Three Hipster Haiku

Three Hipster Haiku

Tall, fit, curls, soul patch, Vespa
You … me … my scooter

5’6″, blonde, blue
Seeking … anyone

Razr phone, iPod,
MySpace, Converse tennis shoes.
Why’s she still lonely?

— Stace Johnson, 2006

Thy Cup Runneth Over

Thy Cup Runneth Over
(A Sonnette)

I worship at the mound, my senses filled
With musky Goddess warmth and slipp’ry taste
You shiver, shout, and in orgasmic haste
Your holy water from within is spilled.

We cuddle, spent, while candle flickers show
How chin to brow, I with your essence glow
My body blessed by your baptismal flow.

— Stace Johnson, 2006

Missing in Atlanta

Missing in Atlanta
(A Sonnette)

These Georgia pines obscure the waning moon,
Reminding me how far away from you
I am.  I wonder how I’ll make it through
The next ten days before the end of June.

I curl up on the edge of this king bed,
A pillow crackles underneath my head.
I clutch another, wish for you instead.

— Stace Johnson, 2006


You press my head into your breast, my tongue
Pulls in a little more. Your nipples send
A shiver to the center of your core.

My lips move down, I taste your nectar, wet
And warm between your lips. I lick your clit
And when you gasp I ride your writhing hips.
You arch your back and thrust your mound against
My wet and eager face. Your cries subside as I
Slide up to share with you your taste.
We kiss beneath an ethereal mist;
Our love is why the ether can exist.

You taste your juices on my tongue and kiss
Me deeply, hard and long. You wrap your legs
Around my waist and pull me to you, strong.
I slide inside you, smooth and deep, as far
Inside as I can be. You moan and tell
Me, “Fuck me!”, in your eyes, intensity.
As I explode inside you with a squeal,
The mist above turns into something real.

We love on many levels; it reflects
Into the worlds above. The Being born
Of mist becomes an offspring of our love.

— Stace Johnson, 2006

Proposal Sonnet

Proposal Sonnet

A silver key to symbolize our trust
And open doors the past has sealed up tight
With this in mind, we know it’s more than just
A key to Baldpate on our wedding night

From Scottish craftsmen comes a silvered box
Victorian, a leather work of art
The movement of a simple latch unlocks
The dream you’ve waited patiently to start

Within, a silver ring and stone reside
Not fancy, but a symbol nonetheless
Of how I wish to have you as my bride
And always bring you love and happiness

So, with this ring and box and silver key
Your wait is over.  Will you marry me?

— Stace Johnson, 2005

This poem appeared on the now defunct website in January 2006.