hold the silver over a flame
turn it, twist it
let the metal soften
mold it, bend it
dull the sharp prongs
blend away the etching
and the nicks and scratches
from years of abuse
with your rough fingers
press it's extremities together
to fill in the gaps
between it's teeth
make it slick
make it shine
replace it's maker's signature
with yours

now, stand back
look at what you've done
forks are just spoons
without the holes
but when you went to fill them in
you forgot that
there wasn't enough material
for them to patch over smoothly
so in your hands
you hold the mangled remains
of a broken masterpiece
that you thought you could fix
but forgot
you didn't know how

Your hand in mine, twiddling
the silver around my right
ring finger. The point
of the heart faced out,
in hope you'd turn it
toward my wrist. Your mouth
brushes mine. You take it off,
examine the stamp - "925."
Slide it back on, the crown faced up,
the hands mirror ours,
clasped
around my heart. I wonder
if my father knew
what it would mean to me
when he passed it on.
I wonder if he knew
I'd fall for a boy
and this ring would twist my mind in folds,
you're a menace, a silversmith
you solder my mouth shut.

We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding

       our purple bruises
       into rose hips.

Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.

       Our lives of lavish luxury
       lives as lapis lazuli.

The banks of the Ipswich
call out:

       silhouettes behind birch bark.
       Remember

how we used to swim
her waters;

       tread her auric ebb?
       We aim at deer, at ripening

persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.

       We aim at killdeer.
       Kiss a wasp.

We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.

       As midnight, we are
       films noir:

we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,

       speaking and kissing in tongues,
       her mouth tasting

of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow

       melting
       down her rose hips.

We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.

       We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
       We are a vesica; both/and.

We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.

I look up towards your warm familiar face
And see my love reflected in your eyes.
With glowing cheeks we look up into space
Sweet harmony on unassuming sighs.
Let's borrow starlight 'till I fly away
Up to the moon where maybe you and I
Can play a game of tag and I will say
"You can't catch me! I am a firefly!"
But you will bring me back and woo me with
The stars that you keep hidden in your hand.
All crafted by the finest silversmith,
They shine like diamonds scattered in the sand.

Do fireflies and star-shine burn eternal?
And what can be when night is not nocturnal?

In syncope she quivers.
Shaken up.
Lost all her fizz.
She's known all along.
All that glitters is not gold.
The silversmith came.
Forged a blade of silver.
For her to slip into her purse.
The blade in shape of crescent moon.

Ripped her heart to shreds too soon.
Wanted to keep it close at hand.
To breach no promises.
Not to demand.
Princess pushy.
Has regrets.
Would have a whole lot less.

If he should answer messages sent.
Then requests would be received.
Wouldn't be pushy.
No pushiness would e'er be shown.
There'd be no need at all.
Ignorance is bliss they say.
If only she had known.
She wouldn't have to moan!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

tea time. soaked
through.

hours, wandering the lanes,
finding the shore,
my independance.

watching the silversmith,
the birds sing, water

logged, lost, happy
in the knowing.

chocolate egg,
on return.

sbm.

Found in the churchyard of St Botolph's, Aldgate,
one distant lunchtime sixty years ago,
and saved perhaps from second burial
less ceremonial than its first had been,
would Hamlet have mused on this? A finger-bone,
less striking than a skull but just as dead.

I keep it now and wonder  
what skill he had possessed, the one who owned it.
Was he a tailor or a silversmith?
a carpenter? a weaver? or (none of those)
a lowly labourer, or a sly pickpocket?
Was it a woman's finger, a high-born lady?
or housewife (working her fingers to the bone)?

Did that hand long ago once guide a pen,
inscribe long lines of figures in heavy ledgers,
telling the tale of profit or of loss?
Did it write sonnets? messages of love?
or thoughts to pass on to an unknown future?
I cannot know, but still this humble bone,
the nameless relic of a city's past,
may have some little life, if only for me.

i am an artist
silversmith of masterpieces
worn out scratches
of pencil lead and inked out memories
the fire on the candle
burns, lighting up my head
and guiding me to a crisp,
blank page
my heavy breath, my heavy heart
blows it out in dark puffs of steam
the smoke is singing!
i’ve lost the light and brought my soul back home

The devil has a silver tongue.
Oh, she has coated me in chrome.
Awake now and embrace the ache.