A Poet's Lament

[SmilingLez]

My question, is it ok to introduce a new character in that way when telling a story? I do agree that "Debbie sees Jayne" rolls off the tongue smoothly.

Homage to Rhyme 1

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Debbie sees Jayne, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud in the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

In the heat of night, finding their stride,
Each touch a promise, no need to hide.
Slowly revealing what makes them tick,
Building their trust with each daring new trick.

The fourth stanza for Homage to Rhyme 1 finished.

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Debbie sees Jayne, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud in the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

In the heat of night, finding their stride,
Each touch a promise, no need to hide.
Slowly revealing what makes them tick,
Building their trust with each daring new trick.

With whispered agreements, their hearts intertwine,
Exploring desires, both gentle and fine.
Each nod a consent, a guiding embrace,
In trust's warm cocoon, they quicken their pace.

Edit - replaced the with their

 

[42BelowsBack]

Reads tight now.

The fourth stanza for Homage to Rhyme 1 finished.

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Debbie sees Jayne, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud in the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

In the heat of night, finding their stride,
Each touch a promise, no need to hide.
Slowly revealing what makes them tick,
Building their trust with each daring new trick.

With whispered agreements, their hearts intertwine,
Exploring desires, both gentle and fine.
Each nod a consent, a guiding embrace,
In trust's warm cocoon, they quicken their pace.

Edit - replaced the with their

Top to bottom.

 

[42BelowsBack]

‘A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.’ Favorite line when combined with the pot and VW. Nailed it. This poem shows the power of a poem’s opening, how it sets the poem up thematically.

The poem provides handholds which lead the reader through.

Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,

Slowly revealing what makes them tick,

Building their trust with each daring new trick.

This poem walks the fine line of eroticism with a message while it rhymes. It’s like falling through the air light and heavy.

…………………..a forbidden affair.
……………in the darkest of nights,

Exploring desires, both gentle and fine.
Each nod a consent, a guiding embrace,

For me. This poem is about: Freedom. Love. Despite social repression. Because of that, when I read it I don’t even notice that it rhymes. This poem is about hope.

 

[calmlikeabomb]

@SmilingLez I am absolutely enthralled by your journey and process in this thread. I cant wait to read more. I just wish you would write more.

 

[SmilingLez]

The fifth stanza for Homage to Rhyme 1 is complete. To all - thank you for your comments and I hope you continue to enjoy this little challenge I set for myself.

Outside, the world wearing paisley skin,
The Age of Aquarius grinned within.
Yet here they played a different tune,
Of thundered love beneath the moon.



Homage to Rhyme 1

In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Debbie sees Jayne, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud in the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

In the heat of night, finding their stride,
Each touch a promise, no need to hide.
Slowly revealing what makes them tick,
Building their trust with each daring new trick.

With whispered agreements, their hearts intertwine,
Exploring desires, both gentle and fine.
Each nod a consent, a guiding embrace,
In trust's warm cocoon, they quicken the pace.

Outside, the world - wearing paisley skin,
The Age of Aquarius grinned within.
Yet here they played a different tune,
Of thundered love beneath the moon.

 

[SmilingLez]

The 4th stanza to Homage to Rhyme 2 is complete.

Jayne set the pace, the when, the how,
Her steady hand, an anchored vow.
Debbie knelt in chosen trust,
Power held - because she must.

Homage to Rhyme 2

In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.

They met on an app, with a wink and a dare
Jayne typed, "I bite". Debbie, "I don’t care."
Jayne arrived in pearls and a knowing grin,
Debbie breathless, invited Jayne in.

“I lead,” Jayne said, her voice firm and low.
“I follow,” Debbie whispered, soft and slow.
A pause, a nod, the rules made plain.
Eyes met; both marking their terrain.

Jayne set the pace, the when, the how,
Her steady hand, an anchored vow.
Debbie knelt in chosen trust,
Power held - because she must.


EDIT - should I change i-phones to just phones or cell phones or leave it as is?

 

[SmilingLez]

The 4th stanza for Homage to Rhyme 3 is completed.

Because I might dive into the extreme side of BDSM, I put the 4th stanza as the 3rd stanza and the 3rd stanza as the 4th stanza. CCCC is just as sexy as SSC, PRICK and RACK. As always comments are most welcome.

Homage to Rhyme 3

In a fifth-floor flat with a ceiling that leaks,
Walls are tattooed with black mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

Debbie arrives, craving the weight of her glance,
With shivers of longing that dare her to dance.
The air thick with darkness, electric and tense,
A playground of shadows, where pleasure’s intense.

“Kneel,” said Jayne, her hands cold as gin
“Unfasten your manners. Let this ceremony begin”.
“Consent,” said Jayne, “is chapel, not chain!
Your safe word is Red. Whisper it plain”.

A whisper of leather finds flesh with each stride,
With clear boundaries set, and trust as their guide.
In breathless tension, the night sparks with bliss,
Two hearts bound together, with each daring kiss.

 

[SapioSexual9]

EDIT - should I change i-phones to just phones or cell phones or leave it as is?

Either, either, you neither lose nor gain. And definitely not cell phones.

 

[SapioSexual9]

Because I might dive into the extreme side of BDSM, I put the 4th stanza as the 3rd stanza and the 3rd stanza as the 4th stanza. CCCC is just as sexy as SSC, PRICK and RACK. As always comments are most welcome.

Feedback Disclaimer hiċ. Show your boobs not tell.

Advice from a writing for the screen workshop, remember the audience must always like your character, especially when they are a baddy. I also feel it’s difficult to not lose the essential poetical elements when we write to extremes. Poetry is ggggenerally writing about something without writing about it. Otherwise erotic poetry devolves into cyber. Or worse.

Check out Moochienanu. She writes BDSM poetry. Skillfully. (Skip to page 5).

It is critical that we all write as ourselves in the way that we do. BDSM poetry is terribly powerful. I feel, think, with BDSM poems, pov is fundamental to taking your reader along with you. First person keeps it up close and personal, a emotional bodily experience. We experience what you feel, anticipate every word, live vicariously within you.

I love how you are writing

 

[SmilingLez]

I just finished the 5th stanza to Homage to Rhyme 3. Big thank you to @SapioSexual9

Homage to Rhyme 3

In a fifth-floor flat with a ceiling that leaks,
Walls are tattooed with black mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

Debbie arrives, craving the weight of her glance,
With shivers of longing that dare her to dance.
The air thick with darkness, electric and tense,
A playground of shadows, where pleasure’s intense.

“Kneel,” said Jayne, her hands cold as gin
“Unfasten your manners. Let this ceremony begin”.
“Consent,” said Jayne, “is chapel, not chain!
Your safe word is Red. Whisper it plain”.

A whisper of leather finds flesh with each stride,
With clear boundaries set, and trust as their guide.
In breathless tension, the night sparks with bliss,
Two hearts bound together, with each daring kiss.

With a glint in her eye, Jayne tightens the bind.
Master of the moment, her power refined.
Debbie aches with desire, breathless and warm,
Bound in submission, she welcomes the storm.

 

[SmilingLez]

Homage to Rhyme 1 finished


In a VW bus painted bright with peace,
Where the air is thick with the scent of release,
Jayne tokes freely, her spirit laid bare,
A warrior of love with a flower in her hair.

Debbie sees Jayne, a spark in the air,
Fingers brush lightly, a forbidden affair.
Their moans are loud in the darkest of nights,
Two wild souls lost in erotic delights.

In the heat of night, finding their stride,
Each touch a promise, no need to hide.
Slowly revealing what makes them tick,
Building their trust with each daring new trick.

With whispered agreements, their hearts intertwine,
Exploring desires, both gentle and fine.
Each nod a consent, a guiding embrace,
In trust's warm cocoon, they quicken their pace.

Outside, the world - wearing a paisley skin,
The Age of Aquarius grinned within.
Yet here they play a different tune,
Of thundered love beneath the moon.

Fingers laced tight, their hearts finally known,
Two women together, now never alone.
No longer in hiding, they're free to be bold,
Together they’ll thrive, letting their story unfold.

 

[SmilingLez]

Homage to Rhyme 2 is finished


In a flat with black walls and a white porcelain floor,
Silence dripped slowly from the hinge of a door.
Jayne wore tight latex - the shade of old bones,
while Debbie kept her heart in a box of cracked I‑phones.

They met on an app, with a wink and a dare
Jayne typed, "I bite". Debbie, "I don’t care."
Jayne arrived in pearls and a knowing grin,
Debbie breathless, invited Jayne in.

“I lead,” Jayne said, her voice firm and low.
“I follow,” Debbie whispered, soft and slow.
A pause, a nod, the rules made plain.
Eyes met; both marking their terrain.

Jayne set the pace, the when, the how,
Her steady hand, an anchored vow.
Debbie knelt in chosen trust,
Power held - because she must.

The tension twisted, a dance of control,
Jayne’s eyes glinted, claiming her role.
Debbie surrendered, heart pounding and bold,
In their world of consent, Jayne's power took hold.

With Jayne in control, Debbie bent to her will,
In dawn’s soft glow, their hearts felt the thrill.
In love and trust, they both chose to stay.
In a world of consent, they’d play every day.

Their lives now complete, their contract is sealed,
Where their deepest desires lay fully revealed.
In this moment of choice, they both understand:
Consent is the power they hold in their hand.

 

[aiyia]

I am no poet
Winter froze my words inside
Won't you thaw my heart?

 

[SmilingLez]

Homage to Rhyme 3 is finished. It's amazing how much can be accomplished during a 3 hour car ride. This was by far the hardest creative challenge that I've ever done. I'm sure it would have been easier creating each poem one after the other, but doing it in parallel was definitely a twist.



In a fifth-floor flat with a ceiling that leaks,
Walls are tattooed with black mildew streaks,
Ms. Jayne sits sharp in leather so black,
A saint of ruin with a riding crop’s crack.

Debbie arrives, craving the weight of her glance,
With shivers of longing that dare her to dance.
The air thick with darkness, electric and tense,
A playground of shadows, where pleasure’s intense.

“Kneel,” said Jayne, her hands cold as gin
“Unfasten your manners. Let this ceremony begin”.
“Consent,” said Jayne, “is chapel, not chain!
Your safe word is Red. Whisper it plain”.

With a safe word in place, they spoke to define,
Each boundary agreed, their desires align.
In the trust they had forged, they found joy and release,
In a dance of consent, they both felt at peace.

A whisper of leather finds flesh with each stride,
With clear boundaries set, and trust as their guide.
In breathless tension, the night sparks with bliss,
Two hearts bound together, with each daring kiss.

As daylight approached, their scene now complete,
Debbie felt strength in her place at Jayne's feet.
Beyond submission, she's found her true power—
A metamorphosis blooming in this intimate hour.

Years turned to decades, their nights still ablaze,
Trust and desire in a never-ending maze.
With a safe word and limits, their power well-spent,
They built a life of pleasure, respect, and consent.

 

[aiyia]

MUSE

she breathed on my neck
then i felt her lips
touch me feather light
nipples on my back
as she cupped my breasts
then she spoke to me
please your muse, she said
thrill me with your gift
fuck me with your verse
penetrate my soul
make cum for you
hear my sapphic scream
lick my nectar clean
from my silky thighs
dawn comes, i am gone
if you want me back
do it all again

 

[SmilingLez]

I am currently working on a free verse period piece (1950s Paris); a nod to Hemingway's A Movable Feast. I was encouraged by several people to share my thinking process, which kicks into gear after inspiration strikes. So here goes

Story first, then reduce to sharp visceral staccato sentences.

Paris needs:

- the music
- the room
- the cold
- the smoke
- the singer
- the audience
- the tension
- the moment

Once I have the full scene, I’ll carve it down to:

- texture
- breath
- sound
- pressure

 

[SmilingLez]

I am currently working on a free verse period piece (1950s Paris); a nod to Hemingway's A Movable Feast. I was encouraged by several people to share my thinking process, which kicks into gear after inspiration strikes. So here goes

Story first, then reduce to sharp visceral staccato sentences.

Paris needs:

- the music
- the room
- the cold
- the smoke
- the singer
- the audience
- the tension
- the moment

Once I have the full scene, I’ll carve it down to:

- texture
- breath
- sound
- pressure

The story - A woman (starving artist - singer) steals a baguette from a Paris café and gets caught. She sings for her supper; not to fix anything, just to claim she exists. This is working class Paris, not postcard Paris


Paris in the 1950s - a city built on hunger, art, cold mornings, cheap wine, and the kind of beauty that refuses to be sentimental. Paris sharpens you. A place where discipline and desire sit in the same chair.

 

[SmilingLez]

The story - A woman (starving artist - singer) steals a baguette from a Paris café and gets caught. She sings for her supper; not to fix anything, just to claim she exists. This is working class Paris, not postcard Paris


Paris in the 1950s - a city built on hunger, art, cold mornings, cheap wine, and the kind of beauty that refuses to be sentimental. Paris sharpens you. A place where discipline and desire sit in the same chair.

Music, I am baptizing my soul in Paris Cafe Classics - Camille Brise is soo hot

Fleshing out the main character

Margo, a Parisian singer in the 1950s who isn’t a torch‑song cliché.

Margo is:

- street smart
- independent
- smoke‑voiced
- hungry
- precise
- performing for a room that pretends not to care
- holding the crowd by the throat with restraint, not volume

Margo's world is:

- dim clubs in Paris
- cigarette smoke
- cheap red wine
- a woman who has seen too much
- a room full of people pretending they’re not lonely

Margo's Paris

- cafés with cracked tabletops
- cold rooms with thin walls
- smoke hanging low
- artists living on coffee, wine, and hunger
- a city that feels both intimate and indifferent
- mornings that bite
- nights that hum

Supporting characters

- cafe owner
- artists (cafe customers)
- musician

My goal - clean observation, no commentary, no sentiment, no excess.

 

[SmilingLez]

Music, I am baptizing my soul in Paris Cafe Classics - Camille Brise is soo hot

Fleshing out the main character

Margo, a Parisian singer in the 1950s who isn’t a torch‑song cliché.

Margo is:

- street smart
- independent
- smoke‑voiced
- hungry
- precise
- performing for a room that pretends not to care
- holding the crowd by the throat with restraint, not volume

Margo's world is:

- dim clubs in Paris
- cigarette smoke
- cheap red wine
- a woman who has seen too much
- a room full of people pretending they’re not lonely

Margo's Paris

- cafés with cracked tabletops
- cold rooms with thin walls
- smoke hanging low
- artists living on coffee, wine, and hunger
- a city that feels both intimate and indifferent
- mornings that bite
- nights that hum

Supporting characters

- cafe owner
- artists (cafe customers)
- musician

My goal - clean observation, no commentary, no sentiment, no excess.

First arrangement of words

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
A woman who misses nothing,
holding the room in a quiet choke,
a stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through the smoke,
bold and unapologetic.

Outside, an elderly man
playing his accordion,
notes drifting like whispers,
a backdrop to her bravado,
singing for food and wine.
The currency she trades in.

Sing for supper, she thinks,
not out of fear, but out of defiance,
and in this moment,
the city stirs,
alive beneath her feet.

People peek in, caught in her web,
her verses rich with the spirit of Paris,
each phrase a toast to those
who dare to dance with dreams,
as if France itself could hear her claim.



Plan - flesh out supporting characters. Delete unnecessary words. Add/remove/strengthen stanzas

 

[SmilingLez]

First arrangement of words

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
A woman who misses nothing,
holding the room in a quiet choke,
a stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through the smoke,
bold and unapologetic.

Outside, an elderly man
playing his accordion,
notes drifting like whispers,
a backdrop to her bravado,
singing for food and wine.
The currency she trades in.

Sing for supper, she thinks,
not out of fear, but out of defiance,
and in this moment,
the city stirs,
alive beneath her feet.

People peek in, caught in her web,
her verses rich with the spirit of Paris,
each phrase a toast to those
who dare to dance with dreams,
as if France itself could hear her claim.



Plan - flesh out supporting characters. Delete unnecessary words. Add/remove/strengthen stanzas

Supporting characters stanza and nod to Hemingways A Movable Feast


At a corner table, three men watch
a painter with paint-stained fingers, smelling of turpentine,
a writer with ink-dark eyes, writing something in his journal
and a musician nursing a half-empty glass of cheap wine.
Margo catches their gaze,
her song a bridge between desperation and art.

Need to minimize and tighten this stanza, too wordy.

New stanza added to free verse

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
A woman who misses nothing,
holding the room in a quiet choke,
a stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through the smoke,
bold and unapologetic.

Outside, an elderly man
playing his accordion,
notes drifting like whispers,
a backdrop to her bravado,
singing for food and wine.
The currency she trades in.

Sing for supper, she thinks,
not out of fear, but out of defiance,
and in this moment,
the city stirs,
alive beneath her feet.

People peek in, caught in her web,
her verses rich with the spirit of Paris,
each phrase a toast to those
who dare to dance with dreams,
as if France itself could hear her claim.

At a corner table, three people watch -
a painter with paint-stained fingers, smelling of turpentine,
a writer with ink-dark eyes, writing something in her journal
and a musician nursing a half-empty glass of cheap red wine.
Margo catches their gaze,
her song a bridge between desperation and art.

Need to tighten/minimalize every stanza. Show don't tell - still too too wordy. I wish my cold would go away.

 

[12oclocktales]

First arrangement of words

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
A woman who misses nothing,
holding the room in a quiet choke,
a stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through the smoke,
bold and unapologetic.

Outside, an elderly man
playing his accordion,
notes drifting like whispers,
a backdrop to her bravado,
singing for food and wine.
The currency she trades in.

Sing for supper, she thinks,
not out of fear, but out of defiance,
and in this moment,
the city stirs,
alive beneath her feet.

People peek in, caught in her web,
her verses rich with the spirit of Paris,
each phrase a toast to those
who dare to dance with dreams,
as if France itself could hear her claim.



Plan - flesh out supporting characters. Delete unnecessary words. Add/remove/strengthen stanzas

If I may: The first line (dim cafe), as soon as I read it a pop song with those words in it from long ago came into my head (I can’t think of the title) – so I’d say it’s a cliché. Think of smoky, thick with smoke, filmy, shadowy, even glasses clinking. The rest is really good.

 

[SmilingLez]

If I may: The first line (dim cafe), as soon as I read it a pop song with those words in it from long ago came into my head (I can’t think of the title) – so I’d say it’s a cliché. Think of smoky, thick with smoke, filmy, shadowy, even glasses clinking. The rest is really good.

Maybe "In a forgotten cafe" or "In a back alley cafe". Maybe I will just leave it as is "In a dim cafe". To me, when I read "In a dim cafe", I think of a smoke filled working class 1950s cafe; not postcard Paris. IOW - Hemingway's Paris

 

[SmilingLez]

First arrangement of words

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
A woman who misses nothing,
holding the room in a quiet choke,
a stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through the smoke,
bold and unapologetic.

Outside, an elderly man
playing his accordion,
notes drifting like whispers,
a backdrop to her bravado,
singing for food and wine.
The currency she trades in.

Sing for supper, she thinks,
not out of fear, but out of defiance,
and in this moment,
the city stirs,
alive beneath her feet.

People peek in, caught in her web,
her verses rich with the spirit of Paris,
each phrase a toast to those
who dare to dance with dreams,
as if France itself could hear her claim.



Plan - flesh out supporting characters. Delete unnecessary words. Add/remove/strengthen stanzas

Here is the final version after my edits. The idea of a nod to Hemingway's A Movable Feast came into being 12/25/25

La Braise

In a dim café,
Margo sings.
The room leans in. Hostage.
A stolen baguette under her arm,
her voice cutting through smoke.
Bold. Unapologetic.

Outside, an old man plays accordion,
notes slipping through the cracked door.

A taxi backfires on the wet street.
Margo doesn't flinch.

She sings of a girl who left Lyon
with nothing but a coat and a grudge.

At a corner table, three men:
a painter with turpentine on his fingers,
a writer with ink-dark eyes,
a musician with cheap red wine half gone.

Margo meets their gaze.

The painter slides a chair.
"Sit."

The baguette
still warm, still stolen.
Broken. Passed hand to hand.

"Your song," the writer says,
"cuts deeper than most."

Margo laughs,
broken glass and sudden mercy.

The musician taps time.
Outside, the accordion falters,
finds the key.

Margo sings on.

 

[SmilingLez]

I decided to go in a different direction for my next work. I am doing research on pre-Castro Cuba. I am going to immerse myself in the music, just the way I did when I wrote La Braise

I plan to write both free verse and a flash fiction story. Perhaps even combining the two and posting it in the Poetry section, like I did with my 1,297 word combo Our Saturday Night Ritual

It's nice to have a sandbox to play in

Skeleton Outline

1. Sensory Foundations
2. Daily Life and Rhythm
3. Community and Celebration
4. Freedom and Movement
5. The Shadow at the Edge

 

[SmilingLez]

I am currently experiencing pure poet's block. It's interesting. I've been writing a hybrid of free verse and flash fiction versus pure free verse. I am going to put a pin in my pre Castro Cuba free verse for now.