Heist…

[Special thanks to Kindra Austin, who inspired this with a comment about stealing hearts]
[go visit her, she’s amazing]

 

The thief, he sat
by the garden wall
in the shadow of the ivy and sage

The moon, she shown
over slated and thatched roofs
bathing all like a spotlighted stage

The thief, he thought
with his prize in his hands
that he’d taken his weight in gold

The moon, she knew
from her clear lofty perch
it was something that could never be sold

The thief, he sat
by the garden wall
in the shadows that made him safe

The moon, she saw
the guards at their posts
yawning and shuffling in place

The thief, he smiled
as he unwrapped his boon
and held it out in his hands

The moon, she sighed
as she saw his fair prize
knowing its true value so grand

The thief, he sat
by the garden wall
in the shadows that made him safe

The moon, she shown bright
and she pushed back the night
to bring even more light to this stage

The thief, he then saw
it did not glitter like gold
neither did it even shimmer

The moon, she knew
now he’d see it for true
his commitment would start to grow dimmer

The thief, he now saw
what he’d taken was all
that someone could use against sorrow

The moon, she smiled
as she watched him wrap up
his prize that he’d skillfully borrowed

The thief, up he climbed
o’er that same garden wall
to put this prize back in its place

The moon she slipped quietly
behind a nearby cloud
with a smile spread wide ‘cross her face

 

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Triumph…

Jerusalem, Babylon, Damascus
another parade
passing under the city gate arch
the sun blotted out by ancient stones
here long before our sandaled feet
trod the dust of a thousand battles
into the air
phalanx shields and glittering spear tips
drums and raucous horns
welcome the conquerors
to this place of trophies
fine fabrics and spiced meats
will be the rewards of the day
but I’ve not his name
and men will liken themselves to him
long after the greek temples have fallen
ambition lies at the feet of a broken empire
Macedonia has reached her long arms
to the edge of civilization
and draws back into her bosom
the fruits of her brutality
and here I remain
my body still tired of the saddle
how many times will I ride through
a rainstorm of rose petals?
how many laurels shall be placed upon my head?
how many times shall I be offered
all that glory demands?
yet all I wish for
is to see the way the oil lamp
bends the shadows around a woman’s face
like adoring lovers
they kiss her beautiful eyes
I want to die in her embrace
no soldier’s death for me
my sword will not be my end

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Hypothermic…

I met her
in April
when I took her hand
as together we stood, in a springtime storm
the rain ran down our faces and over our lips
and no words were needed

We danced
under the cerulean dome
of our summer palace
my eyes focused on her blushing cheeks
as the world beyond us smeared into hues of passion
in August she held my hand to her chest and asked for one more dance

In Autumn’s reverent halls, she struggled to speak
October’s dying breaths sent puffing steam to twilight heavens
the crackle of fallen leaves and the echo in quiet places
was the anthem and fanfare to our union
evenings came sooner, and longer were the hours before dawn
soon, the pyre wood was stacked awaiting fate’s flame

I knelt there in the circle of fading light
and through my knees, digging into the ashes, I could feel the warmth ebbing
Winter knelt across from me, a sovereign dressed in grey
She removed her frosted crown and placed it on the ground between us
between my broken summer heart and what could no longer be
She had granted us the Fall, but our unspoken accord promised nothing past her coronation

and I,
finding no words to express an appeal which she might hear within this court
I,
yielded to the dusk
and trusted my soul to find its own way back home

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I have written Her…

I paint Her portrait in prose
I use equations of
vowels and consonants
to define Her…..
all my life, I have written Her….

I have written her eyes
deep dark and brown
glittering green or fathomless blue
Holding entire worlds of pain and joy
speaking for Her when Her mouth can not
dropping oceans of tears or shining bright like the
morning sun

I have written Her hair
a fiery sea of red
golden like the desert sands of Her home
black like the vast emptiness between the stars
or the color of the earth beneath my feet

Piled high upon Her head
Spilling down Her graceful neck
short and dusting Her cheeks
falling playfully in Her eyes

I have written Her skin
pale and fragile porcelain
freckles and dimpled imperfections
all dusky hues in shades of tropical climes
warm and honey flavored
with the qualities
to be the steel against the flint of my rough hands

I have written Her touch
like life-giving rain after drought
like the ocean moving you against your will in the surf
like the blow of a forge-hammer molding bending iron
like the earth shattering impact of a comet
like the down of a dandelion against my face

I have written Her lines
the arch in the small of Her back
Her litheness stretched out
with feline grace within a warm patch of sunlight
the sultry curves of Her hips
Her full breasts bathed in moonlight
The line of Her jaw where it meets Her neck
And the way someone’s lips fit there
perfectly

I have written Her into places
I can not follow
command decks of starships
cavalry charging into battle
palaces with marble floors that reflect golden
archways and muraled ceilings
the fire-torn landscapes of hell
the misty golden valleys of heaven

I have written Her a wardrobe
full of ball gowns, bright and beautiful
with shoals of stars woven into the fabric
armor solid and strong, iron and steel
to protect Her heart
pony-tailed in t-shirts and hip-hugger jeans
sky scraping stiletto heels and converse high tops

When I was younger I wrote Her into less
now that I am older, I know
the more clothes She wears
the more sexual power She creates
the more I can appreciate they way Her shirt
untucks with the cock of Her hip….
…or the way the satin strap of Her lingerie
gently bites into Her skin against the pull of Her curves

I have written Myself into Her presence
I have written Her fingers interlaced with mine own
I have written Her lips against mine
I have written Her tongue inside my mouth
I have written Her arms around me
I have written myself inside of Her
I have written us together, holding on for dear life
I have written us separated by time and space
Each time She graciously forgives
my arrogant presumption

I have written Her
my entire life
and each stroke of the pen
each tap on this keyboard
is one more of Her fingerprints
that She leaves on my heart

one more signature
She has written on my soul

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Second Place: Blood Into Ink Writing Prompt Challenge/Blood Letting/Eric Syrdal

It was an honor to be part of this display of amazing wordsmithing with these great poets. Thank you to the hosts and all the contestants.

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Rapt…

Our conversation falling silent
we stood there
and I could feel her pushing back the night
her spirit keeping the darkness at bay
a warrioress of a long forgotten time
with the strength of a raging flame
and though she had heard it
a thousands times
from my mouth

How beautiful she was

I longed to press my lips
to the warpaint on her cheek
so that she might hear it
from my
heart

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A Tale of Two Towers-Christine Ray & Eric Syrdal

An extreme honor to write with Christine! She is a woman for whom my love, admiration, and respect continue to grow every day.

Please take a look at some of her other work. It really is amazing!

Brave and Reckless

Locked away in stone tower

rest of the world

fades

becomes dim memory

time loses meaning

becomes shapeless

days

nights

spent in solitude

differentiated

only by whether

I read precious books

by sunlight

falling soft through windows

that no longer open

or dancing candle light

by this halflight

I read the words

of Tennyson

and his Lady of Shalott

in her lonely spire

whose shadow would fall

likewise across my

bitter landscape

but I’ve no magic mirror

to scry upon the world below

I search my embattled memory

to remember golden fields of rye

and green waves of grasses

against sapphire summer skies

here in this place

my color palette

is reduced

to the colors the melancholic

grey and brown

alternate

across flagstone and wall

and mortar in shades of ash

There was technicolor life once

music and dancing

intimate conversation

easy laughter

food delighted palate

wine danced on tongue

View original post 208 more words

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Zero Gravity…

I miss green
I miss heavenly evenings
under painted clouds
with the feel of the grass between my toes

I miss the feeling
of looking at the stars
and not knowing their names
how far away they are…..what their gravity is like

I miss the wind
the way it ruffles the surface of water
and tosses old jeans and t-shirts into twisted wind socks
on the clothesline in the fading days of summer

I miss thunder
the drums of heaven
bouncing off the walls of the mountains
proclaiming that the angels have come home

I miss falling
physical or emotional
losing my balance walking on the runner of a wood fence
the feeling of my heartbeat out of control when I touch your hand

I miss the heat of the sun
on my face in the morning
when I stand on the porch with my coffee
listening to the world wake up from pleasant dreams

I miss darkness
close and comforting
while I lie awake in bed and listen
crickets, far off barking of dogs or a lonely horn of a train

I miss the blue of the sky
the smell of the ocean
the cry of a new-born baby
the pops and creaks of an old house, settling
the ticktock of grandfather clocks
the taste of wine and the smell of cooked meat on a fire

all I know here is grey
and white
and surgical steel
bulkheads and airlocks
and the ozone taste of processed air

I miss dirt on my face
and the aches and pains of toil

I want to climb down from this distant memory
and go home

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Ribbons of Gold…

My Morning Sky 9-13-17

She rouses
from her darkened bedchamber
below my horizon
her ladies have toiled
to smooth each wrinkle and ripple
of luminescent beauty in her gowns
and they have done up her hair
in ribbons of gold
she ascends the stairs
to the roof of the world
and I
as a passing peasant
stop and still the air in my lungs
to see her pulchritudinous procession
I
ever an admirer of Lady Eos
I’ve naught to offer her
except a few words upon this page
though I would
count myself among men
as Achilles and Hercules
if she would join me
for cafe’ au lait
at the Cafe Du Monde
we could watch my city stir
from her sultry sleep
and I would offer my handkerchief
to wipe the powdered sugar
from the nose
of a Goddess

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Queen of May…

John Collier

Why profess thy love to me?

This weak and hollow thing
born without wings and blind to the sun

If thou wouldst love me
should thee not come and take mine hand
and with thine own direct my fingers
to thy heartbeat

and through these digits
a roaring and raging thunder doth travel
to kindred mind

upon mine own taut drum
within the walls of my chest
beats a homogeneous rhythm

thine own blood will sing unto me
a ballad of our love

t’would tell me of days
naught of which our minds remember

but when our spirits, are so joined
like the paper brought against the candle flame
so too, are we made translucent
and all the weft and warp of our making is shone

and in thee
I recognize mine own construction

and understandeth that I
had, at once, a singular and solemn vow

to love thee

every wrinkle in thy skin
and hair upon thy brow

and only I shall name thee
Queen of May

and set a crown of wildthorn upon thy head

forever and a thousand forevers
to be at thy side

and in answer to all the malefic powers
that should find want to harm thee

I am to thee
a guardian blade

 

 

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