ISO

Do you like flavored Vodka drinks?
Getting out on the trails?
Are you at least post-twink?
And, please don’t tip the scales.

Making love at mid-night,
sleeping under-the-stars.
Not a “Duddly-Do-Right”,
not descended from Mars.

So, call Tony Puma,
no Cougar he.
Also, please no Drama,
if so, “C’est la vie”.

Oh, one more thing to say,
be a passionate guy.
Because Tony is gay,
poetic and “I-Ty”.

*****************************

The Woods Campground/TP/MMXII

SENSE OF TOUCH

I feel your deft touch.
My mind tries to resist
the sensation, to no avail.
I submit.

Fingers, palm, hand,
move ever so lightly
over my half-slumbering
self.

Synapse awaken my
drowsy body.

From the nape of my neck
to the crack of my ass,
you travel.
I raise my hips,
craving more.
(Am I dreaming?)

Gently I am turned
on my back.
As lips, tongue, teeth
replace your hand.

A warm-wet
touch of velvet
descends on my
nipple.

As your mystical
fingers caress
my genitals,
and your finger
makes slippery
circles

I am brought
to the edge
of the precipice:
or is it a
slippery-slope
I descend?
************

PRIDE SUNDAY

Be gay at Pride;
I can only wish-well.
You have naught to hide,
as I must punch the work-bell.

A kindred soul ,in all things queer,
though physically absent,
spiritually near.

So toast to me,
I do implore.
As I cheer for thee
to the banner fore.

ODE TO ROBERT MILBY

PROLOGUE:
The ubiquitous Mr. Milby, like Figaro
in Rossini’s, Barber of Seville,
is called and pulled in many directions.
And like Figaro, leaves his patrons
shouting "BRAVO".
----------------

An impresario of Hudson Valley poetry,
whose own voice echoes through
these river canyons.

A mentor to budding poets/
a guide for veteran poets/
an exemplar of elocution.

A font of knowledge of those,
whose shoulders we stand upon.

A troubadour of Gothic lore/
a chronicler of Celtic Druids/
an All-Hallows-Eve herald.

A modern poet who reminds us
not to forget the past.

A quick smile/
a personal friend/
a professional colleague.

So, Mister Robert Milby,
we as one shout
“Bravissimo”.



©TPuma/MMXII

INTER-NOT

You log-on.
Your eyes are inanimate pixels.
You exude no masculinity.
Your language is a flat-argot.
You pose a stilted image.

I meet you in-person.
I see the sparkle in your green eyes.
I imbibe your masculinity.
I hold your hand, and know,
this is the electricity,
which I seek.

©TPuma/MMXII

COMMENCEMENT

I graduated/
shadow boxing in college/
sparring in real-world.

ASTRONOMY

We masturbated under the stars,
as 13 year olds, in Hayden Planetarium.

Sinking and slinking into cushioned seats
lights dimmed and faded out,
as dark as death could be.

Leaning back, unzipped and unafraid,
left and right arms and thighs touching.

Grabbing each other and
pumping away,
as the sky moved above
with the tempo of Holst’s “Planets”
and a masculine oration.

My friend whispers to me,
“My father said that any time I do this
one less baby is born.”

TPuma/MMXII