What brings an undaunted Warrior down on his knees?"
It is a Woman,
A woman's tears can pierce into the most rigid of souls.
It is her charms and calls
that falls like splendors on morning leaves.
Her sway and bounce, that sends shivers into the hearts.
Such are the nights
she envelopes him in a tailwind,
both of them buoyed
by his regard
of her every thing.
Quenched and drunk
on the essence
of love in action
happen the mornings when he
is the rising sun itself
that draws her
like a mist from the ocean.
And as the moon transverses the lone sky, searching for a mystery to peruse the earth with brooding glow,
So she glows her man into a brighter him.
She encloses within her, moments of illumination, that even the darkest of souls cannot quench.
Such are the days of her unending rainfalls, where she wets up the shallowest of earth's depths....
Intertwining between seasons and spheres.
Her heart is like the endlessness of the ocean,
Constantly drawing him with her hips into a wave of boundless journey.
And so it is
as it always was
through the ages of transience,
their enigma constant
against the steely, storming
skies of angst en masse
that would test loves mettle;
where true warriors, undaunted
rise above, arced
in kaleidoscopic triumph.
Born of the same bloodstained earth
they bathed in the sultry musings
of pleasure, of pain...
She'd learnt well
how to worship with legs
on a landscape
where sorrow reigned.
Attracted to the scent of
arrogance that sat on curled lips
she took him
head to head;
her fingers strumming
in the juke joints of his calves
as her hair swayed a rhythm
to the ringing heat and sweat
of his thunder.
Others came and went,
with their quiet hands
cupping her breasts
lost to the rivers of Amélie
until he'd find her again
between the lines;
where she'd bring him to his knees
in an act of reverence
caress his cheeks
with the quiver
of her thighs.
Swamped in sensual delight on coastal paths
where Natures descent into disorder
sees days of dragon breath heat
chill in simmering banter with Autumn
while maples and oaks look on
in stages of undress blushing
in their falling foliage,
many are the burdened boughs of braeburn,
bittersweet their spoils of late summers fruition.
Jumping from my bike enraptured
I kick up a frenzied fuss of yellowing greens
that whip a breeze around my knees
till there before me
the prickly gift of horse chestnut seen,
such joy is the perfect seed that promises conker kudos.
Eyes catch glimpses of staghorn sumac
flaunting purple panicles these vibrant conical clusters
line my passage to the music of
lemon gorse exploding its seed in my wake;
here the skylarks song calls from high above
hedgerows teeming with sloe, hips and haws
and lingering insects fall like drunken fools
that supped last orders from end of season berries
mouth-wateringly ripe their syrup drips from lips
and fingertips stained pink in the pensive rays of dappled sun.
I stop to marvel at soiled beds
where life and death lie side by side
as seeds nestle under blankets of scattered leaves
'neath hawthorns untamed
that bend with the wind
while still is their central haven.
How amazing this tilted earth that ends this day
finding me feverishly swaying
to the highs and lows of season and tide
in passionate dance with this nights Harvest moon.
I wish for you always within these rings
A glow that bands the seasons of your time
Where faithful vows and tender touches bring
The warmth that is your wedded loves' sunshine
Those silent morning smiles in pockets keep
For coupled moments whisper all day long
And dance like youthful ripples heartfelt deep
Till night unfolds them into your love song
On days you're lost in lonely haze disguise
Where stifled rays risk settling into dust
Love finds you sipping sunset flaming skies
Refreshed in quenched displays of fiery lust.
May all your days of marriage hereon in
Feel comfort like suns warmth upon your skin
She spoke of her spins,
wheels of fortune,
spun with carousel smiles
that list now;
and static as the stagnant pools
of her moribund eyes.
Enid had sensed the seasons' shift
like a migratory curtailed;
conscious and a little embarrassed
of an indiscernible something
about her manner
which felt, she said,
like the leaden longing
on nights of the orange moon
that had yielded nothing but a pale sun.