On a cool spring morning, by a clear mountain stream, an enchantress sat skywriting.

Her arms danced at awkward, inhuman angles and as they did, her bracelets jangled a melody which the birds took up in chorus.

The soundtrack was magic. Insects buzzed in beat, animals froze mid-forage, and the wind died, lest moving clouds corrupt her work.

The mask-wearing knight, a killer for the king, was dressed in black. Even the buck knife, loosely gripped in his right hand, was painted black. His boots were cloth wrapped and his movements were as smooth as smoke. He was noiseless death itself.

As he drew closer, the birds suddenly stopped chirping. "Go home boy, " the enchantress whispered. The knight blinked in disbelief and froze but the enchantress did not look around.

She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight’s mind went from deadly certain to vague. Why was he here? He sheathed his knife, lowered his mask and wiped his lips. What had he been doing?

Still not looking his way, the minx motioned to the clear, babbling stream, "Come, drink," she said. He drew beside her and with a quick glance, as he sipped water from cupped hands, he saw that she was young and beautiful.

She’d never looked at him, but she knew him in a rarefied, magical way - as if he were her brother, and she felt the sting of his long sorrow, that his wife was barren.

"Your love will bear you two sons if you're home and can bed her before dark," she said softly.

The knight stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, nodded at her, and ran for his horse.

The enchantress smiled to herself and resumed her unearthly work. The sound of horse and rider quickly faded as the birds resumed their spell-song.

Two strapping young men they would be.

I've got a reading!
And the venue's all sold out.
It's an old phone booth,
that some company threw out.

It's standing room only,
but you can get in by arrangement.
I'll just hop out, for the term
of your engagement.

If you show up
you won't even need a mask,
'cause you'll be standing
on the other side of the glass.

My voice sounds muffled
in the sound-proof enclosure
so my poetry won't be getting
very much exposure.

For my fan base,
it's the ideal place to show.
See, I can do the reading,
and no one else will know.

I'm like a Vulcan when you aren't around - logical, distant, evaluating you like a product with my friends. The consumer with a lifetime of buying.

But near you I’m a prisoner of some consciousness independent of thought, like a fever or the dreamer, with the merest semblance of control.

You are light and loose, hair like Spanish moss and skin like cedar resin, all laughter and agonizing beauty. The way you lean across the table I only think of kissing you.

I'm sure at times it must show, like a red stain on a white dress or some inconvenient *******..

You have some license on me, a key to a place in me I keep hidden and close, you fit some interior template of desire.

What good is freedom if I can't tell you!!?

Oh, the ragged vagaries of loves games. 1000 emotions and I am deserted to silence by some rule of thumb - by a faltering consumer confidence or some feeling of inward nakedness - when all I want in the world is an open kiss or to give you an intimate scented something...

I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made
and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade.

In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters.
I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters.

In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me
I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory.

I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied
and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

Prehistoric fingerprints
amazing requiems
the song still in them
med evil number magic
all the time in the world

Healing heartbeats bottled up
prepare ye saving drafts
question the faint of heart
the first and last beat
when poets die

Keeper of morning prayers
a needful message
goodby again
words of love forgive
pure and pretty bouquets

The sifting eye of the poet
the thief of untold heartache
muse-ing Denah’s equation
a more beautiful question

Butterflies and deaths dark divide
seeking the bright light
pointless immolations
the autopsy paid in full
crisp or extinguished.
Will you burn with me now?

For Joel M Frye

Thou hast my love and I desire thine.
Dost thou know or knowing, care?
I keep the nymph's lonely station.

But my impatience grows savage.

If thou carest not, my love,
the stars will keep their motion,
flowers will still need water,
I will learn stillness,
and the feeling will rust.

Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.