decadent blatancy’s flagrant.  Impetus intrigue and intuitional verve become sensual currency.  He’s the lounging lion, the puissant God, the edifice ******* of pornographic wit.  The incongruous incognito with no moniker.  Seduced by your poet he would romance the *** out of you and leave you enraptured with your own anonymity at the edge of the new world freeway.


PRINTEMPS DES HOMMES = SPRING OF MEN
L'ETE DES FEMMES= SUMMER OF WOMEN
Inspired by Cara de Luna's "L'ETE DES FEMMES".
Francie Lynch Jan 2017
The Newfounlander,
Wrapped in her blanket,
Was laid behind the new shed.
The hole bled with water.
She rose as Lazarus,
Caked with dirt.
The shovel mixed her in with earth.
A Christian marker denoted the place
Where lovely Ete lay.

But the girls were coming home,
Unaware of the interment;
Katie asked George to dig,
But George had been a farm boy,
So Katie manned the *****.
She was bloated,
Washed and brushed;
Then viewed on her clean blanket.
The shovel was in the shed.
Crazy Katie took the family
To the Vet's for cremation.
George followed silently,
With ***** boots and blisters,
And not a whisper
To the sisters
That Mom's gone dog-gone mind.
Ete: eh-tay (French for Summer)
Johanna May  Sep 2011
Love, Rede
Johanna May Sep 2011
Love an thy be brief:
a fire; doth ete
the flames it mete
and chars the meat.

Love an thy be long
a river; e’er
rampant as air
and never err.
all day, e'rr day..

— The End —