Manacled the hands
Which intertwine with one another now,
Hands that come to grip with issues
Locked within the soul, somehow.

Manacled, the hands that hold her
Manacled in blood and bone,
Hold the baby’s head so gently
Veined and scarred with love intoned.

Hands of strength that strike the anvil
Shape the shoe to fit the hoof
Hold the stallion’s head commanding
Strong control to stay aloof.

Hands that wield the sword of vengeance
Hands that feed the wood to fire,
Work the field with ox and plough
Stroke her body to desire.

Veinous hands, so strong and calloused
Locked within his every day,
Hands that clap to merry music
Hands that to the piper pay.

Hunter hands to snare the rabbit
Catch the carp in yonder lake,
Pen the words of love to paper
Knead the dough of bread to bake.

Quiet hands that rest in evening
Sitting by the fireside,
Listening to the snoring hounds
Which on the mat, asleep, reside.

Manacled, these hands, he ponders
Locked within the ways of sin,
Reminiscent recollection
…Quiet smile on whiskered chin.

Fingers cooled in fresh spring water
Feel the rays of rising sun,
Stride across the purple heather
These hands, a goodly day begun.

Marshalg
FOXGLOVE, Taranaki.
4.20am 17 February 2013

© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

latin can not describe the electricityof blue veins suspended in cala lily skin. they fan out,protazoic, dormant beneath a sea of iced flesh.i grip the sink, peroxide strands of kelp washing upon the banks of my shoulders likethe white-gold sunshinethat would prism behind your chinook archwith all the beauty of a nuclear winter.for the transplant of my frontal lobeto the heaven above his stratus comforter, instructionshave been written. next time he is carried in on a foen wind i am toone, stand very stilltwo, present my brain to the skyand three,wait for the apricotsof sunrise to settleinto the overcast of his eyes.i practise a little and wish i had a veinous hum, skepticalthat an electrocardiogram could detect a beat.

In a rickety, rustic wooden chair
next to a matching table in a matching room,
one pink tentacle
wrapped around the ornate handle of a
tiny white tea cup,
the other suctioned to a page of an
antique volume of vaginal poetry,
I observe myself in a broken mirror.  
My 50 smiling fly eyes are beguiling but villainous,
inebriated but inhumane,
like black pearls of gooified obsidian
bejeweling the chunky strawberry jelly
of my veinous face.  
My beak is small like the wren's.  
My expression is in unison with my thought:
This mirror is very very broken.

A tremor, an empty cup of tea,
next to my veinous hands,
there is a cat sitting at the table.
Large as a bear, fat and bulging,
With whiskers as long as the wings of an albatross
and a tail that knocked over a lamp.

Cat flourishes his claws and says:
"Midnight has passed, why where you imagining me before I was?"
Rain enters the room,
pulls his thick, heavy coat around him and omits an
odour of nightly summer pavement.

What a gang, the three of us!
Collected to outlive the night.
When Sun rises and wipes away all that Rain has accomplished,
when Morning comes and clears the fog and ideas,
Cat is yet to be imagined.

Through tangled wight-lit
weald she wends, one hand
on veinous sword
For in this boscage
fiend does grow, in bile-
brimmed pustules nest.

Beware the night wood,
bladed lady, it’s paths
do twist and gambol
And hellions of the dim
do know its ev’ry
maze-cursed bent.

“Oh come to me!” she
sings out high, into
aphotic brake.
“My vein-sword fears no
devilry. No imp or
soul-baned blight.”

With ringing snick her
blade does flick, to warble
through the murk.
It’s long vein fills
with fiend-blood spilled
from conniving lurk.

Beware the night wood
bladed lady, though first
foe has fallen.
There are still miles
of treachery afore
you find your love.

The dim around her
quickly thickens, with
creatures best not named.
They have come squelching
from fetid pool, from
rotted bole and fen.

Too many for a
veinous sword swung by
skillful warrior,
though still she stands, her
shoulders square, to face
the squalling din.

“Halt!” Calls a voice of
crackling ice from grim
and toothy smile.
“I’ve come to proffer,
lady knight, a means
for your escape.

“Your maiden fair, within
my lair has pressed on
me a wager.
If in fair combat,
I take your life,
she’ll be mine forever.

“And if in turn I
am the one who falls
in ****** failure.
You’ll be hers till
end of time, your strength
ever greater.”

Beware the night wood,
bladed lady, and of
deals forged in the dark.
Though bound by word,
wise ones know, the Night King
can’t be trusted.

For quite a time the
lady hummed in careful
deliberation.
The night-king watched
motionless for her
tiny grim-faced nod.

Then with ringing snick
blades did flick, and warble
through the murk
and history’s greatest
battle was fought for
ghouls within the dark.

When the Night King fell
it was with
a subtle grin of triumph
As fiend applied a
black-thorn crown to
lady’s sweat-streaked brow.

The bladed lady
did achieve
her heart’s earnest goal.
She was wed, ‘neath
dripping bough to the
one she’d come to find.

But while in death, her
foe was free, she
could never leave.
From deepest copse
she still rules, Night Queen
of the night wood.

Monochromatic moon rises,
black and white thoughts,
meteoric streaks,
in shades of gray.

A light house beam,
blinding white light,
awakens me,
as creeping darkness recedes.

A blood red glow,
hides its existence,
not seen but felt,
with a rhythmic beat.

Veinous blue pain,
pierces flesh,
penetrating and tearing,
turning me inside out.

The onyx fear,
spear in hand,
begins the chase,
as the forest closes in.