With us today is poet CJ Heck. Here is a little taste of her poetry and her views on gentle sensuality.
When It's Over, You Just Know
You don't always know
how you know,
it comes slowly, the awareness.
With the certainty and final resignation
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus,
you just know.
The breakfast table, once a venue
for long dreamy stares
and coffee-flavored kisses,
awkwardly becomes a silent stage
for reading the news,
eating breakfast, and
you just know.
The smell of his shirt
when you'd bury your face there,
the feel of his hands on your body
as if they had a life of their own,
all silently slip to a place
wherever memories go
to gather dust, and
you just know.
You miss the nights,
how his body and yours
breathed and moved as one.
Maybe it's those nights
and how they were
that give the knowing life, but
you just know.
Like ocean waves upon the sand,
love recedes
with all the other yesterdays
and you would trade
all your tomorrows
to have it back, but
you just know.
You don't always know
how you know,
it comes slowly, the awareness.
With the certainty and final resignation
of a child learning there's no Santa Claus,
you just know.
The breakfast table, once a venue
for long dreamy stares
and coffee-flavored kisses,
awkwardly becomes a silent stage
for reading the news,
eating breakfast, and
you just know.
The smell of his shirt
when you'd bury your face there,
the feel of his hands on your body
as if they had a life of their own,
all silently slip to a place
wherever memories go
to gather dust, and
you just know.
You miss the nights,
how his body and yours
breathed and moved as one.
Maybe it's those nights
and how they were
that give the knowing life, but
you just know.
Like ocean waves upon the sand,
love recedes
with all the other yesterdays
and you would trade
all your tomorrows
to have it back, but
you just know.
We
Need to Get Away
Have I
told you lately
how good you smell
when the shower
spits you out?
I can't recall
the last time, but
it wouldn't surprise me,
considering what time
we actually have to spend
alone together these days.
I do know, I remember
how intense it used to be.
We need to get away,
just the two of us,
before we grow any ruts
in this lovely road …
Let's
go somewhere now,
before talking dirty
really means:
"You doing a light load?
Can you grab my pj's
from the hook
on the bathroom door?"
Before wanna catch a quickie?
really means:
"I'm pooped. Wanna take a nap?"
Before Oh God, I'm coming!
actually means,
"Don't nag me, I'm almost ready!
Go ahead, start the car."
Let's
go somewhere now
while Baby, that was fantastic!
still means more than
a Sunday Scrabble win.
It's
not too late ...
I remember.
A Box
for Goodwill
As a
friend, I had come to help
yet one more time
and I watched as she set
the cardboard box on the floor.
It was labeled for Goodwill,
penned in large block letters.
From deep in the closet,
she brought out an old blue suit.
It had faded over the years,
but I saw in her eyes
the memories still had not.
Softly, she smoothed the sleeves
that dangled flat and empty.
Then she stroked the slack trousers
on the smooth wooden hanger.
Gently, she brushed
the dust from the collar and lapel,
and then I heard her sigh.
Her resolve had melted away.
Again we talked and remembered.
We spoke of long ago,
how the sleeves encircled her
in warm secure hugs,
and the trousers had covered
lean muscular legs,
legs slightly bowed,
legs that loved to dance,
and what she missed the most
--the heart that beat below
the lapel of the old blue suit,
the heart that beat with love for her.
For over forty years,
the suit had stood sentinel,
loyally guarding both her
and those memories,
and I watched as she carefully
replaced the suit and closed
the closet door.
Through quiet tears
she asked once more
how all of that could ever fit
in a box for Goodwill.
A Poet
for a Lover
Oh
Lord, give me a poet for a lover,
whose words stroke me like velvet hands.
Word-tender caresses more reaching
than the caress of a mere mortal man.
A
poet's light touch is so gentle.
Word-fingers probe deep every time,
arousing me, haunting me, wetting me,
seducing me, body and mind.
Oh
Lord, give me a poet for a lover!
Lust and fire burn deep in his heart.
A silver-tongued devil whose words make me ache
to be on my knees in the dark.
Word-foreplay
making me want him,
only mind-loved, I want to be free
to feel just one time, my poet inside,
where only mind-lust up to now has loved me.
CJ Heck is a published poet, writer, blogger, and the author
of three children's books, a collection of short stories, and her newest, a poetry book for adults.
She is also a Vietnam War widow.CJ has three daughters and eleven grandchildren. She lives and writes in Florida with her partner, Robert Cosmar, who is also an author.
For book excerpts, more information, interviews, or to invite CJ to your school, or organization, please call 352-299-5634 or visit her website, Barking Spiders Poetry.
Website: http://www.barkingspiderspoetry.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/CJHeck60
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cj.heck1
Shelfari: http://www.shelfari.com/cj_heck
Books:
Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)
Barking Spiders 2 (sequel)
Me Too! Preschool Poetry
Bits and Pieces (Short Story Collection)
Anatomy of a Poet
Read Excerpts at Barking Spiders Poetry!
http://www.etsy.com/shop/
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