Hum (Poem)

Hum erotic poem by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by WrittenRiver on Twitter.  I post my most popular poem for each half month here, two poems per month. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

At the end
of the day
when my
strength
is worn
and my
hope is
torn,
cradle
me in
your arms
and hum
a sweet
song of
love across
my skin
soft and
warm.

© Greta Stone

Limerence (Poem)

limerence poem by Greta Stone

This poem was written from two daily prompts hosted by DimpleVerse on Twitter.  I post my most popular poem for each half month here, two poems per month. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

Waiting for
you to note
my presence,
I’m rapt by
the glow
of your window
& ignorant
to the stiff
breeze
stroking
my neck.

© Greta Stone

Storm Over Water (2 Poems & Behind-The-Scenes)

Storm over water II poem and writing process by Greta StoneStorm over water poem and writing process by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by DimpleVerse on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

While I rage
you rest,
quiet & still.
Like a storm
over water
I suck you
in until I
grow weary
of the fight
and spit you
out on dry land
far from home.

© Greta Stone

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning into
a dangerous
cyclone of
delirium.
Like a storm
over water,
I swell,
growing heavy
with frustration
until at last
I drench
you in my
release.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

When I think of a storm over water, I think of how it builds speed in all that open space, how it picks up fluid and drenches the land on impact. Sex can be like that too. (Are you surprised I went there?)

Open yourself
up to me and
I will build like
a storm over
water,

I don’t like build. It isn’t quite the best analogy to leading someone to an orgasm. The orgasm builds, but I don’t.

Open yourself
up to me and
I will churn
[something more]
like a storm
over water,

I feel like the narrator and subject of the poem are getting their actions confused. Who is the storm? Who does the drenching in the end? I think it has to be the same person. One can’t be the storm, churning and building, and then the other have the release. Not in this case anyway.

What does the water do to assist the storm? Nothing. It lies there, open and flat. >__>

Now I’m thinking of an entirely different analogy. Like when you’re raging and the other person is just…chill. It’s infuriating. Let me see where I can go with that.

While I rage
you rest,
quiet & still.
Like a storm
over water
I gather
[momentum],
sucking you
in until I’ve
grown weary
of the fight
and spit you
out on dry land
far from home.

Hm. *ponders* I might just remove the momentum part. It’s more about the all-consuming nature of a fight. I’ll also fix the tense contradictions.

While I rage
you rest,
quiet & still.
Like a storm
over water
I suck you
in until I
grow weary
of the fight
and spit you
out on dry land
far from home.

That’ll do. I’d still like to go back to my original idea though. Let me see if I can make something work with that analogy.

I’m thinking about how the other person can make me build to an intense climax and how those things can relate to the way a storm builds.

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning
into a dangerous
[whirlwind] of
[ecstasy].
Ignoring my
warnings,
you [kickspin]
me into a
rage, a storm
over water
building
until I drench
the land.

Well, this needs work. haha For whirlwind, I really like cyclone. And instead of ecstasy, maybe delirium? That might be too dramatic.

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning into
a dangerous
cyclone of
delirium.
Like a storm
over water,
I will [rage],
drenching
you in my
release.

Not rage. Rampage, tear? Like ripping a path. Grow? Swell. Yes! Swell.

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning into
a dangerous
cyclone of
delirium.
Like a storm
over water,
I will swell,
[an action leading to land/release]
drenching
you in my
release.

The action could be like holding out until the impact of hitting land, or reaching my limit.

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning into
a dangerous
cyclone of
delirium.
Like a storm
over water,
I swell,
growing heavy
with frustration
until [another trigger action]
I drench
you in my
release.

This poem is getting long. >___>

With a whisper
you set off a
swirl of emotions,
twisting and
churning into
a dangerous
cyclone of
delirium.
Like a storm
over water,
I swell,
growing heavy
with frustration
until at last
I drench
you in my
release.

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fiction by Greta Stone-page-001

The Other Woman

Preface

I wrote this in preparation for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest coming up where I’ll be given a genre, setting, and item to include in a story of 1000 words maximum. My hubby and I registered, then realized the first round is while we’re on vacation. Oy.
We thought some practice might help.
I grabbed a random prompt from their examples and completed this in 48 hours.
(See prompt details at the end.) Enjoy.

{999 words}


Jennifer tapped her press-on fingernails against the thick, engraved glass award on the table in front of her. She should have splurged on a real manicure. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. Plus it was an important night—for more than the awards. Tonight she was putting her foot down. Tonight she was claiming what was hers.

That was if the intolerable ceremony would ever end. As a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brittle hair droned on at the podium, Jennifer poked through her purse for a stick of gum, anything for a distraction. She shoved aside a tampon she’d been expecting to need all week and dug deeper. No gum. Sighing, she pulled out her phone. How many more awards could there be? How long had she been glued to her chair?

The time flashed on her phone’s lock screen, answering her. 9:43.

She uncrossed and crossed her stockinged legs, eying the empty chair beside her with displeasure. Where the hell was Matthew? He’d disappeared somewhere between the Building of the Year Award and the lemon torte, about ten minutes after Amanda excused herself to use the restroom. He’d missed Jennifer’s reception speech and the nugget of gratitude she’d laced into it for him.

“And the endless hours of support from the only man who can tolerate my insanity,” she’d said, crestfallen as she scoured the crowd, hoping to find Matthew observing from the outskirts.

He wasn’t. They were both still gone. Jennifer shoved the award away and sat back, arms crossed. What good was the damn thing if she couldn’t keep Matthew by her side?

Amanda’s cinched waist and delicate thighs caught Jennifer’s eye as she squeezed through the congested room of aged men with large bellies. No wonder Matthew’s eyes lingered on her whenever she was present. She was an art form in human flesh.

Three dress sizes larger, Jennifer couldn’t compete in that department. But she was a goddamn accomplished architect with her own office of 13 employees. She’d climbed Mt. Washington. She’d mastered Boeuf Bourguignon in only three tries. She could bring a man to his knees in a matter of minutes. What did Amanda have other than a slender figure?

Amanda slipped into her seat and placed a French-manicured hand over her flat belly. Leaning closer with a cordial smile, she whispered, “I’m so sorry I missed your award, Jennifer. I wasn’t feeling well.”

I bet you weren’t. Jennifer delivered a smile in return. “Don’t worry about it.” I’m about to show you what it’s like to not feel well.

“May I see it?” Amanda asked, extending her delicate hand, palm up.

Jennifer obliged, dropping the heavy award into Amanda’s hand and reveling in the woman’s struggle to hold onto it. She recovered and held it up for inspection.

“Excellence In Design? That was for the Nelsonville Commons project, right?” Amanda raised her pencil thin eyebrows in impressed shock. “Matthew must be so proud of you.”

Jennifer grinned. “Yes, he is.”

A round of applause broke out, drawing their attention to the podium where the same woman delivered her closing comments. Thank God the night was almost over. There was only one more thing to do.

Jennifer snatched the award back in preparation of the battle she was about to fight. You don’t get to have this. And you don’t get Matthew either.

The room erupted into chatter, hand shakes, and congratulations. Jennifer pushed through the suit- and gown-clad crowd in search of Matthew. She needed to find him. She needed to take him by the hand and lead him home. She needed to remind him why she deserved him.

She searched the foyer and the hall and the front room and the cocktail bar. No Matthew.

Resigned to waiting on him, she headed back into the main banquet hall. With a curse under her breath, she located Amanda, holding her own in a conversation with four of the five lead architects of her firm. Amanda had grown practiced at mingling above her stature. But this wasn’t her place. It was time she learned her lesson.

Smiling affably, Jennifer stepped into the circle beside Amanda. Matthew would come here eventually. She knew that much. All she had to do was wait.

“Congratulations, Jennifer,” Robert said in his deep, gravelly voice. “You deserved that award. Your work has improved by leaps and bounds this year.”

“Thank you. I had an amazing mentor.” Despite herself, Jennifer’s face warmed.

Robert’s gaze shifted over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil!”

The two women turned, opening the circle for Matthew to join.

Yes, speak of the devil.

“Congratulations to you, Matthew.” Richard slapped his hand into Matthew’s, giving a firm shake. “You’ve made the company proud. We knew you would.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Matthew said.

A proud smile spread on his face, creating all the laugh lines Jennifer loved to trace with her fingertip. He hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it, sending her into a reverie of provocative moments.

“I’m privileged to work with some amazing people.” Matthew gifted Jennifer a proud smile.

His attention struck her right in the chest, leaving her breathless and lightweight. Yes, he loved her, and was not afraid to show it. Now was the time to take her stand.

“Let’s get you home, baby,” he said, turning his back on Jennifer and slipping his arm around Amanda’s waist, pressing his lips to her temple. “I pulled the car around. It’s waiting out front.”

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, honey. Hopefully, we’ll make it home before another wave of nausea hits.”

“Oh, right!” Robert bellowed. He squeezed Matthew’s shoulder, adding, “Congratulations. You’re going to make a great dad.”

“Yes, he is.” Amanda cooed up at him, pressed close with a hand on his chest.

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “Have a good night, everyone.” He waved over his shoulder, glancing around the circle, averting Jennifer’s dumbstruck expression, and ushering his wife to the door.


The prompt was:
genre – drama
setting – awards banquet
item to include – press-on fingernails

Your comments and suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

Knee Deep (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

knee deep poem writing process by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by VerseAngel (knee deep), Jilted Verse (soaring whispers), and bstarverse (touch me) on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me
with regard,
and make
me whole.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

I like the contrast of low (knee deep) with high (soaring whispers).

While I’m
knee deep
in [sorrow/servitude],
you [capture]
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
[completion],
and make
me whole.

Going with sorrow or servitude will make this a very different poem in one direction or the other. I’m leaning toward sorrow because it makes the concept more obscure or intangible. “Serving” on my knees to the one I love who makes me whole is cliche and too simple.

But sorrow isn’t quite right. Dejection, lament, melancholy? Maybe despair although it’s a bit dramatic.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you [capture]
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
[completion],
and make
me whole.

I’m going to move on for now and come back to this later. Instead of capture, maybe snatch, collect, gather.

I’m going to stick with completion near the end.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
completion,
and make
me whole.

I feel like it needs another action before make me whole. I haven’t really been able to stray far from cliche here so I might as well go all the way. haha There was another prompt for touch me by #bstarverse.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
completion,
touch me
and make
me whole.

The wishes of completion part reads a bit like it should be another action in the list when it’s a clarification of whispers. I could sandwich that phrase in em dashes but in this format, it looks weird.

While I’m knee deep in despair, you gather my soaring whispers—wishes of completion—touch me and make me whole.

Meh. It’s bugging me. Maybe I don’t even need that part. I can use cliche to my advantage here and let it be assumed based on the rest of the poem.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me,
and make
me whole.

I could add something after touch me to make it more figurative rather than literal. As in touch me with…kindness? Care? Regard?

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me
with regard,
and make
me whole.

There we go.

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