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Cné Dec 2017
~
O Painter
with thy own eye
                        would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
            and blemishes true

Load thy brush
                      with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
                  bethought, in deep

With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
                  and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
               of deep forest green

O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
       and the indigo moon.

Paint me as i standeth,
       prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might

Paint me in the optimistic
                             silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
                              of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal

O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
                            in a rainy drizzle

Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken

Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
         with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon

O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
                               in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
             of a quite quaint butterfly

Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
                to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.

Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******

Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;

Study mine own dry sorrow
                              in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.

O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print

Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too

~
When I paint, I’m never quite satisfied as I see all my mistakes, blemishes and colors not quite right. I tend to keep painting to try and get it all right. At some point, I arrive with the conclusion, if I keep going I’m going to mess it up. I stand across the room and, it’s then that I’m amazed at what I have created. I like to think that I’m seen in the same way by my creator.
I Don't belong here.
In this castle built with lies
stranded at the tallest tower
with nowhere to run
and everywhere to hide

I don't belong here
in this house of plaited gold
looking grand and innocent
the mocking oxymoron, masking
the nightmare that lay behind

I don't belong here
in this forced dream of fancy
in this perfect american family
that choked me into a whisper
complete with silent feet
and empty words

I don't belong here
stuck behind a wooden door
I closed myself
locked from the outside
with bolts of judgement
that my cowardice
won’t allow me to break

I don't belong here

So I lean my back against the gold,
and the stone and the wood
shut my eyes as tight as I could
and fought the instinct of flight
then I wished and wished with all my might
to live in the rose colored cliche
and wake to a golden carriage
with a price knocking at my door
ready to whisk me away
because I don't belong here
I’ve never belonged here
standing in plaited gold.
emma green Jun 2012
“My heart wanders the mossy mess of wet country, reliving a time when youth had charm, hand held hand, letters were written with not a classroom blot in sight, kisses were blushed.. and boys ran home to hide their eagerness.

Life was what it was, merely a game of engendered differences.”

scribbled the poet with his special pen. Leaning against an oak - as proud a tree as he was a man.

There was no need to make excuses for his silence here. Why apologise for watching space fill with swirling prisms across such a wonderfully vast panorama? So many greens in this god-forsaken county. But it was refuge for someone like him, was an escape route to whatever the future held. Anyway, where he was concerned, guilt was neither muse nor amusing, it merely lay a rough stony path ready to trip the careless walker he‘d almost become.

‘Oblivious to life in the real world’, he’d been told at least once a week for far too many years. He laughed, those words would never be uttered again.

“Shadows
of buttery budding green
dripping flavour ‘cross soil,
moaning,
muttering,
life.to.come.
fruitful.”

He shook his head, trying to be rid of thoughts, emotions: ‘I don’t want to think of her. ‘HA, too late! There and then the six o’clock in the morning drew his woman from the shadows of deception. He smiled. In his ragged mind she became .. she became a sapling formed of malleable clay. ‘I want to shape her.. a touch here and here so her ******* flourish with pleasure. Then, I‘ll stroke her right side.hip.thigh. to where the skin is both silk soft and a touch of treble plaited gossamer, that trimmed topiary of woman awaiting her future.

Who knows, in my next life perhaps I’ll be a sculptor and lay claim to the master’s crown. I’ll become lord of much and more.. why not, someone has to!’

“Memories,
hands soft as sugar spun
in quadrants arched quiescent,
harmonic pleasuring,
all.frantic.full.
ripe as berries brown
and fatal flawed.”

Man scratched the pen against vellum, then.. oh then, heard its crickling cry; remembered the rippling of her moan.. the call of his name.. the echo of his weeping into her. Then her - fingers gripping where space permitted.. palms moist and made fluorescent.. back arching.. hair flying.. falling onto each of the four crumpled pillows. Then, then.. becoming a streaming sway of tressed love battling breath. And the smell of wild garlic filled the air

never to ward off his fears, nor outsmart his demons. He was meant to be taken by the sight of a woman both too good and bad for him.

“Feeling night
a creep of nails tip touch
in devil’s bliss
where all men meet a foe,
but headlong thrills
deep.diving.hot.
as hell”

He took his pen and with a mighty shout, ****** a myriad of dark memories into his own heart - his memories, his memories - not hers. She’d laughed when he asked her to stay with him, to be his .. forever. Until that moment the pen had been softly ****** between his full lips but moved to be gentled between index finger and thumb. Her rampaging words struck home. They broke his silence, they hurt.

Whirling and swirling it over her *******, his pen became a weapon. He taunted her skin with a pen ripe with red ink, swore and wept, swore again. His hand fell screaming into her flesh, not once but a dozen frantic times. Finally her breath became a dense gushing cloud which swiftly rose so dark that, within seconds, once pure angels fell to earth looking akin to a chimney sweep’s boys - unregonisable as once human.

“Harvesting
kiss kiss full lips
gleaming at the point of red,
so sharp whilst ..
poppies parchment pollen
trembling.moisted.dark
unloved”

The body was found months later. It had laid until bronze leaves and golden were drifting upon and across what had once been a face, and now discovered by shocked, sickened walkers. When the police arrived, all they found lying near to the man was a pen and dulled pages within a leather binding.

A forensic scientist is still trying to decipher the wording on the vellum, what words he’s found to date are quite beautiful - or so he told his wife in an aside. She shrugged, he’d always been a strange man. Should have married her own kind .. too late now. Marianne looked away, unused to anything remotely like conversation from him. She smiled, turned the mirror to the wall and waited ..



© 2012 Emma Joy
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
TV Jan 2015
I want to lay with you
and let you see my soul,
that it can recognize you as mine.
I want you to hear it
so that you would know it in a darkness.
To taste it, that it would never fully be consumed.
To touch it,
as a million gentle whispers.
To smell it, as to let it become a part of you.
Hannah Apr 2022
I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.
Sara L Russell Sep 2009
I rode the wings of night on rising air
That carried me from Africa's wild shore;
To fields of meadowsweet and maidenhair
To sing of heaven's dome and ocean's floor.

Spring greets my song with hawthorn flower and briar.        
Rewards my voice with nectar-tinted sun;
The thrum of earth's renewal is my lyre
As thaws begin and waters speed to run.

I sing for memories of sultry days
For zebras racing over arid plains.
I sing of England's tepid Summer haze;
Slow-strolling shire horses with plaited manes.

From heaven's heights I sing, for life's divine,
The purest voice, the lightest heart is mine.



--------------------------------------------------------­-----------


NOTES:

Written on 22nd June 2003. I did some research about where the Willow Warbler goes on its "migration holidays" before writing this sonnet.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2009
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.


The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.


Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?



Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Himanshi Jun 2015
Moody mornings
roughly plaited hair
still letting a few tresses
tickle my forehead
and touch my lips
only to make
my smile wider
These eyes see
more than what
the landscape holds
more than what is told
by the deceiving beings
of the deceiving earth.
It’s a beautiful lie
beneath the palpable skies
and the fathomable oceans.
So I’ll just lie
on this beach
in my blue slippers
and let the sand
fill the pores
of my flaxen skin
while the dolphin flipper.
It’s just a matter of time.
I
I greeted you, my inevitable day
In this shaky firmness of my hands;
Assuring me of my weakness; the languidity of my serene constitution.
The sky smeared with fright,undeed, and look, hark to how the sun closed the night!
This was but unpalatable dew, misty in its impatient greyness
Avidity for genuine sorrow and late confessions
The calm heart then wronged, and soon the war touched the light!

II
Beware of love, o silly hearts!
Loving thoughts, are indeed averse to relenting;
albeit they are always leading to smirks and destitution.
Release thy grains from yon grievous chain!
Spark thy wings, heave and bend!
Wear thy glee, ere any of the gruesome tears remain!
Shield thy mask with greater abhorrence!

III
O notions, fruit my doom and feed my sight!
From womanly misery I yet ought to emerge
and all its surly sleeves I ought to blight!

IV
O peace, fetch for me my untaught breath in vain
Keep me steady, ditch me not in the rain!
Tend me more, yet not my cheerful friend-
in pleasures whom thrives, in virtues was whom foolish!
Praising plaited hairs, swept amidst folded skirts.
Gruesome lies they carry, the finest they conspire to marry;
what a horrid, unalterable, evil concoction!
Yet pureness is the only that deserves awe;
virgins are a symbol of unrequited love, but tenderest affection!
However lonesome, hither and thither I shall bear this pain
Until my stern heart melted to love again.
Olivia Kent May 2015
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
Nestor was sitting over his wine, but the cry of battle did not
escape him, and he said to the son of Aesculapius, “What, noble
Machaon, is the meaning of all this? The shouts of men fighting by our
ships grow stronger and stronger; stay here, therefore, and sit over
your wine, while fair Hecamede heats you a bath and washes the clotted
blood from off you. I will go at once to the look-out station and
see what it is all about.”
  As he spoke he took up the shield of his son Thrasymedes that was
lying in his tent, all gleaming with bronze, for Thrasymedes had taken
his father’s shield; he grasped his redoubtable bronze-shod spear, and
as soon as he was outside saw the disastrous rout of the Achaeans who,
now that their wall was overthrown, were flying pell-mell before the
Trojans. As when there is a heavy swell upon the sea, but the waves
are dumb—they keep their eyes on the watch for the quarter whence the
fierce winds may spring upon them, but they stay where they are and
set neither this way nor that, till some particular wind sweeps down
from heaven to determine them—even so did the old man ponder
whether to make for the crowd of Danaans, or go in search of
Agamemnon. In the end he deemed it best to go to the son of Atreus;
but meanwhile the hosts were fighting and killing one another, and the
hard bronze rattled on their bodies, as they ****** at one another
with their swords and spears.
  The wounded kings, the son of Tydeus, Ulysses, and Agamemnon son
of Atreus, fell in Nestor as they were coming up from their ships—for
theirs were drawn up some way from where the fighting was going on,
being on the shore itself inasmuch as they had been beached first,
while the wall had been built behind the hindermost. The stretch of
the shore, wide though it was, did not afford room for all the
ships, and the host was cramped for space, therefore they had placed
the ships in rows one behind the other, and had filled the whole
opening of the bay between the two points that formed it. The kings,
leaning on their spears, were coming out to survey the fight, being in
great anxiety, and when old Nestor met them they were filled with
dismay. Then King Agamemnon said to him, “Nestor son of Neleus, honour
to the Achaean name, why have you left the battle to come hither? I
fear that what dread Hector said will come true, when he vaunted among
the Trojans saying that he would not return to Ilius till he had fired
our ships and killed us; this is what he said, and now it is all
coming true. Alas! others of the Achaeans, like Achilles, are in anger
with me that they refuse to fight by the sterns of our ships.”
  Then Nestor knight of Gerene answered, “It is indeed as you say;
it is all coming true at this moment, and even Jove who thunders
from on high cannot prevent it. Fallen is the wall on which we
relied as an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet. The
Trojans are fighting stubbornly and without ceasing at the ships; look
where you may you cannot see from what quarter the rout of the
Achaeans is coming; they are being killed in a confused mass and the
battle-cry ascends to heaven; let us think, if counsel can be of any
use, what we had better do; but I do not advise our going into
battle ourselves, for a man cannot fight when he is wounded.”
  And King Agamemnon answered, “Nestor, if the Trojans are indeed
fighting at the rear of our ships, and neither the wall nor the trench
has served us—over which the Danaans toiled so hard, and which they
deemed would be an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet—I
see it must be the will of Jove that the Achaeans should perish
ingloriously here, far from Argos. I knew when Jove was willing to
defend us, and I know now that he is raising the Trojans to like
honour with the gods, while us, on the other hand, he bas bound hand
and foot. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let us bring down
the ships that are on the beach and draw them into the water; let us
make them fast to their mooring-stones a little way out, against the
fall of night—if even by night the Trojans will desist from fighting;
we may then draw down the rest of the fleet. There is nothing wrong in
flying ruin even by night. It is better for a man that he should fly
and be saved than be caught and killed.”
  Ulysses looked fiercely at him and said, “Son of Atreus, what are
you talking about? Wretch, you should have commanded some other and
baser army, and not been ruler over us to whom Jove has allotted a
life of hard fighting from youth to old age, till we every one of us
perish. Is it thus that you would quit the city of Troy, to win
which we have suffered so much hardship? Hold your peace, lest some
other of the Achaeans hear you say what no man who knows how to give
good counsel, no king over so great a host as that of the Argives
should ever have let fall from his lips. I despise your judgement
utterly for what you have been saying. Would you, then, have us draw
down our ships into the water while the battle is raging, and thus
play further into the hands of the conquering Trojans? It would be
ruin; the Achaeans will not go on fighting when they see the ships
being drawn into the water, but will cease attacking and keep
turning their eyes towards them; your counsel, therefore, Sir captain,
would be our destruction.”
  Agamemnon answered, “Ulysses, your rebuke has stung me to the heart.
I am not, however, ordering the Achaeans to draw their ships into
the sea whether they will or no. Some one, it may be, old or young,
can offer us better counsel which I shall rejoice to hear.”
  Then said Diomed, “Such an one is at hand; he is not far to seek, if
you will listen to me and not resent my speaking though I am younger
than any of you. I am by lineage son to a noble sire, Tydeus, who lies
buried at Thebes. For Portheus had three noble sons, two of whom,
Agrius and Melas, abode in Pleuron and rocky Calydon. The third was
the knight Oeneus, my father’s father, and he was the most valiant
of them all. Oeeneus remained in his own country, but my father (as
Jove and the other gods ordained it) migrated to Argos. He married
into the family of Adrastus, and his house was one of great abundance,
for he had large estates of rich corn-growing land, with much
orchard ground as well, and he had many sheep; moreover he excelled
all the Argives in the use of the spear. You must yourselves have
heard whether these things are true or no; therefore when I say well
despise not my words as though I were a coward or of ignoble birth.
I say, then, let us go to the fight as we needs must, wounded though
we be. When there, we may keep out of the battle and beyond the
range of the spears lest we get fresh wounds in addition to what we
have already, but we can spur on others, who have been indulging their
spleen and holding aloof from battle hitherto.”
  Thus did he speak; whereon they did even as he had said and set out,
King Agamemnon leading the way.
  Meanwhile Neptune had kept no blind look-out, and came up to them in
the semblance of an old man. He took Agamemnon’s right hand in his own
and said, “Son of Atreus, I take it Achilles is glad now that he
sees the Achaeans routed and slain, for he is utterly without remorse-
may he come to a bad end and heaven confound him. As for yourself, the
blessed gods are not yet so bitterly angry with you but that the
princes and counsellors of the Trojans shall again raise the dust upon
the plain, and you shall see them flying from the ships and tents
towards their city.”
  With this he raised a mighty cry of battle, and sped forward to
the plain. The voice that came from his deep chest was as that of nine
or ten thousand men when they are shouting in the thick of a fight,
and it put fresh courage into the hearts of the Achaeans to wage war
and do battle without ceasing.
  Juno of the golden throne looked down as she stood upon a peak of
Olympus and her heart was gladdened at the sight of him who was at
once her brother and her brother-in-law, hurrying hither and thither
amid the fighting. Then she turned her eyes to Jove as he sat on the
topmost crests of many-fountained Ida, and loathed him. She set
herself to think how she might hoodwink him, and in the end she deemed
that it would be best for her to go to Ida and array herself in rich
attire, in the hope that Jove might become enamoured of her, and
wish to embrace her. While he was thus engaged a sweet and careless
sleep might be made to steal over his eyes and senses.
  She went, therefore, to the room which her son Vulcan had made
her, and the doors of which he had cunningly fastened by means of a
secret key so that no other god could open them. Here she entered
and closed the doors behind her. She cleansed all the dirt from her
fair body with ambrosia, then she anointed herself with olive oil,
ambrosial, very soft, and scented specially for herself—if it were so
much as shaken in the bronze-floored house of Jove, the scent pervaded
the universe of heaven and earth. With this she anointed her
delicate skin, and then she plaited the fair ambrosial locks that
flowed in a stream of golden tresses from her immortal head. She put
on the wondrous robe which Minerva had worked for her with
consummate art, and had embroidered with manifold devices; she
fastened it about her ***** with golden clasps, and she girded herself
with a girdle that had a hundred tassels: then she fastened her
earrings, three brilliant pendants that glistened most beautifully,
through the pierced lobes of her ears, and threw a lovely new veil
over her head. She bound her sandals on to her feet, and when she
had arrayed herself perfectly to her satisfaction, she left her room
and called Venus to come aside and speak to her. “My dear child,” said
she, “will you do what I am going to ask of you, or will refuse me
because you are angry at my being on the Danaan side, while you are on
the Trojan?”
  Jove’s daughter Venus answered, “Juno, august queen of goddesses,
daughter of mighty Saturn, say what you want, and I will do it for
at once, if I can, and if it can be done at all.”
  Then Juno told her a lying tale and said, “I want you to endow me
with some of those fascinating charms, the spells of which bring all
things mortal and immortal to your feet. I am going to the world’s end
to visit Oceanus (from whom all we gods proceed) and mother Tethys:
they received me in their house, took care of me, and brought me up,
having taken me over from Rhaea when Jove imprisoned great Saturn in
the depths that are under earth and sea. I must go and see them that I
may make peace between them; they have been quarrelling, and are so
angry that they have not slept with one another this long while; if
I can bring them round and restore them to one another’s embraces,
they will be grateful to me and love me for ever afterwards.”
  Thereon laughter-loving Venus said, “I cannot and must not refuse
you, for you sleep in the arms of Jove who is our king.”
  As she spoke she loosed from her ***** the curiously embroidered
girdle into which all her charms had been wrought—love, desire, and
that sweet flattery which steals the judgement even of the most
prudent. She gave the girdle to Juno and said, “Take this girdle
wherein all my charms reside and lay it in your *****. If you will
wear it I promise you that your errand, be it what it may, will not be
bootless.”
  When she heard this Juno smiled, and still smiling she laid the
girdle in her *****.
  Venus now went back into the house of Jove, while Juno darted down
from the summits of Olympus. She passed over Pieria and fair
Emathia, and went on and on till she came to the snowy ranges of the
Thracian horsemen, over whose topmost crests she sped without ever
setting foot to ground. When she came to Athos she went on over the,
waves of the sea till she reached Lemnos, the city of noble Thoas.
There she met Sleep, own brother to Death, and caught him by the hand,
saying, “Sleep, you who lord it alike over mortals and immortals, if
you ever did me a service in times past, do one for me now, and I
shall be grateful to you ever after. Close Jove’s keen eyes for me
in slumber while I hold him clasped in my embrace, and I will give you
a beautiful golden seat, that can never fall to pieces; my
clubfooted son Vulcan shall make it for you, and he shall give it a
footstool for you to rest your fair feet upon when you are at table.”
  Then Sleep answered, “Juno, great queen of goddesses, daughter of
mighty Saturn, I would lull any other of the gods to sleep without
compunction, not even excepting the waters of Oceanus from whom all of
them proceed, but I dare not go near Jove, nor send him to sleep
unless he bids me. I have had one lesson already through doing what
you asked me, on the day when Jove’s mighty son Hercules set sail from
Ilius after having sacked the city of the Trojans. At your bidding I
suffused my sweet self over the mind of aegis-bearing Jove, and laid
him to rest; meanwhile you hatched a plot against Hercules, and set
the blasts of the angry winds beating upon the sea, till you took
him to the goodly city of Cos away from all his friends. Jove was
furious when he awoke, and began hurling the gods about all over the
house; he was looking more particularly for myself, and would have
flung me down through space into the sea where I should never have
been heard of any more, had not Night who cows both men and gods
protected me. I fled to her and Jove left off looking for me in
spite of his being so angry, for he did not dare do anything to
displease Night. And now you are again asking me to do something on
which I cannot venture.”
  And Juno said, “Sleep, why do you take such notions as those into
your head? Do you think Jove will be as anxious to help the Trojans,
as he was about his own son? Come, I will marry you to one of the
youngest of the Graces, and she shall be your own—Pasithea, whom
you have always wanted to marry.”
  Sleep was pleased when he heard this, and answered, “Then swear it
to me by the dread waters of the river Styx; lay one hand on the
bounteous earth, and the other on the sheen of the sea, so that all
the gods who dwell down below with Saturn may be our witnesses, and
see that you really do give me one of the youngest of the Graces-
Pasithea, whom I have always wanted to marry.”
  Juno did as he had said. She swore, and invoked all the gods of
the nether world, who are called Titans, to witness. When she had
completed her oath, the two enshrouded themselves in a thick mist
and sped lightly forward, leaving Lemnos and Imbrus behind them.
Presently they reached many-fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, and
Lectum where they left the sea to go on by land, and the tops of the
trees of the forest soughed under the going of their feet. Here
Sleep halted, and ere Jove caught sight of him he climbed a lofty
pine-tree—the tallest that reared its head towards heaven on all Ida.
He hid himself behind the branches and sat there in the semblance of
the sweet-singing bird that haunts the mountains and is called Chalcis
by the gods, but men call it Cymindis. Juno then went to Gargarus, the
topmost peak of Ida, and Jove, driver of the clouds, set eyes upon
her. As soon as he did so he became inflamed with the same
passionate desire for her that he had felt when they had first enjoyed
each other’s embraces, and slept with one another without their dear
parents knowing anything about it. He went up to her and said, “What
do you want that you have come hither from Olympus—and that too
with neither chariot nor horses to convey you?”
  Then Juno told him a lying tale and said, “I am going to the world’s
end, to visit Oceanus, from whom all we gods proceed, and mother
Tethys; they received me into their house, took care of me, and
brought me up. I must go and see them that I may make peace between
them: they have been quarrelling, and are so angry that they have
not slept with one another this long time. The horses that will take
me over land and sea are stationed on the lowermost spurs of
many-fountained Ida, and I have come here from Olympus on purpose to
consult you
Ellie Oct 2012
Alyra, remember that day?
That day at the park?
You were three, and I was eleven.
We went to the park with Daddy, Mummy, Molly, Arielle, Ella, Erin, and Pete.

Remember? You played on the playground with Ella and Arielle.
While Erin was teaching me to play basketball.
It was around August, so not too hot.
After we ate lunch, the big kids played touch footy while you went to the sandpit.

At the end is the day, when everyone was talking, you presented me with a big bunch of dandelions.
I told you and the girls to collect some more and I'll make jewelry with them?
You would take off that silly neckless for hours until it broke.
Then, I plaited  flowers through your hair. You looked even more beautiful then you already are.

Just before sunset we danced and danced and danced.
That was the day you taught me 'Doggy Doggy'.
We watched the sunset - all of us.
You were sitting on my lap telling me about your day at kindy the day before.

Alyra, baby girl, try and remember.
Because one day, you won't be a baby girl anymore.
You'll just have memories.
That is why I hang on to them so hard. Because I never want to forget. And I never will. Not when it comes to you.
I was just reminiscing. And thought that I should tell Alyra about this one day.
Purity Kimani Feb 2015
When the night is cold

And the bed too big

I will take a moment

And recall...

Of your warm breath

And imagine how perfectly

The bed felt complete and warm.



When I walk down the street,

Wearing my favorite plaited dress

Or even my favorite cologne

I will recall...

How it felt to hold hands

Walk side to side

Laughing and smiling.



When I watch a movie

Curled up in my couch

I will recall...

How we did it together

Cuddled up like two kids

How i loved it!



When in pain

In need of a friend

I will recall...

How soft your shoulders were

How soothing your deep voice was

How easily you kissed my pain away.



When I take a walk

To enjoy the serenity of nature

I will recall....

Of the places we loved

The scenes we loved

And the things we did together.



And today, I heard our favorite song

Played it over and over

And I recalled...

How much we jumped and danced

To a million tunes

Your body close to mine

Our hearts entwined.



Then truth dawned on me

Now they are just memories

For fate has drawn us apart

And maybe,

That’s all they will remain to be

Memories in my mind.


(November 29, 2012 at 4:18pm)
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2013
The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

by Seamus Heaney
Ben Jones May 2013
It began, as these things often do
With darkened skies and all around
The night had paused to draw a breath
And through the streets rebounded sound
A slow and steady fall of foot
I stepped the cobbles free of care
My eyes were drinking vivid light
A fragrance tangled on the air

My purpose set
My heart a grim quartet

The door was mere scenery
A sight to see but not recall
The passing gaze is pushed away
And sees there, just another wall
No movement could I hear within
My knuckles whitened on the knock
Relief recoiled hastily
A scratching from the rusted lock

My fingers clenched
Anxiety deeply entrenched

The woodwork inched a little back
A brow bedecked in withered hair
A pupil sharp as autumn frost
Surveyed me with a butchers glare
Her voice, a blade across my mind
Invited me to step inside
A shiver shook my frozen bones
My feet took up a timid stride

Her tone shallow
Her skin like warm tallow

Within was soaked in tepid gloom
In candle light the shadows danced
The flames grew quick and paranoid
And leaned away as I advanced
Behind me scurried shut the door
And down my spine, an angel tear
A leather chair of ages past
Held consort with my falling rear

She sat near
And whispered in my ear

With lizards hiss and jagged tone
In fragrances of smoke and gin
She sprinkled such a parable
That tingles bounced across my skin
My mission lay ahead of me
But caution of a reckless choice
A curse that fed on failure
And menace edged her ebon voice

Salvation awaited
But hope swiftly abated

Away into the night I strode
My razor wits with terror blunt
I packed a satchel prudently
For sustenance about the hunt
A dagger dangled on my hip
A bow and quiver on my back
Its bowstring plaited spider web
Was ever strong and never slack

Horizon bound
I broke the ****** ground

My quarry was a worthy foe
And many days I tracked until
By moonlight on a starless night
I caught a glimpse and stopping still
A sight I've struggled to forget
My bounty and my nemesis
Was bounding past me heedlessly
As fear wrought paralysis

Eyes like death
****** hung on its breath

It stood a daunting seven foot
With talons jutting from its hands
A mass of quills and tentacles
With extra spleens and mucus glands
A mouth with room for seven men
And teeth the size of ironing boards
A single but enormous eye
With lashes like a row of swords

My face paled
My bladder faultered and soon failed

I faced my prey and crossed my legs
My stricken blood had turned froth
I ****** myself in abject fear
But stopped just short of touching cloth
I turned about and ran away
While screaming out profanity
And crying like a baby
And adopting Christianity

Pleading with fate
My pride a sorry state

I fled the county swiftly
Finding shelter inside a cave
My punishment for failure
Would see me to my grave
And so I existed in exile
Eating only what I caught
In time the wind grew colder
And the days were ever short

Winter grips
The solar zenith slips

I huddle to this very day
Amid the gloom with frozen breath
And keeping warm is paramount
For stretching life, postponing death
Though purely for survival
While I weather every storm
I've taken to bumming weasels
As a means of keeping warm

Blunt trauma
Weasel skin *****-warmer
Terry Collett Apr 2015
Yes Helen muses Id like to meet Benny by the Duke of Wellington but to ask Mum first and I dont think shell mind as its Benny as she likes Benny and his mum and mine know each other and talk to each other at the school gates and when they talk they talk and yes if I ask Mum nicely and when shes not busy shell let me go but I cant leave it too long or the time will go and he will have gone if Im not at the Duke of Wellington by ten past ten this morning has as he is going to the herbalist shop to buy liquorice sticks and sarsaparilla by the glassful and Benny says it makes blood so if I drink a pint I will make a pint of blood and hopefully I wont spillover with blood she waits a few minutes while her mother puts away the shopping Helen had bought home from Baldys and looking at her mother making sure her mothers features did not show too much stress and timing it right that was the key Benny told her once timing is the key he said her mother walks around the kitchen seemingly busy the baby crawling around her mothers feet and the smell of nappies boiling on the stove steam rising smell of it Mum she asks can I go out with Benny to the herbalist shop and buy some liquorice sticks and sarsaparilla? her mother picks up the baby she hugs him close smells his rear end pulls a face what did you say? her mother asks holding baby a little distance away from her arms out stretched walking to the put-down table over the bath and placing baby down can I go with Benny to the herbalist shop and get some sarsaparilla and liquorice sticks? Helen repeats standing with fingers crossed behind her back when are you wanting to go? her mother asks unpinning babys ***** and the smell erupting into the room and air as soon as I am allowed Helen says trying not to breath in hoping her mother will say yes but her mother hesitates her features ******* up her fingers pulling back the offending ***** and dropping it in a pail at her feet bring me a clean ***** from the other room Helen and some talcum power and some cream and best get some other safety pins as these are a bit well not fit to put on again until theyve been washed o keep still you little perisher dont move your legs so and no dont piddle on me go on then Helen dont dawdle so Helen walks into the other room and collects a ***** from the fireguard and talcum powder and cream and pins from the bag by the chair and takes them to her mother who is struggling to hold the baby in one place and clean up the smelling liquid and mess  and waving a hand in front of her face to give her fresher air give them here then girl I cant wait all day and here hold his legs the little figit so I can get him clean properly Helen pulls a face and carefully reaches over to try and hold her brothers legs still while her mother attempts to clean him up but her brothers legs move at a pace and hes quite strong for one so small she thinks hold him hold him her mother says Helen does her best for a little girl not yet in double figures there done it her mother says hes done now right take him and put him in the cot in the other room while I wash these nappies out can I? Helen asks can I go? go where? what do you want now? her mother says to go to the herbalist with Benny Helen asks he asked me this morning while I was getting the shopping at Baldys her mother put on the kettle and empties the nappies in the big sink when did you want to go? as soon as I am allowed Helen says gazing at her mother through her thin wired thick lens glasses hoping her mum will say yes off you go well you cant always rush off you know not when I may need you after all youre my big girl the oldest of the tribe but as youve been good this one time you can go but mind the roads and keep with Benny and if you need to go to loo make sure its a clean place and put some toilet paper on the seat you dont know who sits on them things ok I will Helen says trying to recall all her mothers instructions can I go now? she asks hoping her mother will not change her mind at the last minute best go now then her mother says its nine fifty nine fifty? Helen says what's that mean? ten minutes to ten her mother says o right Helen says and rushes into the passage way and put on your raincoat it looks like rain her mother calls out I got it Helens says and rushes out the door and down the stairs carefully not wanting fall down the steep steps she holds on to the stair rail and then out into the street and bright fresh air and dull clouds and she walks along Rockingham Street under the railway bridge and there he is Benny hands in his jeans pockets his hair and quiff creamed down and his hazel eyes gazing at her blimey he says youre earlier than I thought youd be he takes in her hair plaited into two and her thin wire framed glasses making her eyes larger than they are had to help Mum with my baby brother she says hed messed his ***** and Mum had to clean him up and needed me to help and gosh the smell Benny enough to make you feel sick and anyway Im here now o but I havent money I forgot to ask Mum for money she says biting a lip looking back towards where shed come I got money Benny says rattling coins in his jeans pocket she smiles and looks at him he gives her the kind of smile she likes the kind that makes her feel safe and wanted and she loves the coat he wears with the odd buttons and and his quiff of air and his warm what shall we do now stare.
A GIRL AND HER MOTHER AND A BOY AND MEETING IN LONDON IN 1955.
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
    And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
    And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
    Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
    Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
    Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
    She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
    No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
    Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
    She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
    She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
    She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
    She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
    And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
    A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
    She died full long agone!
WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.
Valsa George Feb 2017
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed

Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.

The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through

A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out

There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.

Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.

How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.

In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.

Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
This is one of my earliest poems...... ! Recently I have been attending a couple of funerals at a stretch.... of those who died rather young. Only one was ripe enough (89) . Two others were pretty young... died of cancer in whom cancer was detected only at the fourth stage ! This close encounter with death made me brood over the transitory nature of worldly existence!
The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing


It was in San Fran,
a destination chosen for
its variety of vicarious distractions,
romance was in the ebb stage
of ebb & flow, and there was
a sufficiency of distraction there,
that my mind
could be there,
in actuality,
in the present,
in the moment,
accounted for,
and the cancer of
rooted sadness,
that wastrel feeling,
was temporal boxed,
in my traveling attic.

On a cable car,
of which
the hills, insisted,
when the
lactic acid, persisted,
be re~viewed as an actual
conveyance methodology.

A-man got on,
sitting
near enough, but not
invasively too near,
and began a
study of me;
perhaps an exercise
in memorization
for a sculpture or a painting,
that would be shown,
in a gallery quaint,
nearby in Benicia,
and destined to be
displayed (dis~splayed?)
near a picture window in a
big old home overlooking
the North Bay, as the
She~Muse mused amusedly.

Or it was just another
inspection by “a man,”
common enough that
it was noticed and noted,
but attended to with a
practiced nonchalance,
which is a French word,
meaning nonchalance.

Ah! descending near the Wharf,
He~too, as he was now labeled,
stored and forgettably tabled,
He~too descended as well.

A meandering into familiarity,
of ancient memories of smells,
of clam chowder,
gulls and sea lions
the inhabitants of Pier 39,
all traced my face with
a grimacing smile,
for sometimes one lives
in a state of duality.

But a voice from behind,
gently inquired if permission
was grantable to recite a poem,
yes, directed to me,
yes, from He~too,
who, awkwardly shifted
his stance from side to side,
as if performing a
pantomime dance routine,
while waiting for
my pithy or pissy,
but always well considered
R.S.V.P.,
which is four french words(!),
meaning, “sure, why not, try me”).

Alas this Techi-he
as he was subsequently
re and de-nominated,
recited a variant of
roses are red etc,,
but concluded with
“your pleated skirt.”

(Roses are red, violets are blue,
when I observed your pleated skirt,
my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT!
let this woman ever escape your purview)

Now this navy medium wooly weight
(always chilled in SF)
somewhat too short skirt,
was a hand-me-down
from my mother (mom!)
who in a prior decade,
dressed like everybody else,
but with a panache,
(yes, a French word meaning panache)
that declaimed and declared,
“I do it my way”
and was in truth,
a fav of mine when
accented with dark tights
and preppy but comfortable
matching navy penny loafers
(mais non! pas de béret ridicule).

By now, you know, I know,
how to deal with men, whose
onslaughts are like the beaches
of Normandy, littered with death &
destruction from my hot herbal tea,
heated by rapid fire of my
machine gun fire,
my bullets of verbosity
from an old, original ***,
used by my grandfather.

But this reference to my pleated skirt,
flattering me when accompanied
with a beautiful French blouse,
sunglasses, and my heart and hair
openly parted down the middle
in a nod
to Haight~Ashbury
hippie history,
was off kilter,
or as Techi-he would later
joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt),
and taken prisoner, a POW, which
under the rules of the Geneva Convention,
would be guaranteed all the necessities
of a good loving.

We are California Commuters,
me in LA, he in SF,
an unlikely combination,
he and me,
of milieux, personality,
yet not dissimilar:
harmonized when
he writes code snippets
on diner napkins, and
I,
snippets of poems
on diner napkins,,
he clears my laptop’s cache,
I clear his heart and vision,
a blending of

vive la différence!


and we see each other often,
as in as often as we can,
we vacation in the South,
of France, where he learns
of Impressionism, and a
different sea coastal ocean
environment.

I, learn from him,
his remarkable human fondue,
of intensity and concentration,
which melts into gentility and
a softness natural that steals my
heart, accompanied by the ridiculous
rhymes he passes me beneath the table,
notes toujours,
always perfect
for that moment,
like my pleated skirt

*(which now resides in his closet,
lest
its magic work again, thus,
kept safe by him, in a wardrobe,
to which he has locked and keyed,
and is worn upon request, my bequest,
it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined,
a wearable honoring
our commencement,
our commitment,
our pleated,
plaited hearts.)
'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,
Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

  I, too, amid the overflow of day,
Behold the power which wields and cherishes
The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock
That overlooks the Hudson's western marge,
I gaze upon the long array of groves,
The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in
The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;
Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays
Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,
The swelling river, into his green gulfs,
Unshadowed save by passing sails above,
Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys
The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,
That would not open in the early light,
Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet's pool,
That darkly quivered all the morning long
In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun;
And o'er its surface shoots, and shoots again,
The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within
Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

  A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,
Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within
His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
Now the grey marmot, with uplifted paws,
No more sits listening by his den, but steals
Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,
And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while
A ceaseless murmur from the populous town
Swells o'er these solitudes: a mingled sound
Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash
Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang,
And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,
And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,
Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.
Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings
No pause to toil and care. With early day
Began the tumult, and shall only cease
When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds
Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

  Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain
And luxury possess the hearts of men,
Thus is it with the noon of human life.
We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care,
Plan, toil, and strife, and pause not to refresh
Our spirits with the calm and beautiful
Of God's harmonious universe, that won
Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire
Why we are here; and what the reverence
Man owes to man, and what the mystery
That links us to the greater world, beside
Whose borders we but hover for a space.
There was a maiden named Lucy
Her face pretty her body healthy
She had a boyfriend named Damien
He'd strong muscles and dainty skin

She was a poet he was a student
She was robust he was diligent
She loved to write stories he adored
She was so glad he never got bored

One day he woke from his repose
Out he wandered to buy a rose
It was his mother's grand birthday
His face lighted as he made his way

He found a strange ******* the streets
He walked forth but she came to greet
She had lost her bag and wallet
While passing by the old garret

She looked dizzy and fairly drowsy
Reminded him of girlfriend Lucy
On he went to help find her bag
Until the sun flew from the shack

Full of sweat did Damien retire
From his errand beside the fire
In a mansion that's the lady's
Forgotten was the day's duties

Wait and wait did Lucy for him
In her gown she looked splendid slim
Expecting Damien was she now
Cheeks like a doll in a stage show

Asleep was her love in the chair
Tired from the day and the whole affair
The fair lady resting on the stairs
With glowing red eyes and golden hair

He had not known that blood was wanted
In this mansion which was haunted
He'd been deceived and awesomely fooled
The lady woke and laughed and growled

Kneeling by him she showed her fangs
Sharp and bitter like the dark winter
Out as the moon began to hang
She drank his blood and made him like her

The morning came gray and dreary
With chills that sent everyone sickly
Young Lucy wept cried on her bed
For trusting the dull vow they'd made

She retained her blanket in vain
'Oh 'tis so cold', she thought in pain
Just closed her eyes when there's a knock
Hurry did she to wear her frock

Thirst did he feel when he woke up
A sultry heat from his long nap
Jump did he from his cozy seat
Full of raw fear of what it did!

Startled was he as his teeth moved!
What are these things that have been mute?
Out he fled to find a mirror
The people instantly screamed in terror!

He was astounded by his speed
And how rapid he could now flit!
Out he burst into gay laughter
As he start'd to think this over!

The lady 'peared in front of him
Satisfied yet her smirk looked grim
'Art thou glad?', she turned to question
He nodded in shy admiration

A mirror was in her pocket
Out she tore it to his eyes red
He shrieked in loud astonishment
His tone but full of excitement

'Thou'rt a vampire now,' she explained
'Fill your thirst don't ever let it drain'
'Human blood shall be your favour'
'You can't deny its sweet flavour!'

'I'm not a monster!' Damien whined
Can I instead drink just some wine?
'Fate is not to be abolished,
Fate is just to be accomplished!'

'We are so blessed,' said the lady
'For endless days of immortality,
For real power and true beauty,
We are praised more than the Almighty!'

Poor Damien could just cry and wail
But by thirst his firmness began to fail
Still he wanted to find Lucy
Putting black glasses he turned away and flee

Arrived he at her little hut
In one swift step but it was still shut
He knocked on the door and waited
The maiden came with her hair plaited

She shrieked as he pulled his glasses
The soul of sins the eyes of darkness
Pushed him away she slammed the door
Fire and rage rang took him inside his core

Flash of madness groans and outcries
Tears were welling in poor Lucy's eyes
Tears that to him were shadows of blood
Quickened the pace of his unheart

He sniffed nature he sniffed the flesh
Hidden behind all the tears afresh
With one small leap he's in the house
Where Lucy screamed like a tortured mouse!

In one second he's before her
The smell stronger as he went closer
He was blinded and could not desist
By a mad thirst no-one could resist!

And did he weep and deeply shrieked
Cursing himself as a ****** freak
As his thirst filled his lover dead
He was sullied he went home all mad

On his way back he saw a river
With a huge mass of black hot water
He recalled a tale of a group of vampires
Living in peace in a rustic empire

But they died of the heat of the sun
Whilst the river was brimming with swans
Unthinkingly he splashed downwards
Ditching himself into those boiling shards!

Failed but he had to **** Lucy!
She woke but in great beauty!
Adoring herself in the closest mirror
Pulled outdoors just to face horror

A young man found dead in the lake!
His chest stabbed by a wooden stake!
Away then she ran from the scene,
nearly fainted at what she'd seen.

Wept and wept she in agony,
could not believe in her misery!
What was then the use of the Almighty,
of it was but of lies and cruelty?

Lift herself up o then she did,
tired as she was of her idle feet!
Moving about 'till the hunger came,
when no more care she had for shame!

No regret did she find to have,
until no more blood for her left;
in her hands were a child's remains,
whose mother her very best friend!

The blood rose herself to full speed,
and raised her newer sense of greed!
She growled and gnarled and looked around;
her face was pale, her eyes were round.

Her nails grew sharper instantly!
Her lips bloomed and her cheeks rosy!
Thrice a day she hunted gaily,
'till a small lad saw her mutiny!

She had him and felt triumphant,
but she needed to run away!
Unseen hath she been since that sad day,
though the knights'd searched from December to May!

Tales foretell she's somewhere unknown
Hiding amongst bushes and their tall thorns
For men still disappear and get lost
At midnights and in winter frosts

A hidden question it is indeed
Finding her is but a must need
While the moon is blunt bristly and grey
and when the thin dusk starts to decay.
st64 Nov 2013
welcome to light-city
where a dead-****** is on the back of a golden goose
head thrown back in rigor-mortis, days old

1.
the plaza is on fire
one man walks out his delirium into a derelict-town
with so many glittering-lights on
an unhealthy-sheen to his face.. some melted skin
   he seeks the looted-gold the long-plaited one assured was his
   he can't hear the dark-whispers right behind him
   his shoulder-blade itches with a fury no typical-scratch can relieve
nor can he sense the violent-energy half-crackling in the air
hovering in the wings of that dry-wind.. in sullen hiss-spits


2.
elsewhere, many give thanks on the prairie
where daffodils fly free in love
            a motorcade of bikers with a moon's view
            bespectacled-waiter can ask for help
            one child holds in hand.. so many open-answers that adults just fail to see
and dreamers dream *the same dream

in a broken, incredulous world
(you can't hide away in your dreams
   they over-foam your running-legs)

                                      yes.. scamper..!
beware those pretty-wigs who tug at firm-minds
                                              who force you to skirt the true-issue
you plain-refuse to see what you're tripping over
in case it resembles that.. stuff inside


3.
there's a hue of bright-orange in the distance and you can't deny it
it is there
      you can't see it yet
      but you can smell it
within an arc of heightened-paranoia
it has started burning inside the back of your afrighted-eyes
drying out any recollection of estranged-promise
             in a hopeless land of artifice
be not perturbed by fumes which rise in choking-plumes
the workmanship of assiduous imps, dutifully-bound
beset to task all goodness and beleaguer any hope
that only the blind-man can feel in bones-vibrated


(bring forth your legs
tarry not
sing with fully) heartened to glory of light
there be a breaking in the pattern
not everybody made it
so less power to the battle


                                                        ­               the circle is not done..




static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. static.. static.. // static.. stat.stat.stat....... //




with a half-smile of patience (she says) -
within your dream.. I'm there
I call you forth
into real-light

here..




S T - 30 nov 13
close your eyes and see the beautiful fields
nature's harmony.... lift, lift, lift the heart


:)





sub-exit: party and privy


disabler of dreams
poor relenter of schemes
mauled by media
coated by propaganda

where princesses hunted like wild-animals
and chased by sleek-foreigners into tunnels
like frightened rabbits
who never come out the other side
who's really behind it all?

where daughters of pop-kings
in ostensible suicide-attempts
left alone.. afraid to speak

where rebels with just-cause
feel final December-folly
leave sons and widows

there be those party and privy
(to inside-stuff so scary)
but less said...

save your salt for mountain-goats
and for sweet-soil sanctity
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
We dropped by
in the VW bug
along the Malibu coast
for just one evening.

She wore green satin
and pukas,
had her dreads plaited neatly
& she lit candles
under the smiling moon.

We burned nag long
into the wee hours
& in the morning
we were gone
like her,
as beautiful as the surf.
Strike the bells wantonly,
  ****** ****** well;
Bring me wine, bring me flowers,
  Ring the silver bell.
All my lamps burn scented oil,
  Hung on laden orange-trees,
Whose shadowed foliage is the foil
  To golden lamps and oranges.
Heap my golden plates with fruit,
  Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;
  Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;
Shut out showers from summer hours;
Silence that complaining lute;
  Shut out thinking, shut out pain,
  From hours that cannot come again.

Strike the bells solemnly,
  Ding **** deep:
My friend is passing to his bed,
  Fast asleep;
There's plaited linen round his head,
  While foremost go his feet,--
His feet that cannot carry him.
My feast's a show, my lights are dim;
  Be still, your music is not sweet,--
There is no music more for him:
  His lights are out, his feast is done;
His bowl that sparkled to the brim
Is drained, is broken, cannot hold;
My blood is chill, his blood is cold;
  His death is full, and mine begun.
The summer day is closed--the sun is set:
Well they have done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red West. The green blade of the ground
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil,
From bursting cells, and in their graves await
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still for ever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with barky walls,
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out
And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends
That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Had wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day
Is added now to Childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet Age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean,
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit,
By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes
Of her sick infant shades the painful light,
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.

  Oh thou great Movement of the Universe,
Or Change, or Flight of Time--for ye are one!
That bearest, silently, this visible scene
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on,
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour
He knows when they shall darken or grow bright;
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men--
Which who can bear?--or the fierce rack of pain,
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,
Into the stilly twilight of my age?
Or do the portals of another life
Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne,
In the vast cycle of being which begins
At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe
Its workings? Gently--so have good men taught--
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide
Into the new; the eternal flow of things,
Like a bright river of the fields of heaven,
Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2011
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.

Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.


A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.

The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.


Time in that better age...was a friend.  
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.

This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.

For however many lifetimes we may live in...

We shall be one.

Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Terry Collett Apr 2013
The sun shone bright
on the Saturday afternoon
as Helen put her doll
Battered Betty

on the bombsite rubble
off Arch Street
near the coal wharf
and sat down beside you

(crossed legged)
peering
at the bombed out ruin
of a nearby house

wonder what it felt like
being bombed?
she said
I mean

one minute
you’re trying to get
the kids to sleep
next minute

a ruddy great bomb
blasts you all
to Kingdom Come
you offered her

a sweet candy cigarette
from a blue and yellow packet
don’t know
you said

but my mum said
that when she was home
with my gran
during one bombing raid

they hid under
the kitchen table
with her baby niece Carol
Helen sat opened mouthed

her hand holding
the hand
of her battered doll
anyway

you went on
my mum’s stepfather
( her dad having died
from TB in 1936)

was under there too
but my mum said
he had his backside
sticking out

from under the table
as if
that was unbombable
Helen laughed

and so did you
bet it was horrible
to be bombed
she said

but I would have hated
being evacuated
from my mum
even for a day

she ******
on the sweet cigarette
held between *******
and stared

at the ruin
with half a roof
and two walls standing
revealing wallpaper

on the inside
of one wall
my gran said
you continued

an old couple
next to them
on hearing
the air raid siren

began to run
toward the bomb shelter
in the garden
when the old lady stopped

and the old man said
what you looking for?
my teeth she said
and he said

they’re dropping
ruddy bombs
not mince pies
Helen spluttered

into laughter
almost on choking
on the sweet cigarette
don’t

she said
I near wet myself then
and she clutched her doll
to her chest

patting its back
there there Betty
she said
it’s only a story

and you looked
at her small hand
tapping the doll’s back
the fingers tight together

love in each tap
a good mother
she’d make
you thought

with schoolboy love
looking at her profile
the thick lens
spectacles

the plaited hair
and her small hand
going tap tap
on the back

of the battered doll
in her flower skirted lap.
Lora Lee May 2016
Like magic,
it happens
in a snap
of the fingers
on the crossbow
of time
Like the sparkling arc
of destiny
on my tongue's
plaited river rhyme
like the journey
of the arrow
as it hits
its destined mark
like the lit-up flight
of the sparrow
despite
encroaching dark
like the wisp of a
flash of the jump
of the whale
in a deep blue sea
like my heart
upon airwaves
as your aura
sets me free
and within the holes
of the molecules
that reside in
the soul's abyss
my gentle eye lens
captures your
rolling tidal kiss
in sudden turn of storm
in unexpected rains
I find myself
in heaven's realm,
slicing through
my chains
I stand here wind-whipped
on mountain top
and range
and to you I beckon
in ferocious blooms
releasing all my rage
and slowly, unraveling
my layers
I burst forth
from my
cage
Now on soundcloud:
https://soundcloud.com/musichick-1/sounds-from-saturday-morning

Oh so beautiful and inspiring:
Kesa by Rescue
Veronika May 2018
Sweet and salted
Like you wanted
We watch in silence
We aren’t holding hands
You shiver lightly
Move right beside me
I feel your body heat
My heart skipped a beat

Your hand feeds
me metal
Your hand like a petal
I say I’m not hungry
You say it’s for your own good honey
You plaited my hair
I cut it like I wanted
You say I’m ruined
I feel you’re intruding
You throw the china
I feel it still

Popping candy
Medicine moonlight
I’m wearing white lies
Doll faces with red smiles
Lucy Ryan Aug 2015
were you born drinking the sky
like the oceans split at your toes
when the gulls called morning?

with sleep-sunk eyes
trapped between fingers
to watch the moon bleed through

a starburst on your jawbone
cut from kissing lightning
and threading daisies through park swings

did you sleep on the soft sands
seaweed plaited through your hair
when the water called you home?

we raised you on thunderstorms
and you brought us summer rain
Sarah Ann Brown Sep 2012
You were too long for the cot, the very first time I met you, I met your toes,
They were cute, and pink, and you had no idea how far you could go
So many steps, and so many years, they carried you so quickly
Your nose was so small, and I couldn't quite comprehend
How you could smell anything at all?
I stole it, I wiped it, you wrinkled it, and you cried on it
Had I known then, how hurried time would go
I'd remember much more, than your cute, tiny, pink toes
She came along so soon, you hadn't even spoke your name
And before a year had passed, ten toes, became twenty

You were too small for your hair, curled round your face like a mop
It was dark, and grew round your ears, way beyond your years, but
You grew into your hair, faster than I anticipated, and I couldn't quite comprehend,
How it had grown there at all?
I brushed it, I plaited it, you undone it, and you matted it
Had I known then, how hurried time would fly
I'd remember much more, than your hair brushed to one side
You both grew so fast, and I barely even noticed
While I was there you looked the same, then I came away
And, Oh, how things changed.
Terry Collett Apr 2012
After school
Helen’s mother took you home to tea
and she was wheeling

the big pram along the pavement
with you on one side
and Helen on the other

and she said
hold onto the pram
while we cross the roads

I don’t want anything
to happen to you
and as you crossed

the busy roads
you kept glancing over
at Helen with her plaited hair

parted in the middle
and her thin wired glasses
and her raincoat

buttoned tight
against the wind
and her small hand

clutching the pram handle tightly
and beside you
Helen’s mother

short and stocky
pushing and puffing
and her eyes dark as night

and kind at the same time
and when you reached their home
and went inside

and she took off your coat
you went with Helen
into the sitting room

with a coal fire blazing
and the smell
of drying clothes

and past dinners
and Helen said
do you want to see my dolls

and the doll’s house
my daddy made
out of boxwood

with lights you can turn off and on?
sure ok
you said

and you followed her
into her bedroom
where her toys and dolls

were laid up along the wall
next to her bed
and she took up a doll

and held her out to you
and said
this is my favourite

this is Jenny
and you said
hi Jenny how you doing?

and Helen smiled
her slightly goofy smile
and you liked that

her smile
and her eyes large as duck eggs
behind the thick lens

and she handed the doll
to you to hold
and you held the doll

and kissed the head
and hugged it close
thinking glad the other boys

can’t see me now
here with this girl
and kissing and holding

the **** doll
out of some small boy love
and shyness

and you know
they’d laugh out loud
and point their tough boy fingers

and you’re glad
they aren’t there
just Helen

and her little girl love and kindness
against their rough ways
and small boy toughness.
Afrodita Nestor Jun 2016
There were two bodies
Plaited into one
Like the horses tamed
Like the birds flying free

If you leave them
They'll reach up to heaven
Beyond the end
Of the world we could see

When separated they fly
When one
They don't leave their nest
Forgetting about the rest

Even time surrenders  
When they meet
not passing by
Lying down at their feet

There were two bodies
Plaited into one
Lost in their embrace
There were two bodies in love
Copyright Afrodita Nestor
Prathipa Nair Oct 2016
Ready for the wedding in her black attic
Wearing necklace of twinkling stars
Alluring bindi of shinning moon
Her blue wide eyes open with delight
Giggling of coyness from her lips of rivers
Plaited braids with fragrant ***** pine flowers
Night, walking languidly on green carpets
Getting on brown forests of chariot
Passing through villages, cities, towns
Ululation of owl's high-pitched wavering
Welcoming her to the ceremony !
Hannah Marr Aug 2018
Throw your gold-plaited, gold-painted
copper saints into the sea—
more salt than water, the Dead Sea.
What is it, this Dead Sea? Why,
it's that place that unfaithful lovers go
in body bags.
Full of concrete blocks, that Dead Sea.
Who am I, to talk so free? Well,
I'm dead, you see.
My bones are in a bag at the bottom,
at the bed of the Dead Sea.

h.f.m.
Hear the ancient drum and horn
Singing and teasing their hens with corn
I can even behold thy smiles shining
Straying sweet stars upon my being
Oh love, display thy attractive nose
And thy irresistible face as a prose
And strike me with thy beauty and charm
Place these flowers from my farm
In thy plaited strands of hair
And open thy voluptuous lips with air.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com

— The End —