First Kiss

Their foreheads meet as one in gentle touch,
Her hand on his, his fingers holding tight,
Shutting out the world that asks too much
For them to share a minute of their night.
He brings a single finger to her lip,
She tilts her head to look into his eyes
And gives a gentle kiss to fingertip,
Then happily she smiles at him and sighs.
In tender exploration, his lips brush hers,
So hesitant, his fingers find her cheek -
Their hearts begin to beat in nervous tremors,
Their glances meet again as knees grow weak
As tawny eyes and blue gaze lovingly
Curtained there by locks of blonde and ebony.

Of Circles and Salt

Lissome
my touch
underneath the moonlight,
delicately tracing
circles
and curves.

Salty
your skin
wrapped in midnight shadow -
I taste you once
and then
taste you again.

Ragged
my breathing -
I cannot keep eyes open
sinking deeply
into
sensation.

Wordless
your cry -
reaching the peak,
we fall back
breathless
into the night.

Along the River: A Lyric

I stand beside the water,
by the water
by the river
I stand beside the water
as it rushes to the sea.
Its voice is sweet and calming
as it flows by
as it goes by
its voice is sweet and calming
as it slips between the trees.

The geese call as they gather
there above it
glide into it
the geese call as they gather
then noisily fly on.
The willow trees, they murmur
bending over
leaning over
the willow trees, they murmur
as the water slips along.

I wonder what its song says
to the trees there
to the rocks there
I wonder what its song says
to the things that call it home.
Does it sing of where it started,
in the mountains,
snowfall's fountains
does it sing of where it started,
or of where it goes to roam?

I stand beside the water,
by the water
by the river
I stand beside the water
as it rushes to the sea.
Its voice is sweet and calming
as it flows by
as it goes by
its voice is sweet and calming
as it slips between the trees.

Autumn on the Water

Deafening the sound,
a thousand wings whirring as one,
feather and muscle
beating against the air
in their hurry to escape -
they drown out my thoughts
as we paddle into the pond
and the ducks take flight.

A lone hen left behind
cackles her feeding call for a moment,
then quack, quack, quack,
she too lifts from the water,
flies away,
and leaves me alone
with the gentle slurp of my kayak paddle,
and an echo of wind in my hair.

Sometimes

Sometimes,
when he is alone in his thoughts,
standing there in the open ground underneath a warming sun,
and the air is still and quiet,
the wind comes up, unexpectedly,
and nuzzles against his neck,
kissing his ears,
playing with his hair,
caressing his cheek
and he remembers her fiery eyes,
and the softness of her voice,
and unspoken longings,
the whiteness of her bosom,
his final loss.

Something in him stirs, then, at those moments,
and he pauses,
thinking briefly of the might have beens
that were not,
that could not be,
that did not happen,
and knows the touch of regret.
Then, like the wind,
sometimes, he sighs.

One Day Before the Tide Changed

He walked along the rocks
in the cool spring air,
ignoring the wind in his hair,
and how it tugged on his clothes.
He stopped to scratch his nose
and looked out over the horizon,
to where the sea met the sky,
and watched.

As he listened to the waves
and the seabirds crying
as they circled, flying
almost out of sight
he did not know why
he felt so restless -
the day left him breathless,
captured by the old magic
of wind and wave and light.


He thought for a moment
of his garden and his books
and the way his wife looks
when he talks of poetry,
and thought about Prufrock,
who talked of mermaids in the sea,
and fog and things that would not be,
and wondered about tomorrow.

Turning to go,
he did not see the shadowed shape
run her comb one last time
while he recited a hopeless rhyme
through perfect green hair,
then slip off the rocks into the sea
pondering the unknown mystery
of land and tree and earth,
the strange songs only humans sang.

They both went on their way,
he to the land, she to the bay
back to their ordinary lives
touched by the shoreline's magic.

A Conversation with Time

Has it been so long ago,
those nights,
nights when I danced for hours
to the loud beat
and the flashing lights,
glittering over the swaying bodies,
rich with the smell of smoke
and beer
and sweat
and lust
all wrapping around the music?

Time,
I tell you, Time,
the me in here
remembers just how it felt
to have the music
and the movement
take me places
beyond the taste of bourbon
and the flashing lights
and dreams of youth
and expectation.

I know you’ve heard it all before,
Time,
but still,
I cling to the memory,
and as the river of my life passes on,
I'm still the girl
who could dance all night
lost in the music,
and even as I sit and knit
and watch the minutes tick into hours,
I can be there again with just a thought.

Heroes (In Praise of Fantasy)

(This is in response to a review of "Game of Thrones" by Ginia Bellafonte, where she implies only boys like fantasy stories. Fantasy is one of my best beloved genres. I was rather irritated.)


So many heroes with swords in my head,
Crashing and bashing and waking the dead,
Heroic in leather, heroic in silk,
In plate and in chain and in stuff of that ilk,
Sigurd the brave, Cuchulain so fair,
Brian Boru boldly alone standing there,
Ulysses the cunning, Achilles the strong --
With heroes like these, how can any go wrong?
See them stand, see them howl--Beowulf joins the fight,
Grendal's bane saving Hrothgar in his armor so bright.
There's Roland, near forgotten, with his long sounding horn,
Lancelot alone looking lost and forlorn,
Still they come, still they come, with their swords shining bright,
Come to rescue the weak, or just to have a fight,
Xena and Sonja, women of steel
come hither to fight or to just cut a deal,
Conan and Kull, nearly twins in their might,
The Eternal Champion fighting well through the night,
Tempus and Elric and the Gray Mouser so bold,
With Fafhrd to help him steal all my gold,
Samurai heroes with swords shiny and bright,
Shadow warriors spinning red dreams through my line of sight.
The noise of them clashing, the sounds of each clash
Go echoing on as they hit and they bash.
Bring it on, bring it on, with bravado so bold -
My favorite stories! You'll never grow old.

Persuasion

His eyes glinted in the soft light,
shining and warm,
hinting at some mischief
as he wrapped his arms around her.

“No?” he asked,
leaning close,
letting his warm breath
tease her cheek,
brush across her ear,
touch her neck.
He smiled a little
as he felt her shiver.

She looked down
at her folded hands
leaning against his chest,
not wanting to meet his eyes.
He slipped a hand over them,
then tightened his hold
around her with the other.

“Please?” he asked,
running one large finger
under her chin,
tilting up her head,
but still,
determined not to be persuaded so easily,
she kept her eyes firmly shut.

His lips brushed against hers,
feather light at first,
warm and coaxing,
one hand sliding around her neck.
As he deepened the kiss,
he could feel her resistance waver,
her body relaxing against his,
her mouth responding to his,
one hand shyly leaving its berth against his chest
to slide beneath his hair,
keeping him close.

“For me?” he breathed,
breaking the kiss,
then kissing the tip of her nose.

She glanced up at him,
her blue-grey eyes looking at him sternly,
even as a wry smile touched her lips
and she tried not to giggle.
“Yes, yes, I’ll rub your back,”
she conceded
with mock exasperation.

He kissed her again,
warm, lovingly,
but in large part because
he did not want her to see
the smug victory written in his eyes
and in his smile.

Still, he could not see
her own hidden smile -
she got just what she wanted
out of their negotiations.

Melt

The water spirit
breaks through the white blanket
he slept beneath
as the spring sunshine tickles his nose,
then flows slowly down the mountainside
into the valleys,
drip by melted drip,
swelling rivulets into cold running streams
leaving a wave of green in his wake
marked with a splash of flowers.

Teasing Spring

Spring, you sly season,
how you tease me today –
there’s still snow on the mountain,
to warn me away,
but the air is so warm,
and there are buds on the trees,
And the birds are out singing–
you so love to tease.

Spring, you sly season,
daffodils are in bloom,
and the clouds are all puffy,
not dark Winter’s gloom,
and I long to be walking
feel the warmth of the breeze –
Dare I hope to believe it?
You so love to tease.

Spring, you sly season,
I see new leaves on the rose,
it’s too warm for my scarf
and something tickles my nose.
And I want to get busy,
getting down on my knees,
planting flowers for summer –
You so love to tease.

Spring, you sly season,
dark Winter’s bright child,
your smile, it is merry
and your soft touch is mild.
You so love to play me,
but Spring, if you please,
be certain you’re staying.
You so love to tease!

Mountain Afternoon

The wind roared in the pine trees
from time to time as I watched
the last patches of snow
on the mountainside
turn to mush,
and trickle down into the creek.

Nearby,
a branch fell from a dead tree,
and a raven cawed,
and I contemplated
the World Tree
and Thought and Memory,
Odin's storm crows,
and the ways of fate
and wisdom
and sunshine scattering like diamonds
on the lake below.

And the wind roared,
and the snow melted,
and the stream flowed.

Some things, after all,
take care of themselves.

Change of Season

The wind dances around me
beneath a blue sky
and the wind chimes sing
their metallic cry,
and I stare at the mountain
and wonder why
I feel on edge and quite restless.

The willow withies
dance like long green hair
caressed by the wind
in the cool spring air,
and the apples have bloomed
with a pale white flair,
but I stand here, alone, quite restless.

O robin, O dove,
O hawk flying low,
you know what to do,
you know where to go.
I watch the river
as the spring waters flow,
like me, they flow by, quite restless.

The snow on the mountain
melts quickly away,
My tulips are blooming
and long grows the day.
I ought to be working,
or at least trying to play,
But instead, I stand here quite restless.