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Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Crisp and soft, the grass meets my
naked feet
sliding in calm between toes curling
in the damp earth beneath.
My ******* feel heavy, pulling me down
to meet my mother.
She smells strongly of sod,
like mountains.
I will sink into her slowly,
It takes a whole lifetime.
And she will rebirth me,
and not even notice.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Behind closed eyes, wispy arms
close gently around her,
timid arms for timid girls,
Her *** aches, but has no carnal knowledge
Arms are not enough now,
neither whispered love.
In the night, wispy arms,
move to hips
strong hips for strong actions
girlish dreams were never enough.
Shame has no place
in this feminine gift.
This is a coming of age poem about girls feeling ashamed of their own bodies while they are trying to make sense of emerging sexuality.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Soft creeping fingers
splay across hot flesh,
panting and pressing close.
This cannot mean more or different,
or less arousing, or less important,
no less needed or wanted,
to any one gender
The feminine desire is as natural,
alike to desires between women,
or between men, or beings, or more,
or any other unspoken desire, fetish, dream.
It is the same amongst races,
is as powerful and beautiful in all skin
in all places
It is not deterred or changed
with ability or intelligence,
with ignorance, with past experience.
Blunt as *** is, it does not see anything
but human meeting human
in righteous godly pleasure.
It is far from a pleasure
to take shame in
to control with indignant, religious fear.
Our bodies give gifts freely,
whether we take them or not.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Such a lovely visage
burned in my mind even against
my own masculine desire
she sits smiling, waiting.
Perhaps she is more than attraction,
She means more,
the sweet idea of the tender
and powerful feminine
loving amongst themselves.
Her soft dark skin like
the warm life-giving Earth
like the strong bark of
ancient forests, blooming.
and like so many beautiful things,
too rich, too pretty to count.
Who is she but the love born
and risen out of death.
And who has died by the elders,
and those stone walls built
amongst races.
Don't we love to tear them down?
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
O feminine Ideal! O soft sigh!
round girth of life, gently swaying!
Singing round faces preparing
voluptuous feasts, swinging swords.
Broad freckled shoulders
shining with labor in the sun!
Women's work! The work so honorable,
noble, brave!
She is life-giver supreme!
"**! Look here!" She shouts
with voice so powerful
She shouts to her husband, to her wife,
to her children, to her fields
which she has sown,
to her home and castle,
to her father and brothers.
"Look here! See my strong arms,
my legs and hips, my belly and *******,
my hands and feet and flowing hair!
Tend these as I were a goddess,
for all that I gift you!"
Leap to her, quickly! Her demand
must be met with passion
And body blinding like armor in sunlight,
only she may wear it well, Only she
is trained in the weapons her body yields.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I hate everything, Forever.

        (Everything, dear, includes you)

I want none of it, never.

Give me a room without files

and a page without numbers.

Maybe the computer screen’s

glow wouldn’t be so harsh,

in the morning haze.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I walked in the valleys of Kentucky

the wind pressing gently on my brow,

ghost orchids whispered from the shadows,

the thrush beating time on the ground.

Gently lilted songs in the

Ancient somber tone of trees,

forgotten woods,

I searched for your mystery, and delved

in caves so dark so deep.

Never will I know the world you kept

under dewy leaves so green,

ancient people fought and mined and died

only things the earth has seen.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
I feel it here among us, aching swell of time

departing, creating, folding

tucking away old memories

like used up wash cloths

wiping clean, minds meant for tomorrow

Or are you like me and so many,

we feel this gasping and fading breath of the past

as the world around us pulls away?

the great and imposing field,

life-time, life-past

looming mercilessly in our dreams.

Those who did not wish to be left to eternity

are kept forever in the dream-art

of philosophs.

Are we as well meant to perish under the heaving push

of human expansion?

I wouldn’t think so!

This calamatus nature, it cannot help but grasp

at it’s own beautiful creation,

such that we all are.
Ronni McIntosh Jul 2014
Sister-love, I cannot say how it should

move alone, though all else with it imparts

upon two.

These two beings from the same growth,

molding each other lovingly so that

they might see more clearly


Earth-love, for what else should I love but you.

The one, being so generous in all causation

and particulates,

becomes mother and executioner to all at once,


Friend-love, laughing joyous rapture.

You cannot know me for all my secrets,

but why should it matter? I do not learn

your own.

The only rubric enough for this profession,

is silence without companionship.

Food-love**, oh you speak pleasantries to my body.

Such a tactile energy, emmersive motions!


recycled and recycled and recycled, as it was

once for you as well, ever infolding in on itself

in perfect ingestion.

Our movements have fed each-other, in such a

base and satisfying way!

— The End —