"cavorted" poems
Acidic Memories of Flying Free on LSD!
(FOR J,S, and N.S)!!
Miniscule piece of blotting dot,
Slices through my brain...
Swear I felt it sitting there,
Time and time again,
Stereo sound distorted,While wild mind cavorted,
Feeding much imagined images,
Mirages in a mist,
The light fantastic, it was stripped,
Brain enlightened as she tripped,
Is it night time?
Dark or Light time?
Haven't got a clue,
Free riding wild,
Runs as sparkly space pilot,
On the end of the bed,
Hell on earth,
I lost my head!
Was that funny micro-dot, purple, pink or blue,
Confused in a bedroom,
Where the hell is the door?
Couldn't escape, till toxic fit left..
After too many hours,
Shut my eyes,
Tried to sleep,
Not a chance in hell,
My mind flew well,
Trippping on flashes of dots and of dashes,
Colours of rainbows,
Flew through my head,
So much more so when I needed my bed !
CopyrightLivvi Kent 30/04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
I took the first sip of white wine in
trepidation for the aftermath of drunk
people in movies is not very pleasant.
I downed it all, faster than an intruder
who wiretaps an important building
somewhere in America. I had vowed to
not drown in the poison I had just consumed.
But what happened later proved me wrong.
I swam in clouds and I floated in shallow
waters for the slurs that lay on my tongue
were not something I would utter in a
sober state. I cavorted. I danced. I showed
skin. I was the frog that clandestinely dances
in the rain and hides away before the ground
is dry again. I swirled like a whirlpool. My cheeks
were red and I emitted happiness. I made silly
jokes about a plant named Wisteria and lay
in bed, twirling away in my drunken madness.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 8:08 AM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
The fish comes steaming, and
English is not the only language making sense.
Politics comes with dark green vegetables spewing flavor,
Kenyans having lunch on the Boulevard,
Lakeshore,
– commitment is the idea that momentum cannot disrupt motion, that
Committed, one moves forward,
Becoming better,
Choosing beyond the sound
Of Americans,
Providing proof of the pudding, cavorting
Wildly,
With language, the idea that language is not owned, it is spoken –
Shoot beyond the target,
Make it count.
Marriage will not be left with men and women.
It has always cavorted with love.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
it showed
an utter disdain
for the conventions
of such an event
that they would
not toe the line
like the others
they proffered
none of the standard
shoulder-dipping
sidestepped shuffles
nor the exuberant
failing of arms
that have come
to be expected
of "good" dancers
those overused staples
that accompany such
predictable song choices
outdated and enjoyed
only ironically
this dance could not
faithfully manifest
their truth
they danced
not for that unnoticed
peripheral audience
but solely
to tell a story
to one another
instead they chased
cavorted and capered
with piggybacks
and fireman's lifts
arms-spread spinning
they became fireworks
their bodies
exploding apart
pulled together
breathlessly
slipping
and stumbling
without a care
leaping shoelessly
from place to place
from song to song
ending always
in each other's arms
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 10:32 AM UTC
Atlas shrugged &
shook the brains
outta Tuesday's baby
about noon
on a Kathmandu doomsday.
the Berkley Tribe,
all the like & kindly rivals
was all in an uprising
over the missing peace
& meanwhile
The Big Evil cavorted on
in the east
of everywhere.
and the They was distorting real reality
to tickle their own fancy
& pawn overpriced romance
novels off on the populace.
nevermind the **** ***
boiling over on the stove top.
foiled again in clover feilds
& the poison only yields
it never stops completely
**** for pysche
forcefield shield
of freedumb fighter
white knight
izard-fucking
grand wizards
winner gets the glittery
7 minutes in heaven
with the blister queen
licking scissors
shiva shiver
ego wither &
sizzle in a cigarette flicker
**** a filter
my lungs aren't black enough
& this isn't the end
filthy tongued
french kiss misery.
he's that crass.
& he wants to be a ******* so
Charlie did himself in the chapel&
got laughs when the rats
came to have at the maggots
in his skin
he called em both his children
& loved em unconditionally.
Only figured
he address the issue
by ******** bout
the situation that faced
him & all of us
instead of
setting things in they place.
*have grace
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
As a Sports Illustrated model it's no secret that she has the ability to turn heads.
So as Hannah Ferguson marked day 30 of LOVE magazine's video advent she did so in smouldering fashion to ensure her debut was not easily forgotten.
Showing off her moves to the sound of Drake's Hotline Bling, the 23-year-old owned the shoot as she cavorted in a slashed corset dress.
Whipping her hair back and forth, Ferguson appeared to forego underwear beneath the daring form fitted number.
Becoming the definition of sensual, a pair of sheer stockings and Giuseppe Zanotti black patent leather lace-up stilettos completed the cover girl's look.
With her hair worn in its natural state, the beautiful blonde's striking blue eyes are lined with kohl liner while her pout is coated in a shade of **** lipstick.
Preened to perfection, the two minute clip is formatted in slow motion as the Texan beauty, who resides in the Big Apple, seductively gyrated on the floor.
In the film Hannah also displays her comical side as she flashed her pearly white while attempting to do the 'Stanky Leg' dance.
Ferguson's debut sees her join the likes of Kendall Jenner, Cara Delevingne, Rita Ora and Adriana Lima who all featured in the 2015 edition of the online countdown to the new year.
The LOVE magazine advent calendar, now in its fifth year, has seen an influx of 8.2 million views since launching on December 1.
read more:http://www.marieaustralia.com
www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt
Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk
Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch
As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch
The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets
And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes
A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound
When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground
She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes
And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose
She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell
Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell
The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath
The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death
The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape
And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake
The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill
Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still
A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned
Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end
As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold
The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold
Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled
They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled
Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance
With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance
Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen
And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene
They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night
The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light
The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye
And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky
On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung
And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
I bounce around from town to town
Never really laying roots
My world is in my duffle
With a second pair of boots
I muddle through with what I have
I'm always on the road
With my thoughts, and few possessions
That's me, always on the go
I do not have a fixed address
My thumb, it leads the way
I've woken up in farmers fields
I've slept near bales of hay
My thumb, it is my compass
I don't reside too long
I move around at random
I'm a lyric with no song
I've slept beneath a starlit sky
Woken up in feather beds
I don't know where I'll be each day
Or where I'll lay my head
I've lived down by the train tracks
Woken up as they go by
I've cavorted with a scarecrow
As the birds still filled the sky
I do not have a fixed address
My thumb, it leads the way
I've woken up in farmers fields
I've slept near bales of hay
My thumb, it is my compass
I don't reside too long
I move around at random
I'm a lyric with no song
I do not like to stick around
To linger, that's not me
When I start to getting comfortable
It's time to leave, be free
I have no one that I'm close to
For to leave would cause them pain
The world is there to travel
And, well....now, I'm off again...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
the courtesans on the corner called him baby blue,
though he cavorted around with a candid ecstasy
seldom seen under the streetlights or above the sewers of town
though he bought rounds for all the ******** at the bar at 2 a.m.
and bellowed drinking ballads to no one in particular
though he had a colossal crocodile smile
wider than the sea, the sky, or any of the tiny bits in between
the courtesans on the corner called him baby blue,
because on the navy nights when he would lay with them,
which was now and again, it was always with silent tears
and they flowed like the deepest sorrow untold.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
You sent my quiescent heart into a beating frenzy
A then lifeless ***** pumped itself back to life
It continues to beat at this very hour - relentless, restless
However every drop of sincere love is now replaced
It bangs against my constricting ribs, fueled by paroxysmal fury
I still find it difficult to breathe
No other melody equated your mellifluous voice
Every syllable that waltzed its way out of your lips enamored my soul
Now it turned to vexing noise that perturbs the tunnels of my ears
You are a song that does not belong in my playlist
Reverberating whispers haunt the hallways of my being
The hallways that you abandoned
Your name is etched on every wall of my mind
Its letters cavorted on the vacant space, owned the space
Each wall began to disintegrate now as your sobriquets induce cracks
Saccharine endearments quake the foundations of my sanity
But my castle of thoughts will not collapse
Commencing exhaustive repairs to extract you out of my life
Picturesque moments framed in my museum of memories
Images of your smile, of your enchanting eyes - all on display
How I wish you can watch me bathe the museum in gasoline now
The lofty flames will bring the light back in my insipid eyes
You were so quick to leave, shaming athletes on a race
Incinerating all to ash, witness how the wrathful flames emulate your pace
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
"I am not of worth."
"I am not revered."
being talentless
is what i've always feared
"This boy
craving release of cluttered thoughts
puts pen to paper
but repeatedly jets out
uncreative inkblots."
I am silhouetted by the face of laughter and joy
all cavorted actions are just a decoy
what i'm thinking is I have no reason
everyone just seems so far
why am I here?
whatever you are.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
Under the moonlight
In the back of an ally,
Where red neon lights
Blight out future follies,
Two soon-to-be-lovers
Grow closer to each other.
He was all sharp,
Crisp black and white lines
A close styled suit which was
Meant to define the -
Which it did quite well.
She was of fluid
Poured into a mold,
The forming container a
Red dress newly sold
For specific purpose, to -
Which she would soon do.
And in it she glimmered
And sparkled like gold,
That glittering treasure
He so wished to hold.
Yet she had approached him
And with a whisper they left,
She with her prize and
Him with his -
Which he would soon collect.
She exhaled and he breathed in
And she smelled like chocolates,
And cherries, and smoke.
And they grew close, and she spoke,
The simple words of -
But he could not hear
Because he was kissing her.
Soft and painted lips kissed back.
Only once.
She tasted like revenge, and blood.
Sharp, and wet, a knife in his gut.
He looked at her up above as
She finished her simple words:
“This is for - ”
And so he fell.
Scarlet lips contorted into
Cheshire smile,
Thoughts cavorted
With treasured grace.
Glancing into his
Bloodless face,
She whispered to him
Under her breath:
“Don’t you know red is
The color of - ?”
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
It was only partly cloudy when we showed up to the dance.
Polished, striding slick in all our style.
Lucky buckeyes stashed in pockets,
rabbits' feet clutched in our hands
we marched up to that fancy fence
and asked,
"When does the fun begin?"
It had only started raining when our escort let us past
the gate and led us on toward the door.
But I tripped on my own shoelace,
fell behind and watched you pass.
Your smile turned to sour salt
and ash.
You looked back and you laughed.
Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
'Cuz the rain is getting thick
now
and this scene is getting sick.
Wretch me up.
Soak me down right to the quick.
Thought somehow it could be saved.
Preserved or salvaged from decay.
Decidedly unjustified to chance.
But I bought these fancy shoes
with my last dime, got all these moves.
So waltz me off, stage right, with all the
other trash.
The door was swinging inward, blocking your form from my view,
closing to a slant of yellow light.
Windows brightened golden inside;
out here ink night, black and blue.
I saw you next through window panes
as you
cavorted with the lords.
The rainwater's slashing downward, raging cold against this face.
Curse escapes through blunted, yellow teeth.
Among finery you are dancing.
Here, I shiver in drenched rags.
luck charms fell from fingers to
the dregs.
When does the fun begin?
Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
'Cuz the rain is getting thick
now
and this scene is getting sick.
Wretch me up.
Soak me down right to the quick.
We scrawled out this stupid story
'til the pens fell from our hands--
'til exclamation points were
dented,
bent and
rent;
until we'd asked,
"What's the final tally, mate?"
Now,
this bad and greasy hair
is hanging low over this face.
This ****** used up body droops
and slouches toward its age...
And the rain is like no bitter ex's invectives
ever taste.
What's the final tally, mate?
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
As subtlety
made his
thought deeply
cavorted when
his business
was his
manner justly
when his
loyalty was
but his
own that
became lever
that he
could ignite
his lover
ready aflame.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 8:19 AM UTC
Born in a bevy of robust, good joy
Raised by irascible those who employed
Dubious methods to coax and convince
A conniving compliance from this little Prince.
He stole what he could as he played a sharp game
And accrued a doubtful reputation of shame,
He cheated at cards and stole from the rich
And called all the tarts on the corner… a *****
And in taking the **** in a fat, farty way
He went on to run a fast gauntlet…and say
“I’ve now passed the buck to an honourable sod
Whose specialty lies in allegiance to God”
In thus doing he wagered a bet both ways
To the Devil he sang and to Jesus he prayed.
To his mistress he lied as he bedded her well
Tho his wife hit the road with the milkman from Hell,
His kids all cavorted with *** and with sin….
Then the whole mess contused like a shroud over him.
Morose and confused, whilst simpering in bed
Moans now, quite deservedly,…” Better off dead!”
M.
8 November 2017
In a wet Waikato Spring
NEW ZEALAND
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.
But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.
I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn't roll round on the floor.
Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the ***** were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn't theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.
©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014
I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn't see today.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
He remembers the day
Although the date eludes him now,
When, after several weeks plumbing dark
Recesses and posing unfathomable questions,
And conducting evermore bizarre experiments
Engendered by this yearning, burning chaotic search,
And impregnated by newly revealed secrets colouring his perspective;
When he lay his head troubled and confused;
When he seethed in frustration and vividly imagined instant death;
When the night was riven by his revelation.
That night everything changed,
For better or worse - worse he suspects.
His brain exploded; his mind expanded;
He touched his core and it seared his soul.
he threw himself out of bed
And danced, and laughed in ecstatic rapture;
And the energy flowed, powerfully emanating his whole being;
And those visions cascaded, joyously unimpeded,
But too quickly to give him any answers:
Just the feeling of a thousand births;
A glimpse of his name encircling the Earth - 200 miles tall;
He an observer, far above a white-clad Assembly
Watching someone (himself?) walk down an adoring aisle;
A million other snatches too brief to echo through the passage of time.
Regardless of the tumultuous avalanche,
The knowledge imparted was certain - it resounded universal truth -
And he knew; knew with an absolute conviction;
absolutely KNEW! His spirit vibrated with celestial significance;
He knew what the chaotic slideshow revealed;
And the revelation enthralled, excited and scared him.
He knew what was meant, but the logic escaped him;
He knew, too, the ramifications, and they dampened the exhilaration;
He knew...and he whimpered in anticipation and awe,
That he was the One. The One!
The One destined; the One Chosen;
The One awaited; the One feared;
The One loved of Gaia and the Universe;
The One cause and the One result;
The One responsible: The One, Alone.
He screamed as he cavorted,
"It's me! It's me! It's me!", and he knew the truth.
He knew, then...but now?
He knew, then...and the certainty infused every fibre within his body.
But now...? After all these years?
Now the doubts prevail;
Now the doubts hold centre stage,
And the certainty crouched, cowering in a dark corner;
Now the doubts, reinforced by countless others, dominate;
Now the doubts twist the glorious vision into delusion;
Now, after stigma and derision, it's delusion, not revelation, acknowledged.
He cannot shake it off -
The kernel of delusion sits hard and solid, stoic;
Colours interaction and coincidence, but is checked,
Subverted to fit a prevalent worldview;
Acknowledged, but swallowed whole -
Lest he succumb, savouring the enshrined power, and becomes another sacrifice.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Mr McCormick whacked her with his stick.
His nurse that was.
Didn't want to be bothered.
He was busy reading the paper.
A political persuasion.
Frustration aggression maybe the theory.
(Michael Rutter, I believe)
Mrs Brady,
A lovely old lady.
Elderly but beautiful as she recanted tales of how she reported how she cavorted and partied when younger.
Such relentless hunger.
With aged joints, she still wants to dance.
Find herself a little romance.
A bit of a rumble,
Potential to tumble.
She lives in a world where all's risk assessed.
Mr Jones,
An old bag of bones.
He gave up on all of his food.
He knew what he wanted.
Family all tried to persuade him to eat.
He wanted to meet the old boy upstairs.
Greet the guy at them pearly gates.
Sipped only from an occasional caring cup.
She bade him goodbye as she walked from her shift.
Stood out on the pavement.
Window's open.
Looked close as she she walked away.
Through the open window.
She swore, she saw his spirit leave.
(C) Livvi
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
Mr McCormick whacked her with his stick.
His nurse that was, he didn't want to be bothered.
He was reading the paper.
A political persuasion.
He'd sat on his glasses, so he couldn't see.
Frustration aggression maybe the theory.
Mrs Brady, a lovely old lady.
Elderly, but beautiful as she reported how she cavorted and partied when younger.
She's missing it so much, a passionate hungers.
With stiff old joints she wanted to dance.
A bit of a stumble, potential to tumble.
She lives in a world of being risk assessed.
Mr Jones an old bag of bones.
Poor fellow he gave up on all of his food.
He knew what he wanted.
His family all tried to persuade him.
To eat his meals.
He gave up on living, henceforth; so he'd only sip from a caring cup.
The nurse bade him goodbye, as from this life he slipped.
Stand outside on the pavement.
The window's wide open.
See his spirit fly free.
(C) Livvi
ALL NAMES IN THIS PIECE ARE PURELY FICTIONAL.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
Then rose the mighty cusp of the storm.
Jagged black edges overcame white
and clouds begat
dark gigantic height after height
as blue, frightened away,
dissolved into rivalling grey and rain
threatened its splatter.
Came the great clap then began Dancing.
Two forked arrows of garnet-fire-clash,
sky-wide flamenco
cavorted before me, a tree cracked as
it gasped in last breath
and echoed by more thunder-applause
I for dry ran homeward.
Four-walled protection inspired my pen.
Storm then began shaping all over again.
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Past week, on the night of Tiw
an uneasy candle-flame wavered
censored by hushed air kisses
casting doubt upon an ode;
scribing the blessed years of youth.
This pine scented disturbance
no doubt - an Autumnal message;
that rear weathered doors
failed in the tempered change
curiously bidding, further venture.
Patio' marbles were shrouded
creeping with expired foliage
leaves tainted old hickory
near devoid of all famed ochre,
merciless to breaths of the fall.
That sombre mulched pattering
was alike wistful wondering;
of delicate and shadowy footfalls
from condemned, exiled seraphs
strung by moonlight rays.
The flavescent master glistened,
whilst duelling a clouded force;
enclosing in vaporous march
smearing pebble trailings,
the skirmish roused nostalgia.
For eerie quivers - of familiarity
wrought from the despondency,
as if epitaphed notions of old
were recited by alto whistling,
each note rekindling a memoriam.
An exhale of soulful proportions
sent adrift an essence;
a smouldering encirclement
of exhumed - solemnly recalls
taken from seasonal chapters of yore.
Those hearted ashes of distant times
cavorted - as sterling embers
with a phantasmic replica
of an adoration long gone,
duetting on pockets of melancholy.
Then beauty settled into a sepulchre,
caressed by grieving wreath petals
saddened by silken veil,
awaiting the fateful - dust and sand;
the remnants of embodied divination.
Revived dolor swelled from within
tiding from old, emotive cicatrices
buried deep and then deeper
until from this panoramic taunt
does this churned anguish vein.
A corrosive, timely hiss from Carpo
brushed the illusions past
as once - to a maidens' mortality;
a premature cremation of dreams
lingering the bitterness of decay.
As the pining sky orb retreated
so too - this observer with mourn
stuttering farewells to the nameless
then returned to the forgiving study
to immerse again - in better times.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
She used to walk in the woods at night,
She said she needed the air,
But didn’t want me to go with her,
She said that it’s cold out there.
‘Well, cold for me would be cold for you,’
I said, but she didn’t mind,
‘I need to go on my own,’ she said,
Made out she was being kind.
Though what it was I would find, who knew?
It raised suspicions in me,
For what do you meet in a darkened wood
But only the occasional tree?
Perhaps she wasn’t the only one
Who wandered into the sward,
Maybe another lonely one,
But no, she gave me her word.
Not that her word was worth too much
As I’d caught her out before,
Meeting a man delinquently,
But never again, she swore.
I had no reason to doubt her then
She said she would play it square,
‘It’s only an empty wood,’ she said,
‘There’s nothing but trees out there.’
I followed her into the woods one night,
Kept quietly out of sight,
And watched as she entered a clearing,
Deep in the dead of night.
She walked straight up to an old ash tree
And knelt before it, and prayed,
While fronds from the tree encircled her,
Like some strange masquerade.
And then as I watched, a shape appeared
Embedded within the tree,
The form of a man, the god named Pan
As clear as it could be.
Patricia advanced, embraced him now
And the form sprang into life,
Doing the things you wouldn’t do
Except with a much loved wife.
He looked like a goat that stood *****
His horns swept back from his head,
Balancing on his cloven hoofs
While I hid myself in dread.
He raised a set of pipes to his lips
And played an enchanting tune,
That swept the glade as Patricia played
And cavorted in the gloom.
Then suddenly I was back at home,
Woke up in my easy chair,
I rubbed my eyes to the sound of sighs
And Patricia was standing there.
‘I just had the strangest dream,’ I said,
‘Of you in a woodland glade.’
And she just smiled for a little while
As I sat in my chair, dismayed.
‘I think I know why you wander now,
Though you never will with me,
There’s something about a clearing there
And a most remarkable tree.’
She turned, and pierced me with a look
That said that she didn’t care,
‘It’s true, I have a favourite nook
Where I go… I saw you there!’
David Lewis Paget
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
we swam for joy
all summer long
lived in the lake
contesting dive rank
who had the wettest
cannon ball
broadest swan
sharpest jack
the underwater distance competition!
you sink like a stone
shovel your feet into the muck
crank like a panzer through honey
eighty seconds later
pop up way out there
our twelve year old bodies
cavorted slithered swam
through rising storms and setting suns
summer put there for us to inhale
then pound on one another like gorillas
suddenly it was back-to-school
while we were learning to borrow a one
our minnow natures died
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC