This one, well this one was an accident, no thought, no planning, just letting the fingers do their thing while the mind wandered elsewhere. It happens, sometimes, when your mind is wandering a fertile place. I used to have the delightful experience of having it happen quite often when sharing time with the sweethearts who'd entertain with gesture and glance, persona and passion. They' find a common resonance between hearts and I could let my mind wander in the sweet fantasies they'd portray while snippets of the dreams they wove would fall off my fingers and land on the keyboard. So since this painting came from almost the same source, perhaps a few favorite rhymes gifted by the lovely ladies might be appropriate... just for the sake of tenderness recalled in a world where tenderness is so rarely called at all...
She a mighty river flows
Smooth to tortured seas
Softening the salt of tears
With her company...
Bring to me that empty place
...that only love can fill,
Lay down close beside me
...trust me hold you still
Until your cry is not to pain
...your shiver not a chill
But rather every nerve brought full
...with any joy you'd will.
Long the night the heroes marched
...between the fell and fen...
And long the night their lovers spent
...in hope they'd see them in.
Darling let me close your eyes with the brush of tender lips
That you might live within this dream that rides my fingertips,
Let me lift you from this place, this troubled midnight stand
Into a realm of glowing light beyond the sins of man
Where love is not a thing of power, possession guarded first
But rather flows in gentle streams to everyone who thirsts.
Found between the light of love
...and flesh where lives the lamp
A subtle zone of power plays
...Where Eros makes his camp.
Set soft the light through evening shade
Set soft the tone of strings
Set soft the gates of heaven's door
To pass an angel wings...
Love so often made of glass
...of several different kinds...
The fluted shapes the blower makes
...or mirrors of the mind.
The muse is an enigma
To the man who feels her touch
For she his heart will open where
A thought dare never brush.
For woman suckles more than babes
She feeds the inner child
Of those she shares her life love with
Across the years of trial.
A broken heart a breach of faith
...a fallen dream's demise...
That covers all the lands in gray
...as teardrops fill the skies.
Lady, roll me like the tumbling dice
When luck is running high,
We'll play for things that mortals know
Make the angels wish... and sigh.
Methinks I'd need a lean fast ship
And a crew with nerve of steel
To slip this line of pirate hearts
And smuggle something real.
No bond of flesh for she and I
...but rather of the mind...
A mating of a man and muse
...that art be left behind.
A softer drama drawn from life
The courage and the heart
To take a wild and wicked world
And work it into art.
Woman flesh makes not a meal
To feed the bodies part
But woman's love a banquet full
To way worn weary heart.
Be with me when the day is new
And the clock our master be
I'll lead the master off a bit
To buy you breath that's free...
Be with me when the day is young
We'll set it to a pace
Will leave us on the shores of sleep
With peace upon our face...
Be with me when the day is old
And I'll build in you a fire
Will take us safe across the night
Beyond all dreams desire.
A vagabond a wandering
Is what I'd mostly been
But there I lingered long enough
To find a group of friends.
***
Dedicated of course to the lasses and ladies of Met Art Live in the years 2006 through 2008, those sweet sisters of seduction who did not seduce to despoil
but rather seduced to free the hidden dreams of hearts besieged... here's to you girls, I do miss you.
Interesting that these verses take the ballad form a la Emily Dickinson, while much of your other poetry is in iambic pentameter or some other "formal" stanza form.
ReplyDelete*chuckle* In sonnets you count lines and rhymes, in Tanka and Haiku you count syllables, but in chat you count characters, they only give you just so many in a line... these are just a few of the ones I saved. They're almost stream of conscience, they'd write themselves in response to what the model was doing, portraying, or at least how it would impact me. When the muse lays her hand on your shoulder you'll feel her, I had a standard post for when it would begin: Please excuse what don't make sense, I'm powering down reality now...
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