Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Anon C Dec 2012
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark innyard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come at the dawning; he did not come at noon,
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement,
The road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"now keep good watch!" And they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say
"Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years!
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!

Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still!

Tlot in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment! She drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were the spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
I keep sharing songs but they are so beautiful I want people to hear them. This one breaks my heart. More Loreena Mckennitt. Originally by Alfred Noyes I did not know! So I must recognize him albeit Loreena sings it majestically!
Now the other princes of the Achaeans slept soundly the whole
night through, but Agamemnon son of Atreus was troubled, so that he
could get no rest. As when fair Juno’s lord flashes his lightning in
token of great rain or hail or snow when the snow-flakes whiten the
ground, or again as a sign that he will open the wide jaws of hungry
war, even so did Agamemnon heave many a heavy sigh, for his soul
trembled within him. When he looked upon the plain of Troy he
marvelled at the many watchfires burning in front of Ilius, and at the
sound of pipes and flutes and of the hum of men, but when presently he
turned towards the ships and hosts of the Achaeans, he tore his hair
by handfuls before Jove on high, and groaned aloud for the very
disquietness of his soul. In the end he deemed it best to go at once
to Nestor son of Neleus, and see if between them they could find any
way of the Achaeans from destruction. He therefore rose, put on his
shirt, bound his sandals about his comely feet, flung the skin of a
huge tawny lion over his shoulders—a skin that reached his feet-
and took his spear in his hand.
  Neither could Menelaus sleep, for he, too, boded ill for the Argives
who for his sake had sailed from far over the seas to fight the
Trojans. He covered his broad back with the skin of a spotted panther,
put a casque of bronze upon his head, and took his spear in his brawny
hand. Then he went to rouse his brother, who was by far the most
powerful of the Achaeans, and was honoured by the people as though
he were a god. He found him by the stern of his ship already putting
his goodly array about his shoulders, and right glad was he that his
brother had come.
  Menelaus spoke first. “Why,” said he, “my dear brother, are you thus
arming? Are you going to send any of our comrades to exploit the
Trojans? I greatly fear that no one will do you this service, and
spy upon the enemy alone in the dead of night. It will be a deed of
great daring.”
  And King Agamemnon answered, “Menelaus, we both of us need shrewd
counsel to save the Argives and our ships, for Jove has changed his
mind, and inclines towards Hector’s sacrifices rather than ours. I
never saw nor heard tell of any man as having wrought such ruin in one
day as Hector has now wrought against the sons of the Achaeans—and
that too of his own unaided self, for he is son neither to god nor
goddess. The Argives will rue it long and deeply. Run, therefore, with
all speed by the line of the ships, and call Ajax and Idomeneus.
Meanwhile I will go to Nestor, and bid him rise and go about among the
companies of our sentinels to give them their instructions; they
will listen to him sooner than to any man, for his own son, and
Meriones brother in arms to Idomeneus, are captains over them. It
was to them more particularly that we gave this charge.”
  Menelaus replied, “How do I take your meaning? Am I to stay with
them and wait your coming, or shall I return here as soon as I have
given your orders?” “Wait,” answered King Agamemnon, “for there are so
many paths about the camp that we might miss one another. Call every
man on your way, and bid him be stirring; name him by his lineage
and by his father’s name, give each all titular observance, and
stand not too much upon your own dignity; we must take our full
share of toil, for at our birth Jove laid this heavy burden upon us.”
  With these instructions he sent his brother on his way, and went
on to Nestor shepherd of his people. He found him sleeping in his tent
hard by his own ship; his goodly armour lay beside him—his shield,
his two spears and his helmet; beside him also lay the gleaming girdle
with which the old man girded himself when he armed to lead his people
into battle—for his age stayed him not. He raised himself on his
elbow and looked up at Agamemnon. “Who is it,” said he, “that goes
thus about the host and the ships alone and in the dead of night, when
men are sleeping? Are you looking for one of your mules or for some
comrade? Do not stand there and say nothing, but speak. What is your
business?”
  And Agamemnon answered, “Nestor, son of Neleus, honour to the
Achaean name, it is I, Agamemnon son of Atreus, on whom Jove has
laid labour and sorrow so long as there is breath in my body and my
limbs carry me. I am thus abroad because sleep sits not upon my
eyelids, but my heart is big with war and with the jeopardy of the
Achaeans. I am in great fear for the Danaans. I am at sea, and without
sure counsel; my heart beats as though it would leap out of my body,
and my limbs fail me. If then you can do anything—for you too
cannot sleep—let us go the round of the watch, and see whether they
are drowsy with toil and sleeping to the neglect of their duty. The
enemy is encamped hard and we know not but he may attack us by night.”
  Nestor replied, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon,
Jove will not do all for Hector that Hector thinks he will; he will
have troubles yet in plenty if Achilles will lay aside his anger. I
will go with you, and we will rouse others, either the son of
Tydeus, or Ulysses, or fleet Ajax and the valiant son of Phyleus. Some
one had also better go and call Ajax and King Idomeneus, for their
ships are not near at hand but the farthest of all. I cannot however
refrain from blaming Menelaus, much as I love him and respect him—and
I will say so plainly, even at the risk of offending you—for sleeping
and leaving all this trouble to yourself. He ought to be going about
imploring aid from all the princes of the Achaeans, for we are in
extreme danger.”
  And Agamemnon answered, “Sir, you may sometimes blame him justly,
for he is often remiss and unwilling to exert himself—not indeed from
sloth, nor yet heedlessness, but because he looks to me and expects me
to take the lead. On this occasion, however, he was awake before I
was, and came to me of his own accord. I have already sent him to call
the very men whom you have named. And now let us be going. We shall
find them with the watch outside the gates, for it was there I said
that we would meet them.”
  “In that case,” answered Nestor, “the Argives will not blame him nor
disobey his orders when he urges them to fight or gives them
instructions.”
  With this he put on his shirt, and bound his sandals about his
comely feet. He buckled on his purple coat, of two thicknesses, large,
and of a rough shaggy texture, grasped his redoubtable bronze-shod
spear, and wended his way along the line of the Achaean ships. First
he called loudly to Ulysses peer of gods in counsel and woke him,
for he was soon roused by the sound of the battle-cry. He came outside
his tent and said, “Why do you go thus alone about the host, and along
the line of the ships in the stillness of the night? What is it that
you find so urgent?” And Nestor knight of Gerene answered, “Ulysses,
noble son of Laertes, take it not amiss, for the Achaeans are in great
straits. Come with me and let us wake some other, who may advise
well with us whether we shall fight or fly.”
  On this Ulysses went at once into his tent, put his shield about his
shoulders and came out with them. First they went to Diomed son of
Tydeus, and found him outside his tent clad in his armour with his
comrades sleeping round him and using their shields as pillows; as for
their spears, they stood upright on the spikes of their butts that
were driven into the ground, and the burnished bronze flashed afar
like the lightning of father Jove. The hero was sleeping upon the skin
of an ox, with a piece of fine carpet under his head; Nestor went up
to him and stirred him with his heel to rouse him, upbraiding him
and urging him to bestir himself. “Wake up,” he exclaimed, “son of
Tydeus. How can you sleep on in this way? Can you not see that the
Trojans are encamped on the brow of the plain hard by our ships,
with but a little space between us and them?”
  On these words Diomed leaped up instantly and said, “Old man, your
heart is of iron; you rest not one moment from your labours. Are there
no younger men among the Achaeans who could go about to rouse the
princes? There is no tiring you.”
  And Nestor knight of Gerene made answer, “My son, all that you
have said is true. I have good sons, and also much people who might
call the chieftains, but the Achaeans are in the gravest danger;
life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor. Go
then, for you are younger than I, and of your courtesy rouse Ajax
and the fleet son of Phyleus.”
  Diomed threw the skin of a great tawny lion about his shoulders—a
skin that reached his feet—and grasped his spear. When he had
roused the heroes, he brought them back with him; they then went the
round of those who were on guard, and found the captains not
sleeping at their posts but wakeful and sitting with their arms
about them. As sheep dogs that watch their flocks when they are
yarded, and hear a wild beast coming through the mountain forest
towards them—forthwith there is a hue and cry of dogs and men, and
slumber is broken—even so was sleep chased from the eyes of the
Achaeans as they kept the watches of the wicked night, for they turned
constantly towards the plain whenever they heard any stir among the
Trojans. The old man was glad bade them be of good cheer. “Watch on,
my children,” said he, “and let not sleep get hold upon you, lest
our enemies triumph over us.”
  With this he passed the trench, and with him the other chiefs of the
Achaeans who had been called to the council. Meriones and the brave
son of Nestor went also, for the princes bade them. When they were
beyond the trench that was dug round the wall they held their
meeting on the open ground where there was a space clear of corpses,
for it was here that when night fell Hector had turned back from his
onslaught on the Argives. They sat down, therefore, and held debate
with one another.
  Nestor spoke first. “My friends,” said he, “is there any man bold
enough to venture the Trojans, and cut off some straggler, or us
news of what the enemy mean to do whether they will stay here by the
ships away from the city, or whether, now that they have worsted the
Achaeans, they will retire within their walls. If he could learn all
this and come back safely here, his fame would be high as heaven in
the mouths of all men, and he would be rewarded richly; for the chiefs
from all our ships would each of them give him a black ewe with her
lamb—which is a present of surpassing value—and he would be asked as
a guest to all feasts and clan-gatherings.”
  They all held their peace, but Diomed of the loud war-cry spoke
saying, “Nestor, gladly will I visit the host of the Trojans over
against us, but if another will go with me I shall do so in greater
confidence and comfort. When two men are together, one of them may see
some opportunity which the other has not caught sight of; if a man
is alone he is less full of resource, and his wit is weaker.”
  On this several offered to go with Diomed. The two Ajaxes,
servants of Mars, Meriones, and the son of Nestor all wanted to go, so
did Menelaus son of Atreus; Ulysses also wished to go among the host
of the Trojans, for he was ever full of daring, and thereon
Agamemnon king of men spoke thus: “Diomed,” said he, “son of Tydeus,
man after my own heart, choose your comrade for yourself—take the
best man of those that have offered, for many would now go with you.
Do not through delicacy reject the better man, and take the worst
out of respect for his lineage, because he is of more royal blood.”
  He said this because he feared for Menelaus. Diomed answered, “If
you bid me take the man of my own choice, how in that case can I
fail to think of Ulysses, than whom there is no man more eager to face
all kinds of danger—and Pallas Minerva loves him well? If he were
to go with me we should pass safely through fire itself, for he is
quick to see and understand.”
  “Son of Tydeus,” replied Ulysses, “say neither good nor ill about
me, for you are among Argives who know me well. Let us be going, for
the night wanes and dawn is at hand. The stars have gone forward,
two-thirds of the night are already spent, and the third is alone left
us.”
  They then put on their armour. Brave Thrasymedes provided the son of
Tydeus with a sword and a shield (for he had left his own at his ship)
and on his head he set a helmet of bull’s hide without either peak
or crest; it is called a skull-cap and is a common headgear.
Meriones found a bow and quiver for Ulysses, and on his head he set
a leathern helmet that was lined with a strong plaiting of leathern
thongs, while on the outside it was thickly studded with boar’s teeth,
well and skilfully set into it; next the head there was an inner
lining of felt. This helmet had been stolen by Autolycus out of
Eleon when he broke into the house of Amyntor son of Ormenus. He
gave it to Amphidamas of Cythera to take to Scandea, and Amphidamas
gave it as a guest-gift to Molus, who gave it to his son Meriones; and
now it was set upon the head of Ulysses.
  When the pair had armed, they set out, and left the other chieftains
behind them. Pallas Minerva sent them a heron by the wayside upon
their right hands; they could not see it for the darkness, but they
heard its cry. Ulysses was glad when he heard it and prayed to
Minerva: “Hear me,” he cried, “daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, you who
spy out all my ways and who are with me in all my hardships;
befriend me in this mine hour, and grant that we may return to the
ships covered with glory after having achieved some mighty exploit
that shall bring sorrow to the Trojans.”
  Then Diomed of the loud war-cry also prayed: “Hear me too,” said he,
“daughter of Jove, unweariable; be with me even as you were with my
noble father Tydeus when he went to Thebes as envoy sent by the
Achaeans. He left the Achaeans by the banks of the river Aesopus,
and went to the city bearing a message of peace to the Cadmeians; on
his return thence, with your help, goddess, he did great deeds of
daring, for you were his ready helper. Even so guide me and guard me
now, and in return I will offer you in sacrifice a broad-browed heifer
of a year old, unbroken, and never yet brought by man under the
yoke. I will gild her horns and will offer her up to you in
sacrifice.”
  Thus they prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard their prayer. When they
had done praying to the daughter of great Jove, they went their way
like two lions prowling by night amid the armour and blood-stained
bodies of them that had fallen.
  Neither again did Hector let the Trojans sleep; for he too called
the princes and councillors of the Trojans that he might set his
counsel before them. “Is there one,” said he, “who for a great
reward will do me the service of which I will tell you? He shall be
well paid if he will. I will give him a chariot and a couple of
horses, the fleetest that can be found at the ships of the Achaeans,
if he will dare this thing; and he will win infinite honour to boot;
he must go to the ships and find out whether they are still guarded as
heretofore, or whether now that we have beaten them the Achaeans
design to fly, and through sheer exhaustion are neglecting to keep
their watches.”
  They all held their peace; but there was among the Trojans a certain
man named Dolon, son of Eumedes, the famous herald—a man rich in gold
and bronze. He was ill-favoured, but a good runner, and was an only
son among five sisters. He it was that now addressed the Trojans.
“I, Hector,” said he, “Will to the ships and will exploit them. But
first hold up your sceptre and swear that you will give me the
chariot, bedight with bronze, and the horses that now carry the
noble son of Peleus. I will make you a good scout, and will not fail
you. I will go through the host from one end to the other till I
come to the ship of Agamemnon, where I take it the princes of the
Achaeans are now consulting whether they shall fight or fly.”
  When he had done speaking Hector held up his sceptre, and swore
him his oath saying, “May Jove the thundering husband of Juno bear
witness that no other Trojan but yourself shall mount
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
Conor Letham May 2014
We let the align-
ment of our con-
tact create a new-
lyfound structure:

you dress our bed-
ding over frame-
work, shapes mold-
ing words on paper

as though our truth-
fully plaiting finger-
tips shape a stereo-
type linear tendency.
Often the alignment of words create the most wonderful of coupling. Visual: http://24.media.tumblr.com/d70138f62fd18a99d66afda21a6c4856/tumblr_n6248xVzjm1t9ttljo1_400.jpg
Vicki Acquah Oct 2015
The ninth beatitude
Blessed are the transformed
and the transformers
For they shall know gratitude.
Hair attitudes are our beatitudes
How can I not love my hair
Short, cropped. *****
Long, cascading locks
Braids falling adoringly
Embracing cheekbones of
Historical beauty.
Hair diva's
Divinity, defying gravity...Black hair
Submitting to heat, or the nimble.
Fingers of scientist, chemist who
Are born to a life dedicated to
Beautification of her sisters and daughters
None since Madam C.J. Walker has had
This talent in abundance.
She put her wrist in the twist.
And the "aid" in the braid… new wave
Whose passion is to adore what
She's put into you; She is the true
“goddess of hair”
You are In good hands as
She dares you to move, or
bat an eyelash less
She bashes you, or threatens
to abort the mission Leaving you to
Your own device-Her advice is to become
at one with her- Become putty in her hands.
Her hands plant, plaiting love and patience
into every wrung…Moms,
And Hair Magicians, growing hands
That loom, weave and condition;
Grooming reluctant ducklings.
Into graceful swans
Grooming you for greatness.
(To my best friend)
https://scontent-ord1-1.**.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/1102627316418650293630111932455644687694397_n.jpg?oh=2c95a0eb06­9b5f996f26494e277bd734&oe;=56C6FF8B
To my best friend
entropiK Nov 2010
i was upon the onslaught of
desolation
and i assiduosly flirted
with suicide.

Contractility - i love you,
stitched in between two heart beats.
palplitations
that set blood cells on calamitious voyages.
that dance in sweet habanera
to the shrieks of your name.

i want to swallow you;
fold out your skin
into paper dolls.
to be intertwined by
the plaiting of flesh.
to be asphyxiated until
the colour of violet.

i want to carve your face
and wear it in burlesque.
to devour myself
in all aspects of you-
to become you.


i covet.
Kayleigh Sep 2012
You brush your hair
With such allure
It drives me crazy.

Toussling, plaiting, tying
Double checking
Hairgrips in.

To the mirror, sideways on
Triple checking
Eyebrows won't be byebrows yet.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
It is summer, and I did survive, the spring.
--- some lines need reading to live
Feeling for a way to say, I know
how salvation came to be desired.

Tacitly, I trusted my mother, and then,
a baby sister who was soon to die came, and
now, the looking back, allows, a vision, plain to make.

The depths of knowledge, the cultural glue
of a nation that habitually enforces allies oath to join wars
- as one nation, under Truth, (or some may think God,)
to establish the final peace war is intending to make,
some day, when all the chaos is combed
from the wooly fungi empires leave
in hidden sacred reasons for war,
schisms with abysses and eternal confusion,
such as empowers the very sun, enfolding itself
and shining on emptiness much more than on us.
------------
In good time, make all things ryhme reason,
or harmonize with harm mitigation,
to tell the truth for no other reason, my mission in life.

A negative instruction, a macrophage idea, know
lies appear in truths bent to serve a lust, a power will,

Take my instruction, the proverb treasures whisper.
Listen, in prayer, the mental exercise, of using knowns

to make known seeds, easy as dandelions do.
------------
Once there was a war in vain,
still the concept of sheeple remains,
and patience continues to cost your life,
but the truth that makes the others free, cost

a ton of time to accumulate in the original chaotic will,
to do it again, more boom, make rooom

goin up country, rolling like a persistent moss,
on the affirmation enforced compression to fuse,

one simplicity to another sublimnity - ah, ready…

Anabasis, come and see, going up, from the root.

Seeded time, time set aside to use today, to read.

Sowing time used to inform knowlegends, plaiting
patterned recognosis, strands of tangled dreads

we think, therefore, we think we may learn to know,

aha, olden days, first boundary of safety, fire lit.
Shining thing that burns, and bites the hand
that feeds it.

Valuable knowledge, any creature knows, but
maybe moths do not know, but. who knows,
moths could be called to go up,
spark a collection of unrelated facts,
arise,
thou bald head, go up,
and the shining
head begins to glow, heat escaping infra-ready

Anger, the adult tantrum of the bald one mocked,
revives an old devil of a temper preserved,
handled with kid gloves, made

from the skin of the kid that did not get away.
Scaped goat joy is ours, we celebrate, we won.

By the grace, the undeserved favor, as for services
never needed already done, accept the fact,

the deed did leave a knowledge. We learn to trust,

our own peace for protection, we seclude our selves,
alone,

to face all our demons in mortal function demos,

come, divine idea, bright known shown, come
tell me of the way out of thankless joy dispairing.

We joined and brought children up and into our time,

the bubble of being at the surface of ever itself,
the all knowing known we all think of as the whole truth,

in the oath we mentally agree to affirm,
thereby we all, solidify, the rock, on which this thing,

this wedom, you, you plurally, and me, reflecting

shining things, sure, affectually, certain as stars,
for holding storied points in the progression to now,

Time tellers held their knowing in time teller rules
to know by and to go by,

and when secrets called for instant reference, ahs,
and has, have beens and professed to follow sigh-signs

and wonder if we ever learns, as we learn once more,

evermore, is the cultural equivalent of infinity, and beyond.
A new perspective, less likely to get away from a kind of poetic purpose life offers to those enthralled by mindlessness serving the role of mindfullness.
Each reader effects the joy that powers all poetry and most songs,
thus opera... the works, the gears and levers and axels in life, turn on a dime.
topaz oreilly Jan 2013
I am pausing just for the now
the passing Moon scoops its urgency,
plaiting  silver shadows
through my blinds.
Closing my eyes
thoughts of her,
are like re-arranging furniture
as if someone was walking upstairs.
I know she would have accepted me
because I offer no excuses.
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
The children went off into the woods to play.
It wasn't there yesterday you know.
The cottage with the thatched roof covered in crystals of ice and dripping snow.
The trees in the forest are lovely and clean, they're smelling of freshness, they're dressed in bright green.

The cottage windows glowed with smiles.
Very inviting and cosy and warm.

Cautiously, the children peeped in through the windows.
The windows behind which all secrets hid.
They saw a room with a blazing fire in the hearth.
A room full up with noisy industrious elves.
They were picking and packing toys onto the shelves.

The children were such mischievous imps.
They had to take a closer look.
They crept as silently as the night moved, to the other side of the copse.
Looked into the window, just over there.
A chubby red faced woman was plaiting her hair.
On the opposite side of the very same room, sat Santa Claus.
He was wearing maroon.
The children stood and watched a while.
I swear they saw old Santa smile.
He noticed them looking in.

The old door swung open, he beckoned them in.
He fed them Christmas cookies.
Gave them steaming cocoa in mugs.
Santa was just the jolliest chap that they had ever met.
They finished their drinks and munched all their cookies.
Santa Clause said to the children, now off you must go.
You must forget we ever met.
He waved them goodbye, as they left through the door.
They skipped and they danced over the woodland floor.
Those naughty children would be back tomorrow.
The following day they went back to the very same spot, Santa was gone and all was forgot.

It was 5'o'clock in the morning, on December 25th.
The children rustled and played with their stockings.
Smiling excitedly and noisily.
Delighted that they had not been forgot.
(C) Livvi
Happynessa Apr 2016
Your sleeping like a chrysalis
I'm listening to your rhythm
So light easy in the moment
Beautiful serene and sleepy
Protected  by a blanket cocoon

Cuddling up I tell precious tales
Like sea breathing it's vastness
The seaweed just tattered rags
Swishing gravel sizzling foam
Logs scoured smooth over years

Broken glass  oceans sugar candy
Pebbles giving away their secrets
An abyss of turquoise from below
Above seagulls plaiting winds hair
Closing my eyes my dreams begin
Travis Green Jun 2018
Before the days my daughter had aged into an adult,
I remember the nights when I used to sit in the living
room couch pulling her long silky hair back towards me
and slowly combing it like a porcelain doll, untangling the
few strands and greasing it down to a sleek finishing touch.
I’d soon follow using my slender fingers to make knots one
strand after the other, as my daughter would scream out in
agony, That hurts! Let take a break!  I’d stare at her for a few
seconds the way my mom used to gaze at me when she was
braiding my hair, then I’d say, Hush up child, stop being so
tender headed, and I’d ease right back into plaiting her hair,
letting my mind seep into the technique and the rhythm of
the constant rotation, how each element seemed to create
a harmonizing rhyme sinking inside my soul, how the twisting
and turning reminded me of the memories I used to share with
my mother, the way she’d brush my ***** hair and gel it down
until it was straight, the way she’d open up with a big smile, I love you my precious baby, her sparkling teeth stamped on the center of my chest.  I’d grin and reply, I love you too mom, like it would be this way forever.   Now, as I continue tying the knots together, I see so much beauty and uniqueness in me within my darling daughter, how the simple touch of braiding hair can birth a beautiful blossom.
Av Oct 2020
Keys misplaced from billions of pockets—
open the rusty lockets
piling under bridges;
rockets,
for the palm wide enough to hold them

Bulging eyes are folded
in a chamber slowly dimming like bruises;
black and white,
backs against the walls,
coating palates in dry, brackish tones,
a charcoaled conversation.

The same echoes whipping against skin,
ripping the same warm bodies thin,
the same red-brick teeth
raking the cold, bleached soil

As the ice melts into water,
it is no longer the miner,
who smelts for power;
it's powdered noses that never sweat—
from pounding, bronzed pulses  
too big to leave the net

and as if it’s not enough,
it's stretching out a golden hand,
pelting doubt unto cardboard ceilings,
sealing silky mouths
and plaiting amber limbs,
felted so tightly to cushion Your seat

a.r.
Jayne E May 2019
Braiding

I'm braiding my hair
at 2.31am
Over
U
N
D
E
R
Over again
Feeling your fingers
Thru my hair
A playful tug
Here__&__there
This one of our love rituals
Avoiding the habitual
Making a silky rope
Plaiting with hope
Our braiding holds
Over
U
N
D
E
R
Over again
Braiding my hair at 2.31am...

J.C. honey-tiger 01/05/2019.
Tanishka Sep 2020
The classrooms have become dusty
Metal gates and tables are rusty
Oh! How I wish I was there
Giggling with girls and plaiting my hair
I still remember how I complained about the crowd
Though thinking back I am not so proud
I miss my teachers
I miss my basketball
I miss getting scolded
I miss being the exemplary student
But now I know I am not prudent
I just want to stand tall
For all my teachers who are working day and night
All this for our future fight
THANK YOU

Thank You for opening my eyes
My heart, my mind, my soul
Thank You for taking me out
To walk, to run, to hide

Thank You for waking me up
For turning on the light
Thank You for stirring passion
For putting coffee in my cup

Thank You for brushing my hair
For plaiting it, and making it shine
Thank You for the nice smelling creams
And the clothes you told me to wear

Thank You for telling me stories
And singing to me late at night
Thank You for calming my thoughts
From the night into the morning

Thank You for loving me sweetly
For letting me be who I am
For not running away when I get too much
Thank You, from my heart, completely.

— The End —