I dreamed a dream in which a wolf, a crouched grey stir with seething eyes all snarl lit, and tongue, a crimson laze, a flowing cardinalís robe, lolled out a flickered lick against its jaw, paw padded then with muscles darkly coiled like night in stealth, right up to me, when I, in sleep, had drifted to an open mouth of ragged forest edge. †
It had no words, and yet I understood when it began to muzzle me, its face a fur lined kiss against my cheek, that it had come to herald you ...
I wonder if youíre capable of writing verse thatís not about calamity or manís ďbrightĒ Gnostic otherworldly destiny, or how men are depraved, like beasts, unsaved, unsave-able and jealous, full of damning lusts, or just how much you love the lord and see in him relief, release, from this worldís misery?
Can you post, instead, a gentled exploration of the subtitles of love with cunning vibrant words, not heavy-handed ones, as is your wont, that show, not tell, through simile and metaphor and language that is...
I'm tired, a husk, worn out, bowed down and seer. So be subduing Circe now and take me, slake me, in your arms and, like a low breeze coursing slowly over Summer's golden fields, waft yourself along my limbs gently, warm, until I, leisured, drowsy, loosened, cursive, sigh content with you, and waves of welcome sleep, seal up my eyes.
So Circe never won the heart inside you, never, so you say? And yet it was your men, now wasnít it, homesick, sore afraid, and longing for their unforgotten wives, who had to prize you from her grasp to sail again the sea towards delayed Ithaca, recall you to your stated destiny?
What lies, you spin! For one who claims his name means ďBorn for PainĒ, you took your time, and theirs, a year in pleasurings.
And this I also know: If Circe called to you again called with her sirensí voice, ...
Iíve lived within this body, this frailing thing, for over sixty years. I think now that I know its ways and all it holds inside itself; the stories of its wants, its faults, fragilities and strengths.
It has become a narrative that is utterly predictable, a book Iíve memorized.
It cannot, even when itís bold, bring fire or a surprise to me.
We are now like settled friends. But then, but then on some incertain winterís night thatís yet to come, or other day thatís close, I...
Kiss again my throat, my ears, my eyes, my hands, my naked thighs, my toes, my fingertips. Your kiss is a maddening, a godís voice, a rage against my skin that makes me senseless to my sense of where I end and where I, rough, begin.
You did not know it then, how on that deep December night † † †† when shivering, † †† † in breath held momentís pause † †† † before you climbed into my bed, † †† † you stood against the frosted window pane, †† † all streetlight backlit clad †† † in silvered silhouette † † I watched in quiet joy from there beneath the ready hollow I had body carved to shelter you between the blankets and the sheets, the semi-circle in the air that always you glide out along the rim of night when taking off your...
Iím wondering now if others of my age feel their reserves of energy, and their ability for pleasure and for pleasuring have grown too thin for measurement, † and that against the worldís vicissitudes theyíve lost within themselves their sense of density, that thereís duration left within their lives. I wonder, too. if they, like me, have given up all hope to be remade, arrayed, displayed, in joy.
The road to Camelot is barren now Fell weeds rise up in impudence within the furrowed tracks of tradersí carts and make the way into the castle's legendary sheltering impassable.
Atop the royal fortress towers the once bright dragon banners that had snapped disdain upon the Saxon hordes are left wind torn, sun bleached, and shorn of all the furling music they had roundly made when Arthur's troops rode out with pride beneath their colours and their songs of heraldry.
September now. And soon the leaves of trees in Northern realms shall alchemy themselves to harvest hues. Gold will splay in some. Amber, umber, russet, too. Others will become alive, if only momentarily, within a shade of red that speaks, when spiraling to earth, of runnelled blood thatís shed in hushed atonement for the Summerís death and slowly darkening end.