Passion the Anthology

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  Romance

  Slowly he enters

  Bouquet borne tentatively

  She looks, smiles, he relaxes

  Enomwoyi Damali

  I Am Your Duvet...

  I cover you with my warmth...

  I protect you from the cold of the night.

  My cotton... kisses your skin

  You snuggle close to me, inhaling my laundered freshness.

  I feel your heat, your breath and your contentment

  You're safe in my folded arms

  Relaxed... you spoon into me

  I rock you like your dream lover... until you get comfortable

  Travelling on to dreamland

  I stroke your face until you are fast asleep

  Morning comes ... I groan with the mattress

  Rushing round... then dressed

  Shaken, laying flaccid and straight ... then alone

  The day will carry you on ... until sunset comes…

  Jennifer Harris

  Under the moonlit church spire

  The moonbeam shines through the window at night,

  the curtain is open as we lay asleep in bed.

  The moonlit church spire seems to bless our love,

  And sanctify our desire.

  And the way that we sleep, shows our love is so deep,

  there is peace in our hearts,

  And a perfect restful calm,

  between us.

  As we lay in my bed

  You call it your home, the place where you find peace,

  And you sleep like a newborn child.

  I love you so much,

  You love me so much.

  And you’ve told me that sometimes you watch me sleep,

  you say I sleep with a smile on my face.

  And my heart feels overwhelmed with your love

  And I feel blessed from your warm embrace.

  Edozie Ameke

  The Look

  I looked into your eyes for the first time and what I saw made time stand still; stopped me in my tracks; took my breath away.

  Your eyes told me everything about how you feel about me.

  I could see the effect I had no way of knowing that I had on you.

  Your eyes betrayed the yearning you’ve kept under wraps. Our eyes locked - frozen in the moment. I was hypnotized. I saw the beautiful brown/green tinge that colour your eyes.

  No one else existed

  In a room full of people

  No one else existed.

  Brenda Garrick

  50 Shades ah Nastiness

  Knowing ‘ow me love me books, me ‘usband buy me one about sunglasses

  Now me know nuttin’ about it, but me loves to read

  Well, lawdamercy! Me eyes dem ah pop outta me ‘ead

  Me lost fi words h’and me get so hot, me ‘ave fi take cold showers!

  H’every page me ah turn, is full ah nastiness

  H’every word me ah read is full ah duttiness

  But you know something

  Me carn’t put de damn book down

  H’every minute ah heveryday, I reading

  In de bedroom, in de toilet, on de train

  Me no care who sees me, I loves it!

  Me never feel so alive, so sexy!

  Me learn some new moves to try wid me ‘usband

  But ‘im carn’t keep up, so me lef ‘im!

  Me now ‘ave me own 50 shades ah sexiness

  Me own 50 shades ah grey

  I mus’ tank de autor, she changed my life

  And I taught toys were h’only fi de pickney-dem

  Mmmmm life is sweet.

  Brenda Garrick

  MacKenzie Rose

  June morning in Mackenzie Road

  Looking across

  And there it was:

  A tree of yellow roses.

  Not one or two half open

  No, a regular display of blooming roses

  Right beside the front door

  Forcing every approaching person

  To stop, and look, and smile

  Even barring entrance to the house

  As if to say

  “There is nothing inside as good as me!

  Having seen me, you can take the day off,

  For I am big and beautiful

  And bursting out all over.”

  Leibert Kirby

  Camellia on not being Rose

  I am evergreen

  I am here with green leaves

  In spring, summer, autumn

  And yes, winter.

  My blooms are as good as anybody’s

  And they last longer than the blooms of

  You know who.

  I haven’t got a problem with Rose,

  Not really

  She’s o.k., in her way.

  Rose has not got her mother’s scent

  As for her grandmother,

  You could smell her a mile away.

  This Rose gives herself airs;

  Mind you, it is not her fault,

  The poets fancy her,

  And she drops petals at their feet

  And you know what poets are like.

  Burns takes the biscuit

  Fancy comparing love to a red rose;

  What sort of love is that?

  He treats his women real bad too.

  I could never trust a poet:

  All pretty words and no substance.

  Rose believes every word a poet tells her,

  And she calls herself a grown woman.

  I’m proud to be Camellia:

  With me, what you see is what you get.

  If you want Rose,

  She is around the corner,

  Pushing out her buds for summer.

  Leibert Kirby

  Black Love

  One brazen kiss…

  My mind under pressure…

  I journey inward... and reflect on secret enslaving glances,

  In a language that only ‘we’ understand...

  Then we smile...

  Knowingly.

  Like a jolt of electric,

  You have me sprung...

  I implode, at just a touch...

  Your aura made a bond with mine...

  An eternal association... in that second…

  What madness is this?

  Is he a god?

  Or, ‘A god’ of... Sex!

  Jennifer Harris