The Rolling Stones blasted You Can't Always Get What You Want

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Untilled Wheat Stubble Elk Bugle

I lifted the
salmon-colored
bandanna with her
designs tied around
my neck to wipe my tears
where I stood in the untilled
wheat stubble left for the winter
roosting pheasants, the Rolling Stones
blasted You Can't Always Get What You
Want,

I saw her today
at the cattail marsh,
glass of wine in her hand,
waving off the whooping crane,
"Have you been up to hear the elk
bugling this fall?" she asked me,
I nodded my head no, "We'll have
just enough time then," she said, all
she needed was another glass of wine to
launch her 'drop everything' attitude,
she threw her keys to me,

dusk was coming on,
and so was she, she
touched my thigh, it
had been months, "move
over here next to me," I
said, she left the truck
seat, and on her knees, she
crawled to me on the truck
floorboard, weaved her face
past the gearshift, put her
head between my legs, I could
hear that famed sound that defies
all damn self-control, "Did you hear
it?" she asked me, I rolled down the
truck window, I dared hardly breathe
when I lifted off the truck seat, she
pushed down my jeans and slipped off
into the forest, a feeling of raw passion,
a natural phenomenon taking place in such a
setting, the elk calls coming, a high-pitched
bugle, the closer I got to coming, the more she
went down, Cassiopeia and Orion beamed,

and just as
magically as
she came to me
at the cattail marsh,
I came, I lifted the
salmon-colored bandanna
with her designs tied around my
neck to wipe my tears...

Copyright 2006 Ms. Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist


The Sage Maverick 

Shenandoah considered that
sage maverick a fortunate find,
her cherub-cheeked ass certainly
didn't match her firebrand disposition,
Shenandoah's womanly fire burned the old
Western map, those bastards'l never find
that old Ghost town, the sage maverick'n
Shenandoah's pillow talk about how they were
bein' tracked by the lawless pricks over Tin Cup
Pass, these women had no intention of switching
tracks, Shenandoah f***ed her, then tattooed the
old Western map on the firebrand's cherub-cheeked
ass, the gold nugget stamped on the sage maverick's
left cheek, hiding the assayer's precise location in her
crack, the only woman to autograph her name on her
piece of art, the sage maverick,

Shenandoah would have
to defend the sage maverick,
for she started the train down
the track long ago, their kisses
as hot as Wells Fargo, moaning with
desire loud enough not to hear the train
robbers jump aboard, just before the
conductor pulled the bell cord to stop,
the sage maverick's orgasm halted the
train, "Cover your ass!"

And so...the moral
of this lesbian poetic
tale is...when you have
a good woman who is also
a good piece of ass, she is
a rare nugget which is hard to
find these days, and when they
ask to see your art portfolio...know
that you, my love, are already rich... 


Copyright 2006 Ms. Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist

The Butter Paddle

She's a pine in
sap time, consigned
to my ass with her
butter paddle, a milled
pine hanging in my dark
walk-in closet, her most
derivative characteristic
like this tree to bring out
the woman in me, I begged
her to get our ax and go to
the woods by the pond and cut
down the pine still in its youth
for the butter paddle, it can lift
me higher than any eroticism, nothing
bends me over more free from blame in
this world than a pine tree, the scented
air is still in the closet, I can feel her sting
on my cheek, my sap is clear with a thick
coat of pitch,

I followed her to
the stump, I claimed
to be a lover more than
a foe of the pine tree, her
having used it on me, had
become better acquainted with
it, susceptible to blisters, I close
my eyes, she brings the butter paddle
to my orgasm, she takes me into another
century of oxen on the skid roads pulling the
pines that butter paddles are made of, and what
hurt the most, I won't divulge, I shall be fetched
West by the scent of pine and left to my own
devices, dripping pitch and ink from my raven
quill...


Copyright 2006 Ms. Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist

Virgin Timber

We're already
wearin' our winter
oilcloth duster, that
ol' cowgirl ghost and me,
we enjoyed time here, met
a woman muskrat trapper, a
sober woman, but we aren't,
I saw the track of a grizzly,
muskrat trapper woman, she took
me, what I'm tellin' you is she took
me, f***ed me, showed me how the
grizzly scratched great gashes, she scratched
a great timeline in my gash like the grizzly
scratched gashes in the spruce bark, from
that moment on, my country changed,

it's the land
of the mountain
woman, her sign
belongs to me, have
you ever laid in the
virgin timber with a woman
muskrat trapper where woman
can still find silence and peace,

muskrat trapper woman
and I never did see the
bear...that ol' cowgirl ghost
and me cut some kindling with
our buck knife, lit our pipe and
our tinder with the same match,
you'll never know me to use a
second match, I'm on fire...first
and only, baby I'm on fire...
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Copyright 2006 Ms. Sage Sweetwater,
firebrand lesbian novelist