ETERNITY

Work Haiku

2010-03-25T18:16:00.005Z

Drink slow slow pink gin
my hollow work victory
success empties joy.

Monday morning
lifeline monotony
end of life, retire.

Quick breathing illness
dusty book opens pages
teach the old cold brain.

Tuesday morning
boss has two more windows
my dark shadowed eyes.

Early swallows flying
swiftly steel arrows soar and
greet the bloodied warm heart.

Wednesday morning
salesman or grifter?
sells same waxing dream.

Merciful rains cleanse
mindful yearnings that freely
match the rain colour.

Thursday morning
see elicit affair
giggle or feign knowledge.

Tenderly wrestle hope
but only at home not work
obligation sells.

Friday morning
penpushing hard, no break
peddle pushing drive home.

Remote memory
eaten berries were sweeter
once sun ripened gold.

Saturday morning
relax weary old bones
that forget their age.

My spring beard is old
ain't that winters hidden truth
ice cuts razor sharp.

Sunday morning
the implacable duty prayer
yoke returns firmly.

Sedate costly freight
oak box carried in a hearse
lost lifes' highway.

Copyright©Xsapph

Inspired by fellow LINKEDIN Connections whose amazing entries really helped me here... read their work too.

LINKEDIN BUSINESS HAIKU

Estranged

2010-01-16T13:53:00.015Z

Painting: At the Tavern of Lillas Pastia Carmen Taunts Don Jose,
by Rene Bull

ESTRANGED

Pearls were no less luminescent a light, I yearned to see

Even so, with your sharp elfin words, I might partially agree

Finding little in our pastimes other than a narcissus sword

As if the very dissemblance of our thoughts are in accord

What would it take for you to accept but a noble surrendering.

Would that lead to a tranquil peace, or gentleness bring?

Such 'weakness; each of us would idly resolve to dismiss.

If we ourselves were embittered, with a resistant kiss;

When we cannot find the means to open understanding

Shielding, the survivor: to be the last one standing.

Or it is to ignite knowledge; and its flame to continue

Take each wish and willpower will eventually subdue.

All those who find their hearts desire to seek intervention,

In breaking down harshness and softening intention.

Usually the ones most gentle avoid unkindness or offending.

Ruminating struggles, releasing, and comprehending.

Take this tiredness, that has cost me everything, unsecured;

Frustrations at difficulties endured, of which I am reassured.

Who would have known that our own illusions melt disbelief,

When shared, I realise, to yearn to be free and now what relief.

I take long steps that skip, and then jump, alive - a promenade.

Step by step, higher I discover the rise, then razed colonnade.

Dancing then pausing, to think and finally sauntering.

Wasn't this sepulchre place, one I lost; once again discovering?

Then here is the small paper boat, only a child could board.

The long voyage contemplated as ropes fell away, unmoored.

Wind-kissed innocence sank into flower-filled ships bow,

To follow the seagulls flight yonder into the starry show.

In my memory those moments seem clear, and unchanged;

Where friends could never be foes, nor love estranged.

The angels voice that described the place I called home,

In despair or hope, to return, 'till then I may roam.

There would be no fear or unruly, un-mended distress,

If lightening strikes silver, in Life's ocean of softness.

Oh blessed are the foundlings three: whose yearnings cherish hope.

The stars or apple pips we see, those wizened blind Fates scope.

Berlioz, Carmen

Tiptoe - Film Noir

2009-08-23T03:18:00.027+01:00

TIPTOE 23.08.09

Dryly staring, imported anxiety, who did wrong?

Plaited-mistakes, silver étude; when dreams were young.

Being considered durable and strong in longevity.

All double-woven situations called for brevity.

Each memory that time savoured was tiresome.

Anecdotes of lusty escapes are winsome.

Interlude, to face each other in sombre disgrace.

Together we realise between us, trust we misplace.

A conscious step, avoids turning left and returning.

Always discovering the path of the discerning.

Loosening taut chains, bonds melt, acidly away.

Do we finish this long drawn out goodbye or delay?

Blind sighted phrases that dupe a friend, simple and plain.

Whispered slowly, deeply embedded; harsh words remain.

We find reasons to be far away, lost and distant.

Taking time to agree yet, obliquely resistant.

What would you deny me, in each wish that is daring?

Even when generous, forgiveness unsparing.

Spring rain's wetness, and joy, you would obliquely belie.

All rules pronounced true, I would dare to defy.

Tiptoeing dead man’s; coiled shadow, softly languid.

Escaping the flint-glint of eyes that forbid.

Monotone voice over, through corridors snaking

Well disguised footsteps follow, quietly stalking..

Airless duress, a potential plan devised

By cynicism, and sparkling humour, disguised

Midst the merrymaking, discreetly, tiptoeing

A silent radial breeze, sinfully was stroking.

Those rapturous colours once loved now forsaken

Or remain moodily stubborn, sourly, mistaken.

Anticipating excitement, feeling breathless.

High priced clock watching unlike the reckless.

Let’s stride abstractedly, without indecision.

We deserve each other, in our lucid derision.

Willow basket makers work with admirable finesse.

Twisting, binding cords tighten, sharpen distress.

Well let’s travel, light pleasure: laugh heartily.

Our broody film noir, dark brandy sipped warmly.

Take this trust on its merits, choose decisively.

Danger power wrapped silk and heels, incisively.

Thrilling or sneering at the weak man, tiptoeing.

Cynically, escaping glare, blithely skipping.

Type fast, in character, sensual persuasion.

Throw the gauntlet back - indifferent dissuasion.

Clinical and cut throat, hatched plots, purposely.

Hip-shot bullet heart-missed, deliberately.

Inventive ardour fizzles, hapless, yet left distraught.

Unleashed sightlessness in twilight mistiness caught.

Leaving you lurking in misery, drawn-out suspense.

For a second, or two, a look passing: darkly intense.

Fingertips bind, suspicious togetherness cherished

Past remembrances: unsentimentally, perished.

Bell & Shadow

2009-05-26T01:24:00.072+01:00

Bell & Shadow

The rope puller, heartily, palm-spat; deep breath to commence.
His sweat and toil, the bell tolled, sombre free style sequence.
The congregation, downed tools, to march to, its' drill and call.
An ashen-mist shadow passed a yew tree; bow-bent, yet tall.

High atop the bell tower, a finch perched on a sharp steeple.
Shuffling in, or more determined, a queue of familiar people.
As the rope strained, giving way, to an undulating, swinging.
The older ones, found comfort, hearing the aged bell ringing.

The clangourous harsh sound, from a high toned, rusty bell.
It pealed for weddings, or sometimes, alarmed, fearful knell.
The blue-finch flew high, melting in a darkening, cerulean sky;
Indigo bunting, its' tuneful song proclaimed a mournful cry.

The sermon was delivered, with the usual threat, and candour.
Finger pointing, hallelujah: many dour faces grimaced sour.
Shaded by a broken statue; an old sailor watched in wonder.
Through rose bower, betwixt; as a soft-shoe thief, or intruder.

The shadow slipped ‘round, those who prayed; afraid, hesitant.
Then to climb dark stairs, past belfry rats that were resident.
Uncoloured, against painted glass windows, heartbeat to ascend.
Eyrie tower, the shadow reached the bell, joyously to transcend.

The remnants of fragrant memories, in sorrow left him kneeling.
The bell seemed to shudder slightly, if fear; it was concealing.
He embraced its' cracked form, a light kiss: to sense abrogation.
Those that heard a ripple of ringing assumed t'was imagination.

Filling a clay pipe, the old sailor recalled a nebulous anecdote.
Pensively, for matches, he fumbled in his pocketed waistcoat.
So, his suspicious nature remained, sabre-rattling, and defiant.
In those early days, the bell had shone beautifully, dilettante.

In vacillating dreams, he had chased, or pleaded, in persuasion.
Yet many words mumbled, by others, in disproving dissuasion.
Sharp memories of holding a woman; ardently close to his chest.
Where, trusting her innocence, confidently his love, confessed.

"Are we so different you and I?", he implored with grasping hand.
A taunting reply perished his dreams; to raze granite into sand.
After her statue crumbled, his suffering remained icy in silence.
Whilst revelling in hearing her musical harmony and cadence.

To feel those blazing eyes, bore into his soul, cold and hostile.
The realisation, there would never be, a happy pastoral epistle.
His eternity ring was thrown overboard, his ships' bell; pealing.
He felt the futility, hurt, yet to be so close, was compelling.

Taking her hand, the seeker, searched for secure, higher ground.
No Delphian sanctuary of safety, or oracular perplexity was found.
Perilously, a secret pledge, between kisses, tenderly, rendered.
A faith-leap, from rock jumbled cliffs, if life need be surrendered.

His hands around her neck, kissing, fiercely, lips to cherish.
A church; from his eye corner, espied his beloved old parish.
As she clung to his shoulders she felt herself slipping below.
Her eyes looked up through closed lids and saw a ceiling glow.

As she began to sink, reaching for his outreached hand; trembling.
And heard his mind, disavow her and act on events dissembling.
She cried out wretchedly, mirror-silence, then quickly to descend.
To drop into the seas musical incipience: beginning Life's end.

As her body went limp long hair veil'd, deep into the ocean.
In the distance salvation in a prayer and solemn devotion.
He leaned over the side of the ship, until she was out of sight.
Hardly a ripple as she sank deep, spiralling in a column of light.

A clumsy long dive, that schemed never to cease the fall.
The days sweet light for a moment dove into a dark birdcall.
Time would steal the knife of concealed penance sharply.
Footsteps are listened thereafter; heart-thumping, darkly.

We confide in friends who remain true and tarry, durable.
Sometimes the souls' essence is peacelessly, incurable.
Offered to the shepherding, attendant, we hope curing priest.
Salvation of the lost and fallen, afflicted, endangered beast.

Long gone, the abbot had left the humble, impoverished abbey.
Blanket covered by ceaseless white roses, and braided ivy.
Surrounded by gravestones; and pink-gold, chrysanthemums.
And cheery glowing, proudly lit, luminary, old, candelabrums.

In time, he would return to the pages of words, of love yielding.
Would tomorrows' denial, delude, self-preservation, in shielding.
Devouring rose thorns, strike with keen sharpness, love-a-pining.
Togetherness, in twisted vines of variegated Devils' ivy twining.

The clime of treason, could so easily savage loyalty's true hand.
How would one who left so quickly this world, even understand?
What eyeball squinted, knowingly, yet even perplexed at lies?
Then hid itself beneath a patch of dissuasion and infinite skies.

Whilst, echoes of sustained prayer; shuddered stained-glass.
A haunting forecast, of impending doom, recited at holy mass.
Longing for her, if only his incorporeal form, were changeable.
Yearning, alas, his transient impermanence was immutable.

They shuddered, to lament; singing soft, melancholy, hymns.
So many lustful admirers, of her precocious; scantily clad, limbs.
Some would have mourned her, to recall the death-knell, woes.
Melting into the distant afternoon horizon, the sea-froth rose.

A boat ladder that stood the test of time, he clung upon it.
As the rope was pulled with hands coated in blood and spit.
Gasp! Her body, drawn up through seaweed twisted chain.
Her wide eyes: moonstone bedded in aquamarine champagne.

To live life as a burning torch, that sizzles, singed sunrise dulled.
Then extinguished as leafy groves, closed in, airless, death lulled.
Water depths would be always, the drowning child's', frantic fear...
I dare you to dive, to discover; a single, clinging, colourless tear.

The abbot returned down a long winding, reclusive path.
With laughter and joy from childhood to aged old hearth.
Then, not to see the delight and company of those gone.
Shoulders stoop with pondering trivia all said and done.

With eyes unmet, two fellows silently passed each t' other,
Different realms that divided each man from his brother.
Priest, and boatman whose lives, irretrievably had split apart.
Yet even in such dire straits, a binding bond, heart to heart.

The shadow silkily spilt into mist, embracing the past.
For a fleeting moment the abbot saw a shade in mid-mast.
The echoes of an ailing day, that seemed a sliver of silver.
Hither, thither, the birds and bats flew confused, together.

The bells' bronze frame shone, tho' he was eerily invisible.
A deafening ringing; his form shimmered, dimly impalpable.
Pealing, vibrant sound, rebelling; he became remotely quiescent.
The shadow flickered, surrounded by silvery sparks: luminescent.

Her scorching sound rejected his outstretched hands for her still.
About him, her ringing was drowned by high pitched bats' shrill.
Then the rope puller ran out, fearful, in shock, he was reeling.
His surprise, clamorous confusion, at the swell of bell pealing.

Face down, and slumped, knee bent, a sailor died, deep in prayer.
A crumpled blanket of seaweed and sand weathered outer wear.
Deep between where chrysanthemums and roses entwine and knot,
Around broken tombstones and untended graves, hidden plot.

The congregation rushed from the abbey, each silently, observed.
The shadow climbed from the belfry: where rose and ivy conserved.
Although, no-one had pulled the bell-rope, clangour, loud resonant.
Pointing to the steeple, by the neck, the shadow hung, reticent.

She heard the bell peal, and from the sea foam, she came.
Smiling softly at the old sailor whose arm she took, and name.
The diaphanous shadow's dulled light: unrequited loves' diffusion.
The bell tolled, first softly, then not, in its' savage seclusion.

Copyright©Xsapph

Photo by G Richardson

Bell and Carving, Cathedral, Leon, Nicaragua, Central America

The Ring

2009-05-25T03:17:00.007+01:00

He found me a ring, just a little ring,
Not what you would call, a fancy thing.
Intrusions devoured, by those forsaken
Frequency of detection, is mistaken.
Shady wood, canopied leaves above
Ensnare the heart, with dauntless love

Waiting to be found, in splendid idling,
That left me lost, in sweet imagining.
His tulips, verdant striations, conveyed
Shades of dark, and light, that strayed.
Decadent garnishing, of fondant, confection,
Fear infested concern, sharpens, the question.

Nuances, that his intellect, will dissect,
Weary disconnected lures, that interject.
Graduated ideas, singularly inculcated.
Thus, cold steel crimes, might be expiated.
Too high price; for such a pretty thing,
As his priceless, rare, and binding, ring.

Copyright©Xsapph

Bertuccio's Bride, 1845

Bertuccio's Bride, 1845
by Edward Robert Hughes

Poised

2009-05-05T23:32:00.013+01:00

Living in the Moment II
Like the rippling flesh, hunting wolf pack, women close in.
To be close to each other, in this simmering of kith and kin.
In another quarter of the room, party animals, raucous laughter.
Then as the wittier ones rose high, others one by one, to falter.They are drawn to where the governing light became dim. A sly smile caught the eyes, to reveal and betray him.
Nibbling mouth-watering, calamari, and aubergine tapas.
Trays of luscious cold pineapple, the colour of topaz.
His sombre unrelieved black, raven eyes and glossy hair.
To try to seduce him from his love, only a fool would dare. Sipping blonde chartreuse, tinted gold, simmering lime.
She seemed delicate, and had drifted in and out of time.
On his arm, resting moth like, slighted mourning, grey-tinted.
Secret pleasures and private gestures that had been hinted.
Teasing intricately coiled, fried shrimp, plantain pink.
Toying, with him, merely fingers that dipped in her drink. Patience of an artistically angling heron, pursed her lips.
Seemingly, unaware of all others, that thrust out their hips.
Relishing pomegranate jewels piled high on silver platters.
Amethyst seeds tumbled, her whispers were private matters.
Curiosity hunts, in stealth, fueled by instinct, and need.
Would strife lesson whilst gentle forgiveness concede. Vision centre rests, on revealed antennae, cigarette tip.
Recoiled from heat; as one who was thirsty for a soft lip-sip.
Poised supremely, coiled spring launched, to strike.
Lamp light glowed, as the walls shadows spread fanlike.
Instinct fine tuned, by learning, the power of fragile moves.
Sly counter moves, which the noble adversary disapproves. Learning, imputed patience, and finely balanced speed.
The true soldier would feign cowardice, rather than concede.
Tactically, shift advantages, art of angling, drifting, thinking.
Even as the wriggling bait deep into the brink was sinking.
Closeness, to avoid distance - the prey’s fortune is lost.
Alienated thus, the victim shivers as if coated in frost. Knowledge dies, with any solitary, poised, coastal hunter.
Even if in the winter midnight love surrounded or warmed her.
Toying with a fresh moist olive; in long bony, string bean fingers.
So now he slides his arms about her waist, and softly lingers.
Impenetrable eyes, transparently veiled, scalloped, lace mantilla.
He watched her sipping dark acrid coffee, sweet pods of vanilla. Peinita, tortoiseshell, peacock fan, worn pride-high.
Diverting the gadflies, to gently stroke her warm thigh.
Pale-veined chin, lips sipping green Cuban coconut milk.
He caught a drop that she missed and wiped it with silk.
Yet only the day before she had paused, surreptitiously.
Whilst he had waited by their favoured haunt anxiously. Marguerite daisy, losing each petal in divine contemplation.
He had counted each one and wished for divine intervention.
Silken gleam, trembling rays, unassailable sunset tinted cloud.
Sadness in sepulchre sobriety, where lust became a shroud.
Skies of lavender blush that formed a canopy of surprise.
Where the truculent seeker and fearful sought, synchronize. Scratches of silver tears burnished the still lakes rippling surface.
Leaping and bounding, gazing, so the completion of the chase.
Crumpled taffeta, noiseless net lace, obscuring, bloodless hands.Undressing, gloves carelessly strewn, discarded in meadowlands.The lanterns danced and bobbed in their own tranquil reflection.
As fire fly and insects joined in the sound of the night time selection.Even in such joyous moments, briefly amidst the dreadful noise.Desert bloom cacti, immersed in a nocturnal breeze: perfect poise.
Copyright©Xsapph

The Spanish Dancer, Study for "El Jaleo," 1882

Ibex Sparring

2009-04-18T23:56:00.008+01:00

Close Up of Two Ibexes Rearing During a Sparring Competition

The Ibex courage and the heat.
Locked horns, a rocky battleground.
Arching rivals' dispute is turbulent.
A hot breathless, panting sound.

Undisturbed undulating agility
No dawdling on steep lofty terrain
Sinking snowline or alpine possibility
Mystical extinction, or to quietly remain.

To kiss at the end of Hindu Kush.
Adversaries juxtapose solemnly.
The dry dust sucks up water rush.
Still salamander, smiles interminably.

Ibex's arched crenelated horns clash.
Clatter of feudal nobles battering shields.
Clouds spattered by blood and ash.
Shattering power by He, that wields.

Piercing bite, venom bitter pepper spiced.
Penetrating an open wound delicately.
Lips that meet flesh and love is spliced.
Conjoined souls, snaking, overlap intricately.

Locked antlers unhook, ungulating dancers.
Litigative zeal, to obstruct the great.
By camouflaged carpet of salamanders
Cold cryptic insinuations lent weight.

Exploring loves high price and gain.
Cooling ardours unwelcome blight.
The brutally raging moonlight wane.
After-balm, a calming eerily quiet.

Surveying the patch, perched aloft in mist.
Awaiting the victorious combatants' nod.
Unflinching, serenity, in calm alpine drift.
She awaits, to tend his brave, spilt blood.

Aquatic eyes, of penetrating bluish scene.
Across ravines, prancing hooves take chances.
Arresting scent of pine resin amber-green.
Torn limbs, rub, loves healing fragrances.

Copyright©Xsapph

Steps

2009-04-07T01:35:00.023+01:00

The Betrothed

Cassia stick scented, and sweet flavoured, sucked, between his teeth.
Avoiding the cracks, panting he climbed each step, out of breath.
The sweat beads that roll down his skin, glistening bronze in the heat.
Avoiding the soft memories, that haunted his splintered heartbeat.

Broken hat straw, strands that combed through his tousled long hair.
As he missed his footing, the narrow lane made him take greater care.
Cautiously climbing stony steps, weed, overgrown, wild mint, and sage.
Coldly, how his emotions, her cold scrutiny of his face would disengage.

Trying not to remember riddles of her hubristic answers that led to this.
Sipping wine from thick licked goblets, too much, a sombre reminisce.
The retribution that had followed her to end, had been delicately swift.
Then there were fond thoughts of her cleverness in times of skilful thrift.

At times the nettles punctured his soft sandals, unnoticed in the humidity.
Taking each of her small hands in his weather beaten ones, with idle rapidity.
Watchful jewelled lizard, and coppery stag beetles scurrying into copses.
Their eyes like hers, as she prepared delicate cooked pigeon’s corpses.

Lovingly she had rubbed into his skin, perfumed and aromatic incense oils.
Just as when she had roasted meat, on hot coals, her smile, now he recoils.
He thought of her and how he had held those same cold hands in his.
Relentlessly, in the dark soft shadows, his thoughts, she would quiz.

The walls had kept out the heat, and he had turned over in his sleep.
When his dream ended, he wondered, climbing a slope that was steep.
Flickering images of her moving around in his sleeping, wakeful mind.
Heavy damask of silk and cotton had warmed him from a monsoon wind.

The market traders treated all sailors with the same coastal indifference.
His own jealousies might have rested but for her, now his jaw was tense.
Though his Byzantine, silken-serge, apparel had left a distinct impression.
Once he became her life and love, he knew he would be a lost possession.

Her provocative form led to back lanes of antiquities and basket weaving.
Restless grieving mothers, who spat, at strangers, as they were leaving.
His eyes drank in the multicoloured fabrics that draped, or surrounded her.
To hold her close and yet keep her distant, such were wishes in silent prayer.

They hardly spoke, since all they needed was the waxing moon and its light.
Those were the days of love and avoiding any fabric that was bright white.
Days filled with lying beside her, watching her bold strength, crushing grain.
The purple bruised grapes, the reddish brown charred bones would remain.

Her fingers would tease his close-shaven chin, or pull his ears softly.
Releasing fingers his quickness at escape was completed adroitly.
Then there would be those charcoal eyes that bore into his insides.
Knowing that within her the woman, the child within him; chides.

Burning topaz, protection amulet, swung at her neck, now his alone.
Leaving her unexpectedly, or wanting her out of life, for which, to atone.
Her wildness denied him safety, soundless footsteps, left unnoticed.
Willowy limbs of another had now filled his heart, longingly, he reminisced.

He had placed a lapis lazuli, gold flecked into her hand, closing fingers.
Such pale hands, forgetting this had once belonged to another who lingers.
Now he held it again, and its fiercely clutched imprint cut into his palm.
Little did he know that the two would meet, and talk, yet he felt calm.

The path became narrower, and now he could barely find it, in the brush.
Now there were birds’ nests, a blue egg, beneath his feet he felt it crush.
The sound of the spring water, and its reward filled his parched senses.
He knew it would never be the same without her dark eyes, his jaw tenses.

Closer he pushed, tiring, sweating and at once cooling anticipation.
He recalled with shame, being discover'd and the sharp cutting accusation.
In the glade that opened, the spring flowed into a lake of reflected glass.
She stood in the doorway so many nights ago; they came to an impasse.

He undressed, hurriedly, despite his years, a lightness of youthful agility.
Just as he had when her fierce eyes bore down on him, sensing futility.
Stepping down the rocks into the water, to float on his back, calmly.
He had tried to ask for forgiveness from her, and his lover, humbly.

He had learnt from her the subtleties of jealousy, and his craven retreat.
Fuelled by unlatched thoughts, that unbind, and become indiscreet.
And then there was the other one, whose energy waned like the moon.
Soft and pale as different as the dark-eyed wonder, with lips of maroon.

Where his eye caught hers, under a thinly veiled indifference, and slyness.
Tip-toeing into a leisurely trot, enjoying the idea of giving of him, less.
Attention supplanted, nervously at first and then minutely attentive.
Those disconsolate, soundless nights when he became inventive.

In time, enveloping Damask silks, seemed suffocating, dark privacy, decay.
Sneaking out when he could find a way to avoid discovery, or delay.
The ulcer of being discovered became his enemy, until she took charge.
He would slide out of bed, to watch the silvery moons gibbous belly enlarge.

Swimming slowly, he waited listening for her arrival, and felt it occur.
He turned around and there she was, with eyes that burnt his love for her.
Truth clinging was unavoidable in those times when she perpetuated it.
No lies would protect him, from being scorched by her spark and spit.

Although he saw nothing her unseen hands encircled him, tightly.
He felt calmer than a large leaf sagging, as the rain fell on it, lightly.
The water surface shimmered, like ornamental mirrored glass.
He beckoned all of their history to enfold around him as forecast.

The pull of tender arms, he slid underneath with his betrothed's embrace.
Floating deeper into an unknown and subterranean fire: inner space.
Her hair wrapped around his shoulders and he knew he was to blame.
He neither fought nor feigned, but the kiss awaited longingly, never came.

...Sigh...

2009-04-06T21:25:00.003+01:00

Aaah my aloof friend you speak,
and sigh.
Pond deep, eyes of disloyalty, lie.
Decanting tea, with manicured hands,
then sigh.
Sugar bowls filled with discoloured sands.
Unaided by you, whilst others helped,
oh sigh!
Litmus paper with acid developed.
I took you for a lifelong friend,
to sigh.
The timedust layers, censoriously tempered.
A book lay open with fingerprint tears,
then sigh.
The pages, my dear, distorted the years.
Your illustrious signature, devoid of integrity,
a sigh.
Pitied soul relying on its authenticity.
Clear signs of trust in you are eluded,
we sigh.
Silk ribbon of gratitude, is not for the gilded.
Tomorrows proven track; discover sly deviations,
ah! sigh.
The journey yesterday, found, slippery revelations.
I never grew from your misfortune or hurting,
but sigh.
To strengthen or heal such despair, and grieving.
If enduring envy trained the viper in your arm,
then sigh.
Poor you, to have rendered the need to harm.
When I fall, better to, alone, extinct in strife,
just sigh.
The acceptance, long awaited, sharpen'd knife.
I whisper'd my gratitude. Love spoke to thee.
You sigh.
Forgiveness flowed out of the blood in me.
Insurgent tactic, we drift to forgotten shores.
I sigh.
The glinting eye, flickering closed, was yours.

Copyright©Xsapph

Unicorn

2009-03-06T21:37:00.012Z

Title: Pegasus
Artist: Jacopo de'Barbari

The sculptured privet, unicorn delight.
Its moonlit shadow dances at night.
Swift footsteps that pass it nervously pause.
As usual you have an undercurrent cause.
It seems to have a gentle life of its own.
The cyclone of your emotions spin alone.

I sense it wants to turn its trimmed head.
As its shadow moves, to fill with dread.
You dig its frame with long fingers.
I feel each moment dawdles and lingers.
A signature walk that reminds me.
That this is how far behind, I could be.

A better world for your presence, perhaps not.
In a trap, or vice, I could be deviously caught.
I take two steps back, tripping lightly.
Feeling the stars icy light shine brightly.
The unicorn privet seems to move brusquely.
Your fingers toying, reach for mine, teasingly.

Your plans ahead are well laid by you.
Even as revelations of your lies are true.
We smile and agree to meet again.
Unlocking the hearts binding chain.
The marble bench seems invitingly cool.
Here we are in a private polemic duel.

To see in your eyes what you have become.
Were I able to admit you were tiresome,
When your actions drifted aimlessly adroit.
Your lack of caring for those you exploit.
Disappointment, that you lacked dignity.
Or were anointed by coldness not solemnity.

Side by side, the unwatched time slips by.
I listen for your tone to change, as you lie.
Taking small sips from a shared tea-flask.
The long awaited breakup, becomes a task.
The earlier picnic seems so long ago.
Even now I wax nostalgic, aglow.

Are those really your thoughts I wonder.
As layers of ideas, you submerged under.
The excitement is delayed by my question.
You snarl at any retrospective suggestion.
The unicorn privet seems to sweat moisture.
Any flashbacks are rejected you ensure.

Your eyes, metallic bronze, shining bright.
As you pretend you care and me, excite.
Even as you throw away the well-used flask.
I know you are pulling me and dare to ask.
There are no footsteps even into our past.
I try to recall when like this we were last.

Picnics always leave me feeling exhilarated.
Baited, I wonder what you have left unstated.
I had hoped for pleasure, you would have loved.
Yet memories, each punch, soft slap gloved.
Do I fit the future horizon you view?
The colours that faded, I once knew.

The laughter in your voice is subtle, delayed.
With each tense, smile conveyed.
I wonder when your words first calloused.
Remembering such times, seasons sped.
Controlled, infallible or are there armour chinks?
As each month, hand holding, partner unlinks.

Filigree Fleur-de-lis hedgerows exposes,
Trellis' swamped with glorious oriental roses.
Multi-colour waves, of butterfly clouds form.
We shiver, drenched by the famished storm.
Any promise as always - despised treasure,
Entails accepting a miserly measure.

I see the privet hedges hide broken splinters.
That cut no deeper than those harsh winters.
Then almost too soon there is thunder.
Followed by lightening, eardrums rupture.
Rapturous sounds, which quicken our moves.
As rain beats down, with the rhythm of hooves.

We hold hands: quickly look around us.
Then losing trust, to privately cuss.
Your eyes are impenetrable as you hide inside.
Colliding instincts that hooked deeply, belied.
Which path back out of the complex maze?
Words and action in contradiction betrays.

The seconds linger as you forge a way out.
Though you led us here, without redoubt.
Looking at your profile I see more than before.
I realise time is too short, I don't care anymore.
Is adoration always blinded in loves' game?
When love commands; passions' kinder, aflame.

Each turn feels the same to return inwards.
As if elastic strings pull at the hearts' chords.
Then outwards, left, now right, green hedge.
chasing shadows, green and verdant sedge.
Darker at times into murkier end walls.
Like hotel rooms that loneliness recalls.

Retreating or advancing, the journey passes.
Your vantage ground, even hope surpasses.
Slipping once, on wet leaves I feel rain drops.
Secret ambushes, your promises are props.
The thunder is closer, so is the unicorn.
A glint from its eyes, bounces to its horn.

Exasperated, I see your face tense jaw-line.
Even a statue exhibits more by design.
The unicorn seems darker, or is it the clouds.
As wispy mist surrounds, like ghostly shrouds.
I have scratched my wrist taking sharp angles.
Blood beads form rings like ruby bangles.

You hurry, sometimes taking my hand.
Temporarily there is between us a strand.
Sweat beads form like silver tattoo on your brow.
Yet I know that we loosen and disavow.
Your shirt tears, now the muddy path spatters.
In your eyes, the trauma of hope shatters.

I liked watching your muscles, masculinity.
With such adoration I discovered an affinity.
The instant love stopped, and then winter came.
In each area of imputation, settled blame.
Now I struggle to keep pace, you speed ahead.
It seemed you always found escape and sped.

I call out and you pause, irritated at being lost.
The saving grace of politeness can exhaust.
I smile; the cuts and bruises are worth this.
For a second, smiles, then you softly reminisce.
You march ahead faster than I can follow.
Our past adventure seems contritely hollow.

Then the moment your cruelty comes to mind.
Offset feelings, though ruefully inclined.
The rain seems to spend forever in one place.
There is no comfort in a regretful chase.
The mist covers our tracks around our ankles.
Even a smile, remorsefully rankles.

Eventually, I stop, to hear you swear, ahead.
Catching my breath, an apprehensive dread.
The unicorn finds you amusing perhaps.
It seems to stage, its’ elegant traps.
I look up, to find a foothold in the privet.
Sorrow and apologies no longer beget.

The unicorns artificial gait: a science
Its' natural one, perfect cognizance.
Pretexts and excuses, forever inhaling
I felt to be with you my spirit was ailing
In peaceful lilac space to convalesce.
Or pity one that was ever voiceless.

Was this weakness always there in you?
Such contemplation and questioning ensue.
The chilling damp air weakens my resolve.
Maybe, your disengagement will absolve.
The sharp freshly shorn branches are harsh.
Beneath us, becomes a watery marsh.

To release a lover concertedly with grace.
Sometime, gently, our life we retrace.
Tenderness was lost in its own confused haze.
Friend or enemy, each side of a fire would blaze.
I push into the brush and climb a little way up.
And see my lipstick, lip-stain an empty cup.

You call out, and I reply softly, silently.
Eventually, those we love perish absently.
There is no colour in the rain that starts to fall.
Suited you seem, a moving column, of grey pall.
Is this what happens, if love is a passing whim?
All lightness, and brightness, seems to dim.

Lightening seems to touch the unicorn's horn.
When I point this out you laugh and scorn.
For a second everything is beige gold.
I hesitate and then feel extolled and bold.
I climb and the pain seems dead, now remote.
I recall discovering the revealing note.

For a moment imagine I'm part unicorn.
Must we always torment, when lovelorn?
There seems a remoteness; in even your look.
Whilst deep beneath us the undergrowth shook.
I thought you could be generous and kinder.
If lovers are keepers; who is the finder?

The air feels cooler, I lie on my coat.
No longer to finding a pledge to devote.
To see you caught some way off, I smile.
Wasn't it you, who had become hostile.
Your repertoire of soundings is musical.
Tutelage: persuasively instructional.

I think to call out, but you don't think of me.
Although I hear you, I strain my eyes to see.
Then I say nothing, you're not alone at all.
Whatever may or may not sadly befall.
Could you have cared that all along, I knew.
The unicorn darkens, actually, it is you.

Boat

2009-03-05T12:56:00.006Z

Boat

Title: Sunset on Karst Hills & Junk Boats, Ha Long Bay, Vietnam

Artist: Keren Su

THURSDAY, MARCH 05, 2009
Boat

Under a thinly veiled cloud of Burmese gloom
this bewildering love grew like a warming plum.
Then the scent of confusion spread to the lake edge
softening water lilies petals where it languished.

Under a starless sky, lonely cold deception gleams
an elaborate strain of perfume mingled jasmine.
Such a cortège would only favour innocence in love.
Of those whose hearts were like a punctured sieve.

Under the gibbon moon, a prelude to a centred being;
for whom no-other sided beside nor lay dreaming.
The deafening whisper broken by a fallen leaf sigh
in a stream of colourless tears hope slyly slips by.

Under a dawns bright searing light; twilight bowed
as the yearning soul escaped its armoured shroud.
The only treachery was in self-delusion and fear
briefly in a poignant symphony of heartfelt care.

Under a warming morning, a wintry white sun
softened the scene with its haunting sheer muslin.
No two smiles would share the same comprehension
unless each held close committed time and reason.

Under burgeoning, creamy ambrosia clouds up high
Sheer dreams of transparent littered hopes pass by.
Adversity resolves, lovers to split, loves fire extinguish
and wordless language finds only heartfelt anguish.

Under pale blue skies where neither cloud nor sun shone
and the sorrowful space was filled with reflections of rain.
Bare skinned vanities rose during the summer season,
to race away before harsh autumn chose its allegiance.

Under each back lit star, a caterpillar strain of silver
a streak of lightening transforms a torrential river.
To follow with thought and renewed hopes therein,
a boat leaf courses down a rivulets watery vein.

.... by xsapph....

Tempo

2009-02-25T02:51:00.003Z

Title: An Italian White Marble Bust Of The Apollo Belvedere After The Antique, Second Half 19th Century

Somehow, when I stare at the stillness in your face, I feel your thoughts,

Thoughts that penetrate my mind, and make me feel we are closer.
Closeness never seems more apparent, than when you smile softly.
Softly I approach you, so that I do not disturb the quiet concentration,
Concentration of thoughts provoke you, to whisper them compellingly.
Compelling me, I find myself wanting to turn your chin, to search deeper.
Deep in my memory, I escape reconciling only gentle needs, that linger.
Lingering pathways, that hold such moments in their cooling narrow pass.
Passing by again, and if ever, I would never let you go so far away.
Away in some place, that I felt compelled to seek you out, suffering softly.
Soft smile, and then fiercely is this the way, that you always look in pain.
Pain that fills the entire room, when you are absent from such special times.
Timing each move again, I surrender the source of my thought process.
Processing each idea, and then let it go to a place where you are very still.
Still I hope and wonder if you can be persuaded to say something now.
Now you are still quiet, and peacefully tranquil in your own private dreams.
Dreams from which only I in wakefullness find your every move fascinating.
Fascinating touches of colour and hues that blend across your body of work.
Work that never has an end even when it appears tedious to pretenders.
Pretences have no place in what you would call your creative space.
Space that widens with the misunderstandings that others have of you.
You always place me in a special way a little too high to reach or fall.
Falling, I wonder if you would move fast enough to catch me or never to.
To carry a small tray of delicacies, star-fruit, fancifull sweetmeats to share.
Sharing, only this morsel of figs, and sip this mead cup sweet with honey.
Honey shaded eyelashes that flicker when caught by the winds cold breath.
Breath that is only icy when the window is open and our body heat is all.
All that I am holds you now in such a conceptual place as only art can.
Can art lead you back to where we commanded truthfulness in silence.
Silent gestures leave us both to ponder our knowing smiles, sans fatality.

Three

2009-02-22T02:37:00.001Z

Title: Three Cups o' Joe II

Artist: Robert Burridge

Three started their journey and discovered tenderness was felt by two.
There was no further steps to take for one who bowed once and left.
I watched you through the small crack in the door, intensely puzzled.
Then waited before I entered the room where insanity spread.
Three sat around a small wrought iron table, two closer, smiled.
The sugar bowl seemed dirty to the one who felt alone, and sad.
I thought about the moment we first met and how it felt poignant.
Then there was the threat of thunder far off yonder and dread.
Three held hands loosely in the dance that enfolded two tightly.
There was one from whom closely guarded secrets were excluded.
I touched your face lightly when you were flushed with feverishness.
Then remembered to stroke the pillow smooth, eucalytpus scented.
Three wound around each others thoughts, but two remained to talk.
There were shabbier moments for one who had been rendered silent.
I spoke to you softly for a day or two, even as I tried to extricate myself.
Then to wait until your own look disclosed you too felt somberly reticent.
Three coffeecups left covered in fingertips, two were barely drunk.
There were long sips and then in one who paused, silent observation.
I felt the squeeze of your hand on my shoulder, reawakening longing.
Then stepping out into a murky night from Piccadilly's well-lit station.
Three heads turned to follow the waitress lithely take away a cup for one.
There, before brief goodbyes, as two left, one shyly witnessed fragile love.
I slipped my hand in yours effortlessly and felt the fingers close around mine.
Then pressed close to your arm, when it rained we hid under arches above.
Three had shared their past disturbances within which laughter had rooted.
There one realised that thoughts delved deeper into planning a journey alone.
I lifted my face for a kiss that arrived as swiftly as the misty London rain.
Then felt a tribute to the clowns of old as faces that peered at us were gone.

.... by xsapph....

Attic

2009-02-20T18:26:00.003Z

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2009

Attic

The burlesque mood was one of colourful kaleidoscopic charm
with chrysanthemum skirts that sashayed in the breeze
On a wooden step, he sat sometimes lost in his own thoughts.
as each well toned leg kicked and then danced by his gaze,

He barely glimpsed their mesmerising forms, all beyond his reach.
Into the smoky mood he reflected a dreaming woman.
Long flights of staircases that fled up to the crackled attic.
Climbing up with soda bread, and wine tucked under his arm.

Celery wilting and broken in his top pocket with tobacco.
The hard cheese wrapped in brown paper and string.
Then waiting as the floorboards creaked with her light step.
The kiss that lingered and sometimes the solitude did too.

Yet pretending not to notice the small mouse that escaped.
Though threadbare the rug was soft under her resting head.
And when atop the dresser the candle went out steaming,
The frozen moonlight shone in with its aspect shivering.

Then delighted laughter, eager hands, bread crumbs fell.
His woollen hat held close to her heart until she forgot him.
The smell of goose fat and a broken egg mixed fumes.
Crackling bacon cooking somewhere awakened his taste buds.

The fight that lasted more than a week, forgotten at night.
The pleading words that draw him back to her forgiving kiss.
The lost handkerchief that later was found on a chimney stack.
Sometimes lying cross feet, on the rack of a disruptive bed.

Staring at stockings drying on the rusty, useless radiator.
Would those flowers ever be thrown away or dry to Potpourri.
No photographs in case everything revealed would be alive.
Succumbing not to life’s distant pleasures of committed love.

The rain beads so still, hanging strung on washing lines.
The handmade chimes melody of glass beer-bottoms and wire.
The tribal dance of a jazz bar throbbed through the rafters.
Waiting for her to fall into his arms in helpless laughter.

Then the foolish words he uttered slyly without consideration,
Losing her transparency more daily, and even in the night.
Little by little the changes were unfelt as they fleeted by.
Longer and longer the days seemed in which to repent.

To kiss those cold hands, gently hold them tight in his.
Such lavender longings would only be a lifetime away.
Now lavender lace and magnolias brushed by his face.
Quickly he rose and changed the stage scene with finesse.

Then caught the eyes of an old familiar face in the gallery.
Without doubt the same eyes but now the hair was grey.
His met hers, she smiled and lowered her beautiful face.
Another pressed his lips to her ear and squeezed her hand.

To delightfully perish, was the only way he learnt.
When love ignites passion, reason rests in ashes.
We wonder often 'what if', and 'how come'...Not I.
He wondered not, he knew the 'whys', and what had become.

Footsteps

2009-02-19T00:35:00.001Z

The broken petals that faded, faded in a gloom of anticipated waiting
If in tenderness a heart found itself again in the shyness of youth
Then only then would my hand find yours unwaveringly in a storm.
Though to never look beyond the end of the corridor of provocation.
To be so wretched that the mere thought of tolerated smiles nauseated.
The strain of such beginnings would end any separated concerns for now.
Listening for footsteps that only came when the spring rain had passed.
Undistorted faith renewed a minute before sunset, just as the clock struck.
Such creative myriad formations of thought and responses bound together.
To take both hands in yours, feel your firm kiss linger on soft palms.
Marigolds brush against staining pollen of green and lime-gold lilies.
Waiting beneath the arbour, listening to your laughter and maritime joy.
If only the day was less bleak when you were so far away to be missed.
Listening for footsteps that only came when the spring rain had passed.
Touche’: speak softly with eyelashes of dark burnt wood, that flicker sadly.
Eyes watching the fury of pine needles, falling rain, spearing grass blades.
A quick burst of sunshine prepared for another month that left the past.
Turning away from light, to see in the shadow of a broken friend, only grief.
Holding out an outstretched hand, yearning such an offering to clasp tight.
Pressed flowers for sweet words written with kindness that drew a smile.
Listening for footsteps that only came when the spring rain had passed.

Title: Welcome Footsteps
Artist: Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema

.... by xsapph....

Ending Road

2009-01-23T15:58:00.000Z

Ending Road 230109

I drove on for some time, before realising I had switched on, wipers without rain.
Mischief makers, bronze-god vipers had blackened out the trust, for selfish gain.
Stopping at the traffic lights, hoping the lights changed their predicted sequence.
Was patience another delay tactic, unending, compounded, sour circumstances?
I gripped the wheel, knuckles of intense concentration, rigid self-restraint withdrew.
Unsure of intuition, a perilous situation, to suppress the heart, or remain self-true.
I wanted to turn back, committed, knock on the door, of renewed chances.
If jealousy prospered: progress was halted, in any relationship it enhances.
A night owls' shriek; the genial moon replied: a resplendent eerie, lighted séance.
Any influences centered from a strong core: always inspire our spirits to advance.
He hesitated before joining me, and I drove slower than normal, contemplating.
So many times salutary impressions, lost, were stripped to impetuous debating.
Before I dropped him off, he lowered his head, and implored me to reconsider.
Ceaseless, blinding advances so many in the past, perhaps our focus now hinder.
I watched his long stride as he marched, to pause, and then his shoulders sigh.
Perilous steps, tiptoed past the sleeping crocodile, that opened its glazed eye.
Many given opportunities, left me anxious, even so, there was his winning smile.
Stubborn inflexibility, startled the active mind: an overbearing, problematic style.
I continued on, into somber self-reflective uncertainty, with no thought of 'us'.
A simple future was not one, he presented with warmth, and strength of purpose.
Arbitrarily-drilled missive, lasting words delivered, crisp certainty to him was dear.
Omitting hard centered deliberations, an angel fell beside me, a path now clear.
I waited for my turn, at the water fountain, and watched him take a slow sip.
The prevailing tranquil concord, between two lovers, seems softly to slip.
The stainless steel reflected, bright star shine, that washed over his face.
Fronds of broken ivy, blue-bonnet bobbing lupines surrounded us with grace.
For a moment he paused, and caught the mood, of my sincere intentions.
The appeal of glamorous allures, would build, synthesising impressions.
I knew this would be a snapshot, for my memories, and here it was again.
Although the evergreen, luminous glaze that had incited, was on the wane.
He stood up straight, his mouth moist and his lips cold, an icy wintry drink.
Revelatory nuances, surprise and comprehension, would make the heart sink.
I took a quick sip, as he offered me the same, and then, an out-reached hand.
So many times those small misgivings, emerged, censuring a restless mind.
With quick angled movement, swallows flew darting, over a quaint rooftop.
A hand withdrawn summarily, would reveal the change, fast forward to stop.
Resting against the car-bonnet, a scorching ultimatum delivered, folded arms.
Withdrawing and releasing, renewed confidence escaping, from intuitive charms.
I stared at him trying to see beyond the words, lost in a distant, hazy future.
Sympathy and compassion mingled, without comfort, in his imposing stature.
He was always climbing successively, along a rising road, like a gilded snake.
I shook my head, and climbed high; knowing that this was all for loves sake.
We walked slowly back over the small bridge, feelings endlessly yearning.
A fatal delay... decay, quickened the essence, of past times' fruitless longing.

Copyright©Xsapph

Title: Yea Though I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death I Will Fear No Evil

Artist: Frank C. Pape

... And then ....

2009-01-14T23:41:00.000Z

And Then....

Her suitors fell aside and wept to see one who overthrew each game she rejected.

And then she watched the snow that began to fall softly as delicate as icing sugar.

The insolence of those who reeked unfavourably of stale tobacco made her shudder.

There was nothing so captivating to him as the scintillating sound of her laughter.

Her white silk scarf tore as it caught his cufflinks and the rip left frays unnoticed.

And then the snow drifts blew softly away as her dress train brushed the ground.

Her fingers glided at every opportunity across inches of snow that covered her.

He had watched her move from suitor to suitor discovering her dislikes and frowns.

Layers of pink and creamy chocolate silk covered her stockin’ed legs and frozen feet.

And then her hem deepened in colour as the snow lace melted into the darkened red.

She felt her earring slip beneath her feet in the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon.

He grasped her hand and she barely noticed his strong arm supported her waist.

Like a stork that took flight at the sound of a ripple-shell tossed on the soft shore.

And then she lifted heavy wet gown hems climbing deep inside the carriage.

Cloves and garlic cooked together seemed to waft across the still frozen lake.

He observed that her face was taught from youth to traverse echo with silence.

She wondered where the scent of musky masculinity would lead her senses.

And then the door shut tight, the journey began in heavier snow falling darkness

Her own perfume whisps reminded her of fields of heather and lilac blooms.

He climbed in, as around her silk and velvet dress layers folded like petals.

She listened to far off laughter and the music that seemed heavy and misshapen.

And then the horses battled against the slippery lanes that deafened their hooves

She could still almost taste bucolic winter cucumbers, as she bit into the night air.

He sat opposite her and ne’er did their eyes meet tho’ his never left hers.

She felt lost in a nervous anticipation, and excitement, moods: both deepening.

And then through the carriage windows she lost her scarf, which floated away.

Wet shoes, purple ribboned, satin leather, and the scent of pinecones and earth.

He memorised the exact location and knew her scarf would be his as would she.

Neither heart nor mind would find a price that it seemed to her would equal Life.

And then she pulled her coat about her neck and shivered, with wet coal eyes.

As the carriage rumbled through the forest, branches left signature scratches.

Even as she looked past him as a ghostly mirage he wanted to warm her smile.

Fractured ice was surrounding the trees that seemed to reach out to capture her.

And then the scent of abandoned smoking gypsy fires warmed only her memory

Familiarity with a swarthy man of unknown scents and imagery enthralled her.

Sleeping she slipped gently to rest on his folded coat, unaware of his attentiveness

In dreams snow melted revealing a sleeping man, whose ashen face she kissed.

And then the horses reared stopping so suddenly as to send her into wakefulness

Holding her firm he lifted her safely, to a secure position and steadied his gaze,

Iconic columns of proud gods unrivaled even now in their fall from grace.

And then she searched for delicately hand-stitched gloves and sensed his scent.

The search to end would mean that she would never grasp life’s mystery again.

Without cognition, she countered any breathless hurry he may have felt to speak

Declining silence slumped each exhilarating thought that preoccupied her.

And then she climbed down with the help of a frail arm and eyes soft and kind.

Pastoral psalms played in some distant brittle church with bones like his.

Already he had sped away to light fires and arrange malted foamy wine.

A blanketing closeness about her shoulders as she drifted into her own thoughts.

And then she stepped carefully leaving fresh prints in blueish marble snow.

The pealing bells seemed hollow, the mellifluous echo faded hauntingly.

The icy moon, revealed by drawn back curtains, as his coat shrouded damp logs

She felt as if something had called out to her through the shimmering darkness.

And then she dropped wearily in a winged back chair of tapestry gold and green.

The taste of smokey air and woody ash and elm comforted her memories.

For a second he hesitated wistfully searching for reassurance for her lost soul.

Oblivion was always an easy sedative that would often discard consciousness

And then she closed her hands around a warming drink and stared into the flames

Pleasure and penance often warded off any chance of furtive embraces it seemed.

Lanterns lit to ward off dark veins of night that coursed through sombre rooms.

Even the sound of a clattering open window somewhere did not distract her.

And then the flames scorched her damp hems with broken brushwood embers.

Perplexing imagery of calloused hands yet soft spoken melodious words.

The glowing steam that gently rose through her dress was put out by a blanket.

Her wet gloves made her shiver though she hardly moved in her wakeful dream.

And then she closed her eyes to take a deep breath filled of his stirring scent.

She would have torn through bramble thorns to reach the one she felt was hers.

Ne’er did she notice his surefooted silent attentiveness, he faded into agate mist.

Tongue-biting, she had drawn blood in her intensity of awakening emotion.

And then she realised she was being observed from the rooms gleaming corner

She could no longer see her frozen breath mist the air and make her blink.

He would have found her fallen eyelash in the snow had she commanded it.

She realised she had always known but somehow had lost him in her mind

And then he stepped forward and sank beside her, his face cupped by her hands

Poised almost to leap into the flames, immersed by their glow she was ready.

He said her name so softly that she smiled at the recognition of his love.

She threw her gloves into the fire and wished away his hands holding hers.

And then their bodies fire warmed, as he felt her melt away to nothingness.

14^th January 2009

ENVY

2009-01-13T23:48:00.000Z

Envy

Placing a beauty mark ‘neath an eye on rosy cheek

That stays jet-black, when others tears feign to weep

When a razor thorn belies the softest scorn

So much the friend who found excuse in folklore

Where were you then, when need was want?

Excessive quietness allows the scent to seed.

The rival waits with dissipated vows

As if a statute of limitations were allowed.

Then churlish whispers that grew inside the mind,

A rich bouquet, such unneeded aid is cast aside.

The deceptive rivalry between so called friends

Will always go too far, to heal or skillfully mend.

Invidiousness, by the small is easy to discount

Even as restless comparison causes its own discontent.

Though joy in appreciating the delicacy of misfortune

And its effect on the object of envy is craved in time.

Then is there a wane in true laughter and rose wine

For the devious, there is bloodless loathing behind the eyes

Of the sweetly smiling plaything one assumes is a friend

That waits in obscurity for dimness to brighten with death

Even if sly indemnity finds a way to preserve the live long soul.

Subversive existence will always be a life cut short potential.

Intelligence inures only the conceit and milieu of the offended

Intellectual harmony perceives genially all that is intended.

No coffin shuts one up as sleekly as cold lips clamped neatly

Wordlessly providing nothingness but a masquerade larva mask.

The mystifying gloom that holds enchanting dialogues at bay

Alluringly normal to those whose drawn knife is raised.

Jaunty humour a breakthrough delusion arrested

Time the vestiges protector of our secrets divested.

Our bones ashes eventually dissolve in tears softly shed

Most of all for what could have been a beloved Friend.

13^th January 2009

March Winds... April Kisses

2009-01-11T14:29:00.000Z

Wouldn't I have looked at you the same?
You could have turned to me first.
Others, only watched, and alienated your pain.
Waiting for you to grow up, heartstrings are broken.
Trying to avoid you, they let you drift desolated.
They responded coldly, with the fewest words,
To keep you where you were, alone.
Lost in the bouquet of dead roses, life discovered.
I would never have been a person so small.
How could I not have tackled anything - shared,
If you revealed the profound layers.
Below each armoured sleeve, as a gift?
Strengthening the mind by mindfulness.
I know the reality is hard to face,
That I was, always, your watchful friend.
Listening to their excuses, years passed by.
March winds blew softer April kisses.
Not for a moment did I forget you were there.
Not for a moment did I forget you were afraid.
Not for a moment did I forget we were bound.
For I always loved you and cared.

Wouldn't you have done the same for me?
You could have turned away, or stayed.
Others, thought they knew you, better than I.
Waiting for me to grow weaker, and forget.
Trying to destroy, they avoided accountability.
They responded with diffused treachery.
To keep us from discovering each others fragility.
Lost in broken rose petals, humility was covered.
I would never have been a person, so callous.
How could I not have forgiven or been forgiven?
If you looked deep into my loving eyes.
Below our surface control we hide doubt.
Strengthening the heart by truthfulness.
I know eventually all will come to light.
That you were always in my prayers.
Listening to their words, seeing their shallowness.
March winds blew softer April kisses.
Not for a moment did I forget you were there.
Not for a moment did I forget you were afraid.
Not for a moment did I forget we were bound.
For I always loved you and cared.

Wouldn't I have given you anything?
You could have helped me a little too.
Others fully intended, to remain on the sidelines.
Waiting to grow up, they were irresponsible.
Trying to take stock of only, your surface illusion.
They responded with hidden agendas.
To some insecure feelings of triumph.
Lost in fresh cut daffodils, sensitivity recovered.
I would never have been, a person so ignoble.
How could I not have shared my uncertainties?
If you had shown me a little compassion.
Below each complex lie is a simple thought.
Strengthening the spirit by facing oneself.
I promise there is always kindness here.
I was always always fighting in your corner.
Listening to their shuffling, tiptoed retreat.
March winds blew softer April kisses.
Not for a moment did I forget you were there.
Not for a moment did I forget you were afraid.
Not for a moment did I forget we were bound.
For I always loved you and cared.

Wouldn't I have done more than smile at you?
You could never have doubted me, if you knew.
Others offered you their arm, with hard, slyness.
Waiting to be outgrown, before comprehension.
Trying to discover me, in your trusting eyes.
They knew how precious you were, and dear.
To comfort you, was only a ruse to draw you in.
Lost in photographs of your beauty, our sweet beloved.
I would never have been a person, so deceitful.
How will their Karma quicken a monstrous fall?
If only you had known, you were my Achilles heel.
Below each path I travelled, was a depthless hole.
Strengthening the hand hold, we reach for a friend.
I always knew the subtle plots, and intrigue... yet still...
I knew you would rise, if surrounded by love.
Listening to your heartbeat, strongly pound.
March winds blew softer April kisses.
Not for a moment did I forget you were there.
Not for a moment did I forget you were afraid.
Not for a moment did I forget we were bound.
For I always loved you and cared.

Title: Daffodils Personified
Artist: Walter Crane

Copyright©Xsapph

Loss & Gain

2009-01-07T14:50:00.000Z

Bad Times Photographer: Maggie Smith

His chin lowered, and eyes narrowed, then he looked up, puzzled.
Losing the one, whose fingerprint grooves, fit his, identically.
The honorable, would never, create sly secrets; against loved ones.
The noble calling, would follow willingly, a path, where truth presides.
Raspberry stained, clouds ignited, columnar juniper; candle trees.
... Dancers in smoke, juniper trees sway, mesmerised by windchimes.
The next step, hardest of all, if he would trip, or blindly fall.
He waited, to deliberate, the next move, fingers reach out.
Ribbons of colour, unfurled; rainbow balloons, serenity was absent.
Chasing rainbows, a foggy dream, where hands, held tight; to desire.
How the affluent, dally with hobbies, which for others, are futile hopes.
Troubled, the poor, climbed uncounted steps, anxiously, breathing hard.
Advance hindered, weathered conditions, strengthen or lengthen progress.
Accomodating ourselves, to loss or gain, our innocence, safeguarding pain.
Tip-toeing, along an edge, where far below, streetlights glow.
Feeling the wind, its incantation, and coaxing whisper, along the ledge.
Clinging helplessly, to reasons edge, or centred in the stormy eyes' calm.
Neither condition, taken to heart, the minds reason will discriminate.
Hesitation and contemplation, the contrasting moments so disimilar.
Rushing forward, quintessential dive into the unknown, so similar.
Windows into episodic moods, each bearable event, had lost moments.
Pillored halls, or smaller chambers, to house the Gods, sanctuary offered.
Amulets, cotton, silk, or treasured jars, civilisations, libations, proffered.
Fascination with each picturesque still, yet without sound.
Life's excavations would be unwrapped, intimately, without teeth.
With the inferior one must part company, fate hints, a welcome loss.
The scent grew, of sandlewood, carved, into a twisted snake.
A sandlewood snake, that coiled, spring-like, to strike the heart.
Possessions left behind, stolen, or discarded, acceptance heals.
A fleeing bird, escapes the fumes, man unheeds its cry, and remains.

Copyright©Xsapph

EAGLE

2008-12-31T11:57:00.001Z

My souls echo follows the shadow I choose,
of one I love too precious to lose;
as each dark road is out of sight.
Even threadbare love my hopes alight.
I stretch out my arms to embrace and measure,
the unconditional love from my gentle Father.

Those who know me know Mine,
for to those I love my heart I align,
whose face is always powerfully serene,
calmness, tranquillity each cryptic scene:
intellect a gift illusive treasure
enigmatic loner, an eagle my Father.

A charming smile, I whisper in his ear,
a secret melody that brings a tear:
if mother that day chided and berated,--
Even then I felt elated,--
sauntering in at leisure,
my tempest calming eloquent Father

After deploying strategy the enemy assented;
redemption, forgiveness quietly consented
no matter the delicacy or hooked angle
a morsel daintily would dangle
all boundaries understood and which border,
protection surrounded me by my father

Love’s tenderness and strength in grace,
Found in a sensual handsome face,
no swan’s wing could inspire nor could I be tempted,
to lose sight that intuition reassured.
An eagle takes flight soars high, so far
I, a falcon live on in the shadow of my Father.

.... by xsapph....

Lovers' Liquor

2008-12-09T17:22:00.000Z

Softly, I return a smile that had the power to swiftly hurt.
A look could destroy or empower in ways so very different.
And in the folds of a damson rose the silver raindrop rocked;
Broken into rivulets of blood wine, in transparency it flowed.
An invisible wound at loves lasting leisure, in timeless noon,
In nervous haste I slipped my crown and said too much too soon.
My speech quivered knowing I wanted to chase away delight.
His speech dithered chasing then fleeing silky enchantment.

I found myself this time moved towards a stirring musicality.
Passion resounded in strong vigour and cool blue clarity.
A tonal harmony that was joyful during private muted dialogues.
Discreetly, I stare at lips that lift then a single eyelash falls.
Too quickly I turn away and hold tight my own endeavours reins.
Gently boring soul to soul, puzzled skyward rise, deep brown eyes.
In him, the curiosity and changeling occupied the joyous.
In me, reservation and spangled lightening lashed the senses.

His hopes and visions paint simmering horizons that lightly dance,
I simply never thought to be so intensely immersed in romance.
Then feeling chaste, I swiftly regroup my senses and sped away.
Would stolen amorous chances reoccur with exciting alacrity?
To raze the promontory fort to slip into sea: courageously entwine.
Or hold back and wait the confluence as lovers' liquor conjoin.
Will love last another day where it can reaffirm selflessly?
Will he recognise the one that observes him hesitatingly?

Discovering love again when romance felt spent so long ago.
In the awakening of the heart the metronome quickened toe to toe.
As if it were the first time such trembling anticipation.
Finding myself drifting in and out of endless imagination;
His playfulness and laughter had softened my memory again.
I shivered feeling healing closeness would bind me to him.
Within the man the innocence of newborn dreams awakening.
Within me the quietest of soft whispers reverberated hymning.

.... by xsapph....

Title: Statue of Lovers Amongst Hedera Helix (Ivy) Old Chalk Pit
Artist: Sunniva Harte

A new momentum

2008-09-18T17:52:00.000+01:00

A new momentum
one that could have been yearning
for a moment more

stifling look that his
mirror was smiling with the
wildest of brown eyes

it was very strange to
to think I was starting to
feel I have spare time

lost in the life towers
we've seen on this bulb in which
I have to grow in

towering above
the lantana planted there
against the skyline

I put away just
in case of a soft storm or
winds that visit

the dust yesterday
and I am now watching
as it is covered

waking or dreaming
that often I will rise up
and see that I slept

the first Autumn weekend
and it's so luminous
handspun yarn fluffy clouds

foolish enough to
feel comfortable in your
carefully tied ends

think I am a little
out of it struck me so I
had to capture you

to know you can when
people tell you - you can't
you power through echoes

one can avoid the
alluring mystical glance
when you wake to rain

slow tailspin paper plane
coldly quiet paper mache'
fallen fear crushes

I always knew that
one day I would not want to
cause myself pain so

eyes firmly shut this
was something that I had felt
and dreamed of

passionately aloof
In my silent reveries
sitting still awake

nonchalance at first
there is the anxiety
I long to beat

still maintaining his
focus on the downside he
makes the rest of us

a spade a shovel
I look over to him so
he balances his mood

for it draws me to
soar like an eagle with
him died all respect

his counting of beats
is time precise and he has
a skeleton key

lock turn through some maze
to a friend who really
is a friend indeed

never to kiss me
tiptoes an ordained path
that fate signals to

there was no sorrow
in his mind what did occur
to him was it could

shine writhe lightening
in translucent light wetness
that glistened all

to find the first taste
new discovery longing
to only be real

dissonant and known
a terrified humour that
we can be silent

lovelorn swathed in
the heaven that hell divides
an opalescent light

than articulate
he loathed her constantly
laughing at nothing

something happens
to me it seems that nothing
exciting happens

over and around
read your words yet no repeat
opportunities to

retreat within
his inner playing ground found
joy and a world view

other way around
something within his inner
well was the bright gift

choreographed to
her will and almost manic
need to let me see

that he can spread out
his arms and feel that he has
long past resigned to

the very fabric
that enabled each of these
superficial types

red sugar tint that
lasts only until it is
wiped by the hand-back

shakes one out into
your sticky unwashed hand this
thought is one of those

approaches which may tend
towards linear thinking
as if lines of thoughts

hidden corner bluff
down on the sands watching the
cold surf kiss my legs

my eyes closed tight to
recall how his fingers were
unnaturally long

soon the pines will be
falling everywhere but
to the blinkered

tomorrow three wishes
at random times we sketched
our selves in grey dust

accompanying stars
we cling on and refuse to
heal the bleeding lip

you died with my kisses
that time has come for me to
dismiss you again

kiss on the inside
of each other's wrists and
then cut to bond too

hurt us all as if
you are helpless to do more
than even his eyes

an incisive
turn of the wrench I can feel
the dancer within

awake with clear eyes
before she would rise slowly
marooned she sighs

well you want to feel
important in another
life makes one need to

through winter to know
that I am whirlwind in
their midst whilst they cooed

the words I have here
are those of us that like some
order in our head

reading as he was
words of silky precision
silent thoughts were said

marvelled how the
relationship had changed
over and over

skipping again
to steal it like a child I
only smile wonder why

bursts of excitement
as I always have when I
visit your smile

in a sudden storm
I find the very essence
the limitation

living words settle
then hold an artform that
exists without them

to pass by time
salt or grains of sand
mountain it is not

of freeing a soul
is not subservient to
any woman's mind

but there is still a
perfect nature within that
reaches out from the heart

all it takes to bend
your knee to will and yet to
not means much more

I slip under arms
that reach out into an
electrifying space

cool silk shroud quickly
falling torn from the graceful
mount of storm riders

this the dance allows
no restful swaying cold cheek
to warm myself in

a preordained route
some find comfort in the trance
of shy masquerade

of skyline cooled
the moonlight entranced advance
to entreat retreat

one rushes to find the
reality justifying a
faith to exist but

unseen whilst other
heels are dug deep entrenched
defence the hearts shield

say anything to
avoid my sincerity
say something to fill

found unsealed could
never be learnt lessoned
the bruised indigo

cold italic pen
I had missed him all day
and in my hand ink indigo

each other fading
into the salmon-pink dusk
where the sunset ends

sky crackling thunder
plump kisses leave their soft imprint
on alabaster

delicate quivers
of memory in your dreams
I turned far away

day of remembrances
amber gold sun slid into
the finite minds' eye

.... by xsapph....

Lantana

2008-09-18T10:52:00.001+01:00

September 18th, 2008

..... A new momentum
one that could have been yearning
for a moment more

stifling look that his
mirror was smiling with the
widest of eyes brown

think I was starting
to think I was starting to
think I have spare time

down most of life churches
we’ve seen on this bulbine which
I have to grow in

towering above
the lantana planted there
against the skyline

I put away just
in case of a soft storm or
winds that visit

the dust yesterday
and I am now watching
as it is covered ...

xsapph

The feather

2008-08-24T23:06:00.001+01:00

The Feather

The bedraggled feather that I found at rest

Fallen pride, metallic shade of his dove gray vest

A torn russet feather wet and lost in rain.

Blood warm wine, carelessly spilt in vain.

Then sleep blanketed by feathers mottled brown;

Sharp exchanges that were by light sewn.

Two angry feathers shoehorn embedded in asphalt;

Unravelled thoughts slowly in darkness, spent.

Embroidered corsetry loosened; limbs revealed

A fish that sparkled fought, freshwater gleamed.

A lit match sizzle burnt feather tapers, and dry bark

Lips quiver that send an arrow to its soft kissed mark.

Cruel laughter retaliates at the world it despises.

Pepper seasoned sentiment that in self-mockery rises.

Sabres dance: ten-score rip feather fantails in delight,

Sharpened claws duel in the fowl and feline fight.

Whilst eyebrows arch then swoon divinely sly.

A lavender feather tip rests in frozen ink to die.

.... by xsapph....

Frost Ice

2007-09-26T22:01:00.000+01:00

Frost Ice

When Frost ices the web:

In lace.

When Keen Eye spies a bat at dusk.

When Hound retrieves a

Dying mandrake.

Fur-Clad,

shadows the scent of musk.

As Half Moon rocks the Night cry.

As Dawn draws Night from light.

As Red Ray, slashes the

Clouds grey.

Fur-Clad,

bares teeth to bite.

Whilst food is left in

Disturbed haste.

Whilst, a widow sweats with

Fear-full face.

Whilst leaden skin rots, on

Marble slate.

Fur-Clad,

dis-robes under a

Lover's gaze.

Bleak wind strokes,

Ebbing tide.

Majestic pines

Sway in unison.

Indigo lake shimmers,

A snow white hide.

Fur-Clad,

licks paws in

Innocence.

3rd November 1993.

Clair d’Lune

2007-09-26T07:57:00.000+01:00

Title:

Adonis

Artist: Euripides Kastaris

Clair d’Lune

In silent thought he sits alone

Now and then he softly moans

His amber flute sobs a dulcet tune

The rhapsody of Clair d’Lune

His confused, cavernous eyes

Bewildered, remember her lies

He stretches taut, his sinewy gauze wings

Like a hinged limb, marionette on strings

To wait in this secretive place

Souls were exposed and released

As children, their hearts were chaste

Where, they shared their fears in haste

Where rustling leaves whispered long

Deep sighs, until the fiery autumn dawn

And somehow they learnt to cope

With enchantment, and with hope

Of privacy, lest they should be stopped

Their plan abated, their secret lost

One final glance to see if she will come

Her sworn promise has left him numb

Midst evergreens; to give him her heart

A promise to let no one tear them apart

He whispers ‘Adieu’ into midnight air

As upon his cheek falls a crystal tear

He fades into an ethereal illusion

Forlorn at her inner completion

Where: for him, no place has been kept

For: someone new now sleeps on her breast

In her silent dream, she drifts alone

Restlessly, searching, she softly moans

An amber flute sobs a dulcet tune

The Rhapsody of Clair d’Lune

1^st May 1987

Arthur Rackham sketches...

Wasp-stings

2007-09-23T16:41:00.000+01:00

Wasp-stings

The two of us live vicariously, sensually through each other

Fading into the common place of each others nightmares;

Haunting each other with self inflicted wounds

And what have we left but imagined institutes

Temples pulse with prayer, whilst we sting as wasps sting

And I climb over debris, your surface camouflage, brittle as always

Such pretty colours, such delicate pastel shades

You always blend into the enchanted illusion; I create

By stark contrast your colours expose you clearly against a backdrop of reality

The same backdrop is my fortress wall

Silver daggers of light mark a template around your ever shifting form

And what of your almost tiny slivers graphite chips;

Eroded with the shavings of guilt

You step into my aura and step out; too quickly;

Before my purple and silver flames can hold you

And sizzle around your pastel rainbow glow

We are bookends; you and I

Repeated by volumes of social activity and avoidance ploys.

May 1983

Sketch credits:
Martin Stratton, Maidenhead, England.
A Friend, a graphic designer, cartoonist, and tree surgeon: typical Taurian creative and nature influences!
(Check out his sketches... he looks like a blonde, muscle-bound Viking)

Knowing

2007-09-18T00:56:00.000+01:00

.... by xsapph....

In the season’s kiss of sunshine,

there were lazy moments of laughter.

Even then I knew that the summer was fast leaving

and carelessly touching my shoulder as it swiftly fleeted by.

Fishes with fins of lace and pastel lips that smiled

as warmly as enemies.

Only the strong forgive once passing sorrows have been shared.

Even the weak take their leave of their senses

to feign a courageous ending.

I took a little of my allotted time,

paused for the thought that woke me fully.

Nutmeg and spices of cinnamon,

and cloveswere warmed in autumn’s evening fire.

For every gift of understanding,

another lifetime within me awoke.

I felt the same exquisite realisation;

intricate beauty wrapped my soul with comprehension.

Wasn’t this the infinite search that reason kneeled before?

I tried to say ‘hello’ as softly as the words ‘goodbye’ ,

for each received their own worth.

The jaguars padded elegantly beside me

as their shadows blended like smoke.

I held outstretched hands in the cooling embers,

that began to die in the early night.

Such lingering flickers across my Life’s canvass merged,

in swathes of raw blazing colour .

I took the moment as it came,

and knew that I could have appreciated it more,

But, smiling I also knew I already had.

Lake Calm

2007-09-10T00:09:00.001+01:00

Lake Calm

A mirror like a lake is calm, full of shadows once faces of history looking in, building layers upon layers over eyes. Sometimes forlorn, of those who could not be avenged, others who since have been avenged. None of them could be recounted fully; sometimes pain remained long after memory forgot

A moment having passed in one man’s life can never be retraced in exactly the same way as previously. Each moment unique, had you been there to live it.. To be considered contemplative was always how I unwittingly presented myself. You were not however, so thoughtful or sincere.

We could probably count seconds left between us today, this final day that had to come, swiftly softly. We could work out moments that have been lost too, when you said you would come but didn’t..
It may not matter until we remember it again.

Swans flight

2007-06-25T02:57:00.000+01:00

Where the road ends,

startled swan took flight,

and soared into yonder blue

Where the road bends,

yielding grass bent,

and lent a route for a moment anew

Where stepping stones appeared,

Cotswold pony reared,

a flaxen mane askew

Where laughter was heard,

luscious lemon curd,

honey coated mustard words cued.

Where the sunset sends,

bluish pink cirrus clouds,

silver coated swan without you, flew.

.... by xsapph....

Entwining...and releasing....

2007-06-09T23:22:00.000+01:00

Foto-credit: paintings by: Rabi Khan: the moment before the kiss...
then kiss
leading to passion
in an entwining Embrace

In everglades of sensual serenity
Happiness resides quietly.
Opalescent sunbeam shafts of light,
Pearlescent limbs withdraw from sight.

Entwining, succumbing to passion,

Though emotion is fought by reason.
Hazel eyes bore deeply into mine,
Avowed to discover lips divine.
The celestial chrysalis that emerged,
Merrily awakened senses submerged
Icy lakes under sunlight crackled,
Caresses warmed, and unshackled;
Happiness discovered untold wishes,
Armoured restraints fell with kisses,
Elusive glimpses into hidden pleasures
Leaves surrounded guarded treasures.
Trembling fingers became firmly secured,
Harming storms against which inured.
Out of reach of others prying eyes,
Melting into each others sighs.
Aspiring towards growing trust,
Sleepless past crumbled like rust.
Inside each soul the spirit awakened,
Steely determination would forever bend.
Tender caresses that seemed unending,
Hurried whispers that were heart rending.
Echoes of purposefully, plaintive prayer
Out of reach each heart would tear.
Now entwining, now releasing,
Endless laughter and gentle teasing.
Fiery assurances with a simple gesture,
Often kiss-sealed for good measure.
Roaming hands as sensual embraces,
Merrily, the quickened heart beat races.
Eternity may be only a single breath,
As lovers embrace in life or death.
Leisurely trickles of lyrics are heard,
Listening to each others adoring words,
Wishes are granted a simple blessing,
As ardour increases in fervent caressing.
Yew trees bend to create a steely bow,
Sacred arch ‘neath which to vow.
Ardent kisses seal each pledge,
Now and forever at reasons edge.
Defying the laws of manmade time,
In perpetuity love rules sublime.
Forever memories would be reawakened
Ornate jewels of moments remembered.
Restless spirits would seek each other,
Harkening to find the precious lover.
In such moments of exquisite delight
My own true love is my infinite respite.

.... by xsapph....

JOURNEY

2007-04-29T18:40:00.000+01:00

Journey

A never-ending circle of thought

Where silent scenes are executed.

Invariable themes confuse and delight;

Obscure the desire to change course

Spirited along a preserved path:

Fate signposts.

To comprehend for a moment: life's

Serene Ambience.

Wait and contemplate the diverse

Hues assembled

There are many moods yet to know

That will perplex and subdue.

To be irredeemably lost

But not forgotten.

Absorbed into the metallic dusk

Where the Fearless tread.

26th January 1994.

..... Valentine... Memory

2007-02-15T21:39:00.000Z

There was a time when there was no sorrow in his heart,

melodious strains lyrical,

full of sunburst,

deer leaping.

Then rain was a benediction after drawn-out hot summers,

excitement that grew within Her,

in turn excited him.

He would watch Her,

as Her breath quickened with rains first droplets.

An intense look of anticipation on her face

as she studied each flower that cupped its leaves to catch rain.

Her own face,

framed by her silvery grey hair,

like lotus petals,

would lift.

Her lips taste rain as if it were Solomon's honeyed wine.

There was then no remorse, no desolation.

He would watch with a growing stirring in his heart

as she would uncover her limbs,

gently step into rain shine,

writhe like a snake in translucent light,

wetness that glistened all over her.

Her hair would become ebony rich,

separated as willow leaves,

sticking to her neck,

face,

she would just smile,

disappear into green dripping foliage,

Her tremulous laughter echoing in the wind.

It never occurred to him that this would ever end;

it never occurred to him that there could be a tomorrow,

without energy,

excitement

She imbibed into his Life.

It never occurred to him,

that these moments would not keep forever,

but in his mind.

What did occur to him was that there was a joy in his love for Her.

Blessed,

was he,

to have it returned.

So he would play Her a tune that would invoke to seek Her out in the forest.

Mournful,

an exotic echo,

ambience,

warm tones and shades of passion,

desire ...

ice,

fire mingled with his salted tears.

.......Stanzas from RAINLOVE by Xsapph 1993.......

...In the Stillness... in quiet disarray

2007-01-30T01:44:00.000Z

In quiet disarray, he came to understand that his time was yet to be.

Panther patience gnaws at his elbow, to stay whilst inquisitiveness, ever Tiger feline, it’s hot breath bristling his hair, incites him to leap.

A part of him has always wanted to escape from his seclusion compelling him, to follow her, and hold her.

He chose only to move in a trance towards his gilded intent since Life’s overture offers such perplexity, when you desire it least.

Enticing riddles, which often are composed of such seductive entanglement: a captivating allure…So always to yearn for more.

So silent in his daily distractions, to always find something unsolved interjects to persuade thoughts to reason beyond routine.

A cupful of tears sipped carelessly like sherry, when her stirring tears failed to anoint him.

Teardrops - the exquisite ornament for long contemplated spider webs.

Stanza's from 'Stillness' .... by xsapph....

Coming Out...

2006-12-13T22:59:00.000Z

Title:

The Backless Dress

Artist: Georges Barbier

Don’t be such a coward

But save me from chill,

And wrap both my feet up

As warm as you will

You rarely suppose that

My headache is real

As you purport

Your own is more ill.

Why me, at your beck and call,

Just for one day,

It won’t kill you to hurry

Nor give you brain-ache.

There are no remedies

For feeling hung o’er

Other than to down eggy beer,

And pray for some more.

When you went lame.

The raised instep you wore

To disguise your shorter leg

Was partly to blame.

Frequently, over perfumed,

In every notable scent

It is all too peculiar

To think you’re heaven-sent.

You are not o’er the top,

On the contrary you are discreet,

At least in your own fashion,

Which is itself underdone.

To act as an alibi,

You’d be the last to ask,

Lest you endangered both of us,

And took us both to task.

To wring your hands

And cry, woe me,

Won’t improve your burnt hair,

A hairpiece may if stuck just there…

Now are you ready,

You look reasonably neat.

Your left thigh looks high though,

Or is it your feet?

Ever since you came ‘out’, dear

It has been the same thing,

No longer gay are you, dear.

But sadder than ‘straight ‘me.

Sapphiresque 07-3-01

Crackling Copper Caresses

2006-11-12T22:47:00.000Z

Painting:Kustav Klint, 'The Kiss' c.1907

Crackling Copper Caresses

When you are alone, in daydreams, are you trying to be the lone dancer?

Are there moments as you lift your yoke to your shoulders that you weep?

Turning quickly, and falling from the graceful mount of storm riders.

Then the burn that singes the silk as tissue organza floats to the sky.

Crackling copper kisses that leave their cold imprint on alabaster skin.

Intention to run, avoid and then pull hard away to a wide circle.

Is this the dance of lovers or haters? I want in wakefulness to know.

I feel your fingers claw at my outer reach and fingertips never release.

Do you feel the same as you come closer, to see eyes never meeting?

Crackling copper jewellery that clatters harmoniously, to a rhythmic beat.

Even as I slip under arms that reach out into an electrifying space,

And fireworks crackle into coppery flashes of gilded floor struck heels.

When fingers stroke my cheek and I pull away, you follow.

So soon the quarry meets the precipice of domestic contentment;

Crackling copper tiles, that reflect the dawn light as I pace restlessly.

Such is the death of the moment that was unleashed with sensual stealth.

Exchanges of vibrant passionate heat that won’t be quenched.

How long will I wait until the real You I come to know?

Will it all be forgotten in the turbulence of unwavering stubbornness.

Crackling copper fingernails claw at the walls of an emotionless depth.

Where only those with the inability to feel a captured joy can flourish.

The gaoler waits in unravelled illusion to dissuade others from creativity.

And the dance allows no restful swaying cold cheek to warm cheek.

If only there were steps that liberated each dancer effortlessly;

Crackling copper caresses would dramatically change the dance pace.

Two silky hands floated from my ribs to my waist, invisible spirit-like.

Arms folded around me and I tilted my head, in a falling swan motion.

Slipping into thrust as one parry and launch to dance.

Gliding and releasing and turning then close by in tune.

Crackling copper skylight that reveals only falling stars, and none else.

Sapphire-esque 12^th November 2006

Breathtakingly flawed....

2006-10-13T13:08:00.000+01:00

Naiad, 1893 (Hylas with a Nymph)

Artist: John William Waterhouse

Breathtakingly Flawed

I am captivated by you, so breathtakingly flawed.

When each moment I spend searching your eyes,

I discover more as a fluid exploration awakens me.

Engaging in my private thoughts to shadow form and light,

I marvel the delicate quivers of emotion in your face.

A quintessential smile envelops me in its mystery.

Delicious words invite, to tease and amuse in sport.

How would I explain the unutterable confusion?

Images imprinted; mentally filed for centuries ahead.

A daring siege that will last longer than moonbeams,

Love will conceal much for my amusement.

In a wilderness, I find you guiding my fingers

To clasp hands reverently, kindness releasing control.

Steely arrows fall short of their targets by a gentle look.

For as love ripened even opposing spears, were breaking.

Intensity was itself overshadowed by your unplumbed depth.

Am I the only one to sink into your bewildering eye-pools?

A place where loneliness found no resting place

And laughter trickled like a spring stream promising life.

Elms and silvery birch trees shimmer, echoing whispers.

That enchanting ballads playing far away left unsung.

Our flitting repartee affects memory’s intransigence,

With less permanence than a butterfly’s broken wing.

Even when I am cruelly dissonant, there is no censure.

Then later a soft smile and forgiveness enlightens.

With an agreeable assurance that bitterness has no place,

Beneath it seems: marble features, tranquilly indifferent.

Then my hand rests softly on your cheek to feel its heat.

Were thunderclouds in attendance, lightening would tremble.

Teal smoke warmed from a chestnut burning brazier

Dark green chiffon torn, when running in a sudden storm

I find the very excruciating truth that is tenderly revealed.

The faint fluttering homage of alabaster doves to love is ALL.

Holding your face in both hands I close in for a kiss, divine.

Then laugh aloud in knowing that in ecstasy such as this,

To have all it takes to bend your knee to will, and yet to not.

I am more breathtakingly flawed than you become to me.

So, can rest broken swords and shattered shields at last.

.... by xsapphire.... Friday, 13th October 2006

Lovers Quarrel...

2006-09-05T01:51:00.000+01:00

Title: The Siren
Artist: John William Waterhouse

Lovers Quarrel... by Xsapph

The heart prepares for a giddy unruliness
Seeking release from a wakeful tirelessness…
A kiss blows a bugle sounding reveille
Seducers quarrel, in disputes and rivalry
The woman who reigns demure and chaste,
Can fervently rebuke in cruelty and haste;
A glance that challenged a thundering fury
Aborted circumstances of chivalry
Love’s splendour shimmers in wakefulness
Others slumber, in lust and emptiness
Crisply folded letter, hurriedly rushed.
When the whispers between us are hushed,
Lips the width of a single fingertip
Lyrical strains to no longer sip.
Ruddier cheek and brightened eyes
Honourably discharged goodbyes
Whilst sable-locks tinged with silver down,
Wrestle with black curls dappled brown.
Delivered from Loves’ invisible captivity
Those that are freed yearn for its certainty.
The brave resolute to surrender by choice
A candid admission finds its daring voice
As this proclamation auguring much unrest
…With utmost firmness the will to test.
Better failing to untie the knot that twined
… Inside each lover’s heart and mind
Then being lost in autumn’s chilly rain dew
Alone, sans tender kisses each may strew.
Blood-red rose taffeta rumpled and creased,
Between wet grassy rocks, bare feet tiptoed.
Discovered a path to fractured glittering land
Drenched hems darkened by sea-kissed sand.
Torn fabric shredded, foot worn and tattered
Glass beads fall, as teardrops are shattered.
Untutored caprice ignites a passionate glance
As unconcealed emotions invite forbearance.
Hurtful murmurs travel lavishly as rumour.
Such is the silhouette of uninvited humour.
Scornful tragedy divides heaven from hell.
The lovelorn swathed in Nights starry apparel.
Headlong into fear, one may choose to fall,
An end to initialled hearts carved on any wall.
For those who cherished longingly, their beloved
Falling on a broken sword was the sacred-end.

5th September 2006

In the vein of Romantic Trajedy... I wrote this on the reverse of a coffee shop feedback card...about divorcing friends, but struggled with the last stanza... As I pondered it, and decided to bin it, I asked an penpal, who was also artistic what he thought of the line that refused to settle on paper.... a pivotal point... It felt right that I dedicated its completion to that noble friend Dr. S.P, M.D.... an accomplished multi-talented, creative all rounder.

Bleeding hearts....

2006-08-28T23:15:00.000+01:00

Advance, advance;

Retreat, retreat.

Kisses that were warm and misleading

Coldness that would require years of sombre explanations

Emotions that triple somersaulted through fire hoops.

Citron and amber flames burnt slowly the candles wick.

Just as the commitment slowly came to an end, so did stoic calm.

Advance, advance;

Retreat, retreat.

A prelude to abstracted thought, where reason unlocked chain links.

Caresses that were easily faked, effortless illusion

Laughter heard even when the pillow stifled crying.

Lessons that would never be learnt lessoned the blow.

Indigo and Amethyst palettes of skyline cooled the daylight.

Advance, advance;

Retreat, retreat.

Memories would frolic in a daydreaming trance.

No respite from the summer storm that wept then slept.

Winter kissed me before Autumn came in late August.

Impressions of affection lacked any steadfast intentions.

So quickly I passed by the open window, satin drapes obscure me.

Advance, advance;

Retreat, retreat.

Coral and jade beads broken long ago… ne’er found again.

What was once mine, I release, its feverish heart to beat.

On tiptoes to glance far away into a future unseen.

Whilst other’s heels are dug deep, entrenched defence.

The hearts shield struck by tireless love-filled eyes.

Advance, advance;

Retreat, retreat.

Spring Flowers, Dutchmans Breeches (Bleeding Hearts) Mid-MayArtist: Darlyne A. Murawski

Nettles without stings... .

2006-08-27T20:20:00.000+01:00

Title:

Chaos and Order

Artist: M. L. Walker

The nearness of his elbow to each woman,
Revealed more than his tear filled eyes.

Soul shuddering addagio, far off hauntingly oblique wave.
The cerebral aspect of each question
Razed by the passion that undermined it.
Touch my skin, it is tingling with anticipation.
Touch my hair, untied for you.
Touch my hand; it longs to be held by yours...
Touch my spirit, when you look into my eyes.
Noticing a chipped nail
I chewed the corner of it
And tasted three-day-old varnish.
My friend detailed the torridness of his new affair;
Heartache that he was prepared to endure,
Although his wife would be unforgiving,
Her own yearnings unexpressed would dissolve.
It is your fault, I turn to her,
It is her fault, I return to you.
It is my fault, I am undeterred in all I do,
It is nobody’s fault, we cannot help ourselves.
His lover would never know until it was too late
That being with him was a false start, one of many,
Nettles without stings, hurt me still.
Amber vanilla syrup dripped from my coffee cup.
Slivers of curled chocolate melted into his coffee cup.
The spoon rattled in her steaming black coffee cup.
A thirst for answers emptied the fourth coffee cup.
In time one flawed aspect of his personality
Would shock all those who believed in him.
A nutmeg rolled across the floor, from the kitchen.
Take this moment away from me.
Take this moment to cushion it from bruising.
Take this moment and savour it.
Take this moment and release me.
I smoothed my hair so that it curled around my ear
Cloves and spiced cardamom tea steamed invitingly.
Longing to find the first taste of new discovery
Longing to be the only one with your key
Longing to see your face every morning
Longing just for you to be safe.
Nettles without stings, hurt me still.
The window was shuttered and the sun sparkled
In eyes, in mirrors, and unending silver bangles
That clattered together whenever I moved.
Say anything to avoid my sincerity.
Say something, to fill the deafening silence.
Say you will, and when you don’t,
Say you forgot, and remind me of your carelessness.
When all three met for coffee, and resolutions,
I discovered that laughter was possible,
Even during the intensity of their mutual pain,
And futile melodrama, one which escalated quickly.
Nettles without stings, hurt me still.
Don’t leave me now, it will be over.
Don’t stay with her, it cannot last.
Don’t give in to her demands.
Don’t take my words to use against me.
I sipped my nutmeg sprinkled coffee,
Dipped the iced donut, into it
… and took the smallest bite.
The cool breeze that flickered through my hair
Flickering eyelashes, made me shiver
for a few seconds
And lift my face,
Close my eyes
Take a deep breath to warm myself in memories.
Around me their battle raged and great harms
Were done that would never be forgotten.
The scent of burnt cinnamon clung to the muslin drapes.
I closed my eyes for a second and imagined,
The intrusive participation of life players,
Nettles without stings, surrounding,
The chess pieces tumbling at my will.

Title: the Keep
Artist: M. L. Walker

I have dedicated this poems completion to my sweet and currently divorcing Friends, not so amicably with some of their excruciating adlibs included above... name of course withheld due to possible law suits... I certainly do not want to be added to what willl rival the film 'War of the Roses...' in parody, I feel I am like the Danny D'Vito character...

December kisses cold as glass.

2006-08-20T10:01:00.000+01:00

In elated anticipation I searched for a rekindled chance.
Yours was the face I mistook for a friend at a glance,
Then smiled when only a fragmented past would blaze.
For even though surprises sometimes high hopes raise;
I cannot resist the slight glimpse of each new episode.
Drenched September grey clouds tinged with mauve
Those cast aside, in turmoil, whilst I, skyward rove.
Even as footsteps are forced down a preordained road.
Some find comfort in the trance of sly masquerade.
Dead weight power punches that left deep wounds
Each prize-fighter mourned to have lost rounds.
Speed in developing the lies that inter-twisted,
Suppleness stretching although the eyes misted.
My intention to improve all that is solely mine
Would take years of impeccable study to refine.
Form and movement that became transfixing,
Techniques that enabled lifestyle intermixing.
I pause for a moment to seek light in shade.
My inner questions which seem incessant
Last longer than a lifetime in transience.
The feeding frenzy, of the slyly envious
Accuracy in attacking the very essence.
Unholy missives swiftly despatched
Misery for the unskilfully matched.

... I take my place at the stoniest seat
To then embrace winter’s icy heat.
From prickly pain I cannot flinch
When caught in a vicelike clinch.
Barely touching shoulders pass
December kisses cold as glass.
Love’s splendour glimmers
As Hope’s glow shimmers
As brave souls are united,
The spirit’s fire ignited
Passions swift course,
Fortifies Life’s force;
As Eyes lock eyes
With hidden ties.

Title: The Kiss, Artist: Auguste Rodin

Blessed Elvis Day...

2006-08-16T22:21:00.000+01:00

Most of the time..
His dialogue was the same...one of feeling connected to a spiritual thinking beyond reasoning...To a reasoning beyond emotional attachment.... and... To a symbolic place beyond material acquisition.

.... by xsapph....

... Absorbing Afternoons...

2006-08-10T23:45:00.000+01:00

... His head turned side to side, though his eyes remained ahead in critical focus of his image.

He unsnarled his hair, displeased, squinting, striving to see some one else there.

So I began to pitch a tissue of fact and spun a light hearted accusation in his direction.

He leapt to catch the shuttlecock of consequence as though it was life changing.

It would be the most notable of absorbing afternoons...

... Stanzas from "Aspiration, written 10.04.99 by Sapphirex...

Walk

2006-08-07T00:44:00.000+01:00

Title: A Walk Between Worlds
Artist: M. L. Walker

Scribbles in Hospital by Sapph:

Courage, just feel it and live by its honourable banner.
Comfort is an illusion that fast becomes quicksand, security follows it.
Fragility is always an irresistible quality that draws me to touch it tenderly.
Enduring glances will reflect only the beauty that flows from deep inside and captures them.
Personal attention is limited only by the depth that is at the heart of its focus.
Passion, dont lose it, Life is coloured by it.
Creativity, bloom, be inspired and grow.
Friendship, priceless, it is unconditional.
Kindness, the spirit of it nourishes the soul and heals.
Safety eludes each of us when we are without God.
Fear, only through it can one comprehend self awareness .
Attachment causes us pain, and results in us seeking remedy.
Empathy revitalises us when we realise how it links us to each other.
Affection, is felt without confusion, and accepted by those ready for it.
Thoughtfulness, needs no further clarity, it is itself clear.
Faith is beautiful when the inspiration for it is through spiritual comprehension.
Brotherhood, is inner radiance expressing itself.
Love, is between you and I, and it occurs at any time in all seasons.

Dedicated to Michael Thomas, New York... a Friend who always inspires me to reach deep into my feminine creativity, and to the best of myself and whose own constant witty and electrifying creative talents surprise me at every turn....

Fragments...

2006-07-15T23:59:00.000+01:00

Jean-Jacques Pradier (1790–1852), Sappho, about 1848, gilt and silvered bronze, H. 18½ x W. 9½ x D. 8½ in.

The mirror shattered, and from the engraved shards some stanza's remained:

For those who would aspire

… "For those who would aspire
To movement higher
Than the sound
Of another's footfall on ground:
To rise to eminence
Where their echo is alone
In resonance…"

Exploiting vanity is an idle sport,
A few pats on the back and the narcissistic adore
Their reflection,

Yet twist inside for their wretched silliness.
Who does not want to believe they are spectacular,
Whilst others are not?

Those who spur the weak to become weaker,
By lavishing flattery, are entertained.
They would dismiss inadequacies whilst anchoring on an elbow.
A nonchalant wave of a leaden wrist,
As if it were meaningless after all.

Such feigned disinterest itself self-delusion,
Does not fool.
Yet I would seem to condone it,
By a vicarious involvement.

Other's spoke in contrary terms to their actions.
Where intentionally inaccurate, and vague assertions,
Were being presented as trustworthy.
Such confused virtue,
Was this a barometer for the future?
They would never understand me
Or I them… again.

Many moons after this, oppressive thoughts would rule.
Whatever spurred the struggle also spurned the heart's openness.

What urged as an appeal for assurance,
Settled as an inquest of life long surrender?
Detaching from love's captivity....

Some disseminated Stanza's from my Prose 'Aspiration' ... by xsapph

... Rain Love ...

2006-07-15T22:52:00.000+01:00

Rob Scoggins took this stunning picture check out his fun site!

[He took this picture... read when... ]

... At times like this he thought

he wanted to die,
fear frantic rushing, his obsession

clung on tenaciously,
preserving Life,
as rain once more trickled down his back,
he shivered;
in lonely shelter that had no glory within:
without Her.

The rain now accompanied wind-sound

through its gentle irresistible drumbeat,
as a convoluted conch shell tent invited wind

to hum through crevices.
Reverberations so like sounds

he had grown up with when he had lived by the sea,

... all those silent memories ago.

....That was when he had met her ...

Sapphire-X
Stanza from 'Rainlove 1993'

Amour-propre

2006-07-15T22:23:00.000+01:00

[ Georg Flegal 1566-1638, painted all these delicious oils...]

Adults, wear the armour of the well-rehearsed invention. How many of us ponder when we sit opposite a friend over a meal, watching them twisting, and turning the spaghetti over and over around their fork or using their spoon to aid the swivel, that perhaps in that moment they are also turning over a thought over and over, sifting the dissected part they wish to share, the part they wish to suppress and hide within deep recesses, folds under their armour.

Then the man who accepted that he could not be alone so any kind of companionship was easier, safer, and felt secure... compared to when he was alone and heard his own voice curse when he had a paper cut from filing his expenses. When he was younger, he would have sent over a drink for the woman he thought might have accepted it from him - in his role as the attractive stranger... Now here he was paying for a beer, whilst watching us laughing at men, as he perched like a schoolboy on his stool at the bar, feeling awkward, and waiting for his wife who was late again.

How are we spoon fed a simplified circumlocution, trite version of what we wanted to hear?

So, the woman who described her projected image of her relationship, one which could easily tear like a petal, were her partner to be allowed more than one night away from under her possessive surveillance, one that was darkly relentless, from probing his eyes, to a close inspection of the single hair on his pin striped jacket...

When she inspects him so intensely with penetrating eyes, whilst he adjusts his collar nervously, and watches us observing him and wonders if anyone will rescue him from himself, and restrained reactions, since he learnt long ago to relax when prodded by his wife's sharply manicured fingernails. Rather like a cattle prod, this was the price he paid for being discovered having a casual affair.

Clouded recollections, had rendered vague all such naughty perversities... long buried in his past when he felt youthful and capable, unable to see that he had more vigour and experience if only he could harnass it, and be more available emotionally to his fractured hearted wife... Who even now was smoothing his collar, and stirring his cocktail for him, and refusing the nuts on his behalf, as she anxiously watched the exits for his escape.

But doesn't that add to their mystery, a satiric sketch, their need to cover their fears and add a veneer of magic over their lives... Thus the woman who underpriced her eyeliner tattoo, halving the price to her boyfriend, a conscientious man of future financial planning... But she smiled, it was after all unimportant in the scheme of things, she looked as she wanted... the rims of her eyes, underlined permanantly those large saucer hazel-greenish eyes, under her bleached coppertone hair.

Just as the bread soaks up the sauce, and so we soak up the thought that they have just mislead their partner ... As the woman who hides her newly purchased 'feel good' luxuries, half price, at the bottom of her cupboard, behind her shoe boxes. ... The soles of her feet prickly, with scuffed shoes that pop the veins from her feet, swollen from years of pinched winkle-picker toes...

Shoes that like small well prized trophies lie dormant, bedraggled and well worn by her heavy weightiness, and appearing like dying exotic flowers tactically placed exhibitionistically, on the stairs, or beside the coffee table, with the hopes of inciting envy or at any rate idle curiousity amongst her friends.

What else does she hide amongst her shoeboxes, her mouth pursed with secrecy?

Her partner I have always known, to ponder his past indiscretions, for such tender secrets of his own contain him. He is always a half filled vessel, and he constrains within himself, half truths, and illusions of awareness... Yet he is wholly unaware of the infinitely tragic end he had destined for himself as a self fulfilling prophecy, where he would allow his containment to suppress his intellectual enquiry, and spiritual search for truth, rather than be considered a fraud.

So many suppressed dreams of youth, obtuse complacency, secret dreams that are withheld morsels of luscious jelly fruity bites, and each man is held to ransom over her losing her opportunities, to supporting his ambitions, or vice verse?

Then the wine, plummy red that is sipped cautiously, to spill is sinful ... and eyes do not release mine as I see how the knuckles are red and sore of my friend who never keeps more than a radish and fiercely measured condiment sized portions in her fridge, 'Old Mother Hubbard's Cupboards Bare...' as bare as her insides: her skeletal bones strain against her skin. She is always recovering from food poisoning after every meal out...

Her venomous sharp tongued criticisms of other women's more Botticelli (Botticelli, Sandro, real name Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi, painter, Florentine school (b. 1445, Firenze, d. 1510, Firenze)... 'the Birth of Venus') curvatures; delivered with calm superiority.

Each man serves his purpose, and none really invest in her, for she questions each act of kindness, and is quite contrite.

There is far too much salt sprinkled on what is left ... as the skin sweats through layers of makeup, and eyes that were once vibrant are showing lines far beyond their years. Granite hardness that shows the years of desperately puffing cigarettes that were almost chewed as the nicotine recipient sucked out the initiative from her partners... Always plotting the next route towards her next desire being met; each man passively accepting his victim role of compliance and pitiful acquiescence.

White wine, the colour of white bread, everything appears bleached even her eyes...

Her torn down youth and plastered up maturity, blemished not by age but the consequences of her unbridled vanity. At her alter each discarded lover relinquishes his recovery from her absolute tyranny, by replacing her with similar types.

Were accomplishments superficial after all? Well, I just do not know.

Then as the next serving is allowed to stand, ice-cream melting, coffee scent, and spilt brown sugar, glistening, and for a moment I recall the differences in our natures as we dedicate our lives to our plans, dreams and aridity of day to day routines. Brilliant artificiality in the resourcefulness of each person presents the scenes in their supposedly real Life drama.

Like petals that tear in a storm, we are the same... as vulnerable and beyond the scrutiny of those eyes that look across us from the table, just as fragile.

When the bill is paid, for a moment I feel like putting my arm around my friend ... which one is it, the hug that indicates, '...It is okay, you are doing the right thing... '.... or, 'Rest assured, I am here, and will always be', or perhaps.... 'Oh well, you poor thing'... ?

Does it matter, when we smile and hug, whether it is a sympathetic melody, or an empathetic ballad; each of us working on an endlessly futile insect like existence, knowing each meeting is merely part of our routine of emotional support systems coiling and uncoiling from each other's cogs...

...And waiting for our turn to be exposed to the storm...

... Amour-propre... by xsapph

Kara's lilac lake... where a rusty nail was found...

2006-07-15T22:03:00.000+01:00

...The rusty nail in the Lilac Lake....

Kara Todds First Painting, quite exquisite, click for Mike Todds site.

A non-Christian Roman Centurion involved in emptiness,

discovered as he knelt by this lake a small umber nail.

Like a sizzling torch it lay between bullrushes spikes,

surrounding which was a soft beige gold light.

As he brought it up out of the lilac water,

holding it up to the moon, swivelling it;

the nail was rusty and appeared quite insignificant.

His heartbeat quickened, yet he felt suddenly ice-cold.

The memory of holding that same nail that frenzied day,

came back to the man, torrid emotions had crackled the air.

The Centurian had wiped his brow, his dark brown eyes squinting;
whilst waiting for the procession of cross carriers struggle panting, uphill.

His hair curly, black stuck to his forehead under his helmut.

For the day was long, with stifling heat, as shadows shortened.

He knew this long nail, held it in his hands for a very long time,
turning it over and over, and using it to scratch his back.

Watching another centurian with rivetting attention,
ripping a turtle's underbelly open with his sword.

He knew instantly that this was the very nail,

that fixed a hand bloodied against a crucifix.

Then the man's final moments seemed endless, once lifeless, a hush.

Divine intervention, crackling thunder, spiritless rainfall.

Cobolt blue lightening ripped the shivering sky,

The very cloak from Apollo's shoulders.

This nail had been cut out of the hand and from the splintered wood around it,

Then tossed like a javelin through the air into the edge of the lake.

For a moment colours lost their hue, their brightness dulled.

This time even he felt relaxed from defensive stasis and upset.

He had watched it ...disappear, as if coaxed, he felt compelled to retrieve it....

It was several days before, he was free from his duties

... then waited obsessing, whilst shadows lengthened...

Until it was dark... to find it...for days he had guarded its location.

And where it had fallen at the edge of the lake was a pale gold shimmer,

as if Artemis's light had aided him, he thanked her for his find ...

Like a topaz pointer it lay half embedded in the clay,

As he surveyed its placement, he felt a quietening effect.

He took out the nail dipped in dried blood that felt dry and crumbled with the rust,

that rubbed onto his hands as he tried to dry it on his tunic.

He did not fully inderstand the young man who was the victim,

nor did he comprehend the reason for the crucifixion.

However, he had seen something within those eyes that now eluded him.

For once when he saw the gentle man whose eyes were filled ....

with compassion and forgiveness...

even for him when he punched the nail into the hard wood.

For the man seemed to know that the Centurian had chosen this - the sharpest nail,

and had even washed it in the lake before he had used it.

The pious man's tears were warm as they fell on the Centurion's face,

And the centurion swore under his breath even as he prayed to Apollo

... and longed for a cooler day ...that the nail went in first time.

The day was the same as all other days

He was used to the sound of pain, and no stranger to death's smell.

Like the turtle that had met his fate without resistance,

so each man's underbelly was torn by the nails, with the same rip and tear.

But the tears of the man outshone sparkles of the brightest diamonds.

Now that the night had fallen he felt washed by a soul felt grief;

inexplicable and unfathomable, even as the lake was lit by an unquencheable light.

He took the nail, he held it close to his heart, he felt the need to thank the Gods.

He climbed out of his armour and stepped into the water.

Then he wept, for many moments, such that his pain.

His empathy for another man, who he knew not nor would know...

carried across the lake, its tremor flickering across the water surface...

and an old man sitting by a small fire, shuddered and closed his eyes.

The Centurian, scrambled to the side of the banks, he pulled his tunic over his shoulders.

He tied a string around the neck of the nail, and slipped the nail pendulem over his head.

He opened his tunic at the neck and placed the bloodied nail inside his top.

His weapons, shield, sword, and knife laid like cutlery.

Barefoot, and released, he savoured the sweet scented air.

His armour left discarded like broken walnut shells beside the rocks

knowing he could never return again, or be confused,

....with tears in his eyes for he had changed....

Replete with the inner pillars of seeking truth and comprehension;

He marched fearlessly towards Olympus.

Triple Tango....Fire and Ice ...

2006-07-15T16:33:00.001+01:00

22/23 August [My Mothers Birthday; a dedication]

Tango Argentino painting by Pedro Alvarez

The dance of the devotees of Pan, seems as fiery and fierce as game cockerels, sparring, with tooth and claw, and flame coloured plumes that are as proud as any peacock’s attire.

Nervous imagination had no place where the fire crackles gold and singed grass burns beneath heels, and toes, that sparkle with the metal in their clicking bounce.

Sudden electricity within their core moves their limbs to slice and shear at each other, then coil and launch.

He whispers to her to turn, take the back foot to pivot with a thrust of his knee, that steps forward and leaves her static, wide armed for the hint of dismissal.

Like thunderbolts of passion they attack the earth with flashes of hooves, toes, shoes, and the clicking of heels that paralyse the emotions, an alluring treasure, before exciting the soul to relinquish aloofness for complete abandonment of self-consciousness.

Breathless indignation as perfection requires concentration and method, forced out by spontaneous response to the pagan warlike music played at a hunter's litany.

He reminds her, softly that he trusts her to completely absorb all his force, when he leant against her hip, their legs in symmetry and then removed himself from the simple gentle turn, slow enduring elevation.

Scintillating execution of precise moves… as each form slinks around the other, rippling embraces are temperamentally assured.
Then the closeness of breath and faces that are perhaps so close to each other than even whispers are impossible.

A tireless constellation of rainbow coloured planets in an unending turn, that rotates the world around them.

Determined adhesion to the form, the roots of the dance that required stretches, and turns that twist her torso to be liquid and like brush strokes, delicately executed.

He lifts her wrist, with the concentration of a bullfighter lifting the bullwhip handle, before his wrist whips a well rehearsed wave, through their limbs to crackle the ice and setting sun.

The thrust and push of hands as each dancer removes their partner’s personality, and instead entices a completeness that is about melting into the other, and then the feeling of being like walnuts composed together within a small space, that protects their intimacy, whilst retaining a separateness that enables them to release each other.

Even dewkissed cobwebs shudder and shimmer a million miles away in reverberating accord.

The wolves howl in the pines darkness, whilst she falls, fluttering to the ground, wrapped around his outstretched knee, for a moment a reminder of the virtue in sacrifices.

He pulls her even closer, her fabric of ruffles, and silk taffeta, the scent of orchids and gardenias, drawing him into a frothy nest of lacy comfort.

A fleeing owl, fluttering dangerously, drops it's prey, a small field mouse that is already lifeless, unlike the cat whose game would have danced paw to whisker.

As a flaring of nostrils and pawing of the ground incites each to take the slack and then rush back into the body of the other as they remind all observers of unseen tensions; the tension of jaw lines, the angles of positions, the purpose and clarity with which each expresses their movements, both aligned and those that appear almost in opposition.

Irreverence to the interval of waiting, instead, a fierce impatient tornado of wills tearing through twisted and sprawling branches of evergreen and orange blossom.

He ascribes to her all his fantasies, and promises her lifelong fidelity, when the spurs are to be won, and he is able to avow such faithfulness, to her own youthfulness, but in time such oaths are ambivalently distorted reminiscences.

Powers of muscular dexterity are sustained as each spars and parries and the untrammelled emotions are vocalised in guttural or inaudible sounds, as they engage in their twisting, spiralling and a kind of invisible juggling.

Disengaging, there was no audible sound to reply to, had she heard it, she would have held onto him a moment longer.

Delicate disposition had no place in the movement that required such trancelike conviction and remorseless tapping feet, muddied as often as bloodied.

She turned a corner and saw him kiss, the other, as flames surrounded the lazy embrace, his uncloaked affections were meaningless to her...

Her own internal meteor slides into the dirt, its trail; charred hopes that are powder scorched imaginings.

No rapier could slice more swiftly, or assuredly….

She waited perfect symmetry for his turn, and ended it, extinguishing an aubergine light, with a soft whisper, his uncoiling limbs released from him his spirit; as quickly as he imagined the silver light of a blade return cleaned on red silk taffeta folds to it’s hidden sheathe.

Equilibrium shocked to perfect stillness, as the light went out.

Triple Tango....Fire and Ice ...by xsapph

Tango Nocturno painting by Pedro Alvarez

Connected

2006-07-15T14:11:00.000+01:00

Love me a Little... Shoot!

2005-08-06T17:41:00.000+01:00

Anon... painted this lemon golden blossom tree with it's exposed roots ..... on the day that the tree called 'Little Shoot' ... decided to uproot and move ... closer towards it's love ..... a beautiful ... small broken winged rooster ... who it adored ... for the Rooster, was its beloved first true love, after many centuries of waiting ...

The Rooster... could not soar or fly due east... nor could it sing ... well not like the humble nightingale ... nor could it produce it's own perfection from stumbling beginnings like those of the aloof swan...
.
... Yet the Rooster was ... enthralling, proud, and majestic ... it was fearless when the dawn broke ... and it was gloriously passionate, for when Little Shoot, watched the rooster in his romances ... the Rooster would be enticingly dramatic...
Little Shoot watched this fowls uncommitted entanglements from when the sun rose, to nightfall... She yearned for him, but the Rooster only scratched the roots and pecked at the insects and beetles and soft maggots that furrowed at Little Shoot's bark...
When the night fell... Little Shoot rustled her leaves to provide a soft bedding for the Rooster whose abrupt determination was also his downfall, for many a time, he was entangled amongst the roots and struggled to release himself from Little Shoots delicate stirrings and rustlings...
For her love was young, and despite such gentle intentions towards softness, always such was her harsh exterior that evidence of his frequent visits, his expendable, replaceable amours: their fallen feathers and energy in the form of pebble coloured eggshells, would be found mixed with fallen soil sodden petals torn from her branches.
The Rooster had broken his wing when he had attempted to extricate himself from her winding limbs... where the branches were as torn as his feathers...His blood stained feathers would be found staining fallen petals, that also appeared to glisten amber...from her tears.

His solar spun gold chicks would chirp prettily as they awaited his return for each morning without his throaty call the sun stayed captive in the expansive cloudy embrace of the blue gowned goddess of the night......
Already one assertive chick was emulating it's father's cry... and waiting for it's own morning glory...

The petals waved softly, petals that beckoned the butterflies to flutter Little Shoots whisper through the air on a wing and with them; hopes for a way to embrace the Rooster.
And then it happened...
The warm moist grubs that wriggled invitingly half hidden glistening in the warm glowing lemon gold sunshine wiggled their torso's at the Rooster ... His saliva warm and his unsatiated anticipation were faught off as his limited agility rooted to stop him literally collapsing with sheer joy into the bed of marshmallow maggots....
Deeper he scratched and pecked his delicious harvest of worms, as the curvature boughs of the tree welcomed him, leaves that were warm and moist tenderly enveloped his feathers, smoothing them and gentle branches, embracing him as he with fixed determination dove into the earth soil, mossy recesses.... Leaves that were scented with the blossoms perfume, and covered in pollen dust...The sap glistening like tears that had been forgotten in the Spring daylight.

Deeper he searched and pecked away vigorously at the emerging soft juicy bodies that squelched and barely crushed beneathe his toes, and none escaped not even those half hidden by the gently shifting roots...
As the roots slowly moved aside for him and the breeze that lifted his silver grey feathers, the air carried butterflies like tissue confetti fluttering to surround him and whisper ... whisper....whisper... 'This way... this way...' So his clawing toes found softness, and easy passage in the earthy openings... between harsh roots and tubers that were splintered from age...and atrophy.

The lemon gold blossom fell like silky confetti over his shoulder, and he fluttered his wings almost like his cousin the copper Phoenix from the East plateaux... wishing to soar out of these embers of lemon amber petals. The broken wing on the mend, he was ready to try to fly...

Beneath his clawed feet, he felt the earth invitingly warm, and soft, surprisingly moist, and with the smell of rain in the air, he felt himself shiver subconsciously with the memory of other warm, sticky thunder days...

And the leaves rustled, dew on the petals seemed to drip from her boughs... Leaves that were coarse or half broken were shed ... Only the most perfectly formed leaves were remaining as if the precision of some spiritual artist had delicately trimmed each leaf with the love of the Bonsai Protector whose eyes take in the surrounding light and energy before removing a single leaf from the miniature tree... Since it's space in time and location and within the air itself made each moon kissed leaf precious before severing it from its living source.

Such appeared to be the finesse with which only the most gorgeous gold tipped leaves brushed tenderly and lovingly to caress his wings and crown, brushing his body with a gentleness that made him feel contented and at ease, for the first in his life he felt calmness wash over him ...

As the butterflies flew sparingly, almost transparent in the surrounding light and energy ...And the leaves rustled coaxing him closer to the heartbeat one could call the metronome of rhythm as branches beat branches ... He relaxed his fluttering and pecking and he stopped to survey the dark earth for a morsel of food, and instead he relaxed his muscles ...
His breath slowed and he observed the quiet afternoon that was beginning to take a nap....and the leaves cooling mantle around him became a haven from the bright scorching sunshine. The feeling of satiated appetite always left him feeling easily contented...

The brown supple roots closed around him like a cage... He waited... then he felt unease.... The green leaves softly created a bed, and walls that darkened around him... around him... around him... and lemon gold blossoms .... the scent was exquisite ...
And the leaves rustled, as the glittering petals fluttered covered as they were with a million butterflies of antique rose-gold shimmering wings....
Like them, he felt a musky delicate perfume dull his senses... he closed his eyes.... and around him... around him .... around him.... Little shoots formed from Little Shoot... until there was no longer ... HIM.

...Little Shoot sighed... complete.

By... Xsapph
August 6th 2005

Lotus Flower

2004-04-30T22:49:00.002+01:00

Somberness in the flame of a candle reflected
Cleansed, as misdeed and misdoubt love freely confess.
Perfected goddess ensures life is protected.
Even as she feels surreal loneliness.

To discover her ocean deep gentleness.
Whilst fierce tossing waves, hard rocks, tumble refined.
Her embracing limbs express such closeness.
That even the sun, the stars' love declines.

Silken secrets unravel: her soul bares.
Lotus flower softness: lovers hearts entwine.
Draw fingers to wipe away her flowing tears.
The cold night warms, when her loving dark eyes shine.

For they who are with her for more than a day
For those enamoured long await her entrance.
Find it hard to leave her side, or so they say.
A quest to secure her hand and kiss perchance.

Like moonlight she is held so precious and dear.
If you knew her even for a single spring hour.
Praying softly, she might, in vivid dreams appear.
Her absence tears petals, poor lotus flower.

Copyright©Xsapph

...Rainy London Afternoon...

2002-07-05T21:53:00.000+01:00

...This painting

Eleanor Polen's Rainy London Afternoon...captures everything that is surreal about this transitory journey below...

Bamboo Chimes

Tangled auburn hair, that curls a little when the glazed bamboo chimes clatter.
Sunburnt driftwood weathered skin, pulled taut along limbs that the exigency of desperation had left needle pierced.
I barely missed his legs as he sat crouched in the doorway of the bookstore, his pleading for change,

with the practiced silence of long endured rejection.
Stepping on popcorn that was a reminder of the fluffed up cloudy day when the Gods burnt popcorn

also tumbled over the blue sanitised sky.
Making a phone call in a ‘tardis-box’; Leicester Square, and the sudden thunderclap,

startled the Dutch bland, Tourist with the torn jeans, and Rolex.
From his plastic cup, foaming coffee steamed, it’s scent mixed with cooked lamb,

as he chewed loose kebab meat slivers that hung from his mouth,

and dropped back into the overflowing pitta bread, hot on his fleshy pierced tongue.
The urgent storm, and crackling lightening, the fearful squeaking of hundreds of rats that ran up from the underground,

fleeing in fright hid in the surrounding bushes.
I clambered up higher, my heeled boots scratching against the metal frame and stabilising myself against the glass walls,

as my lilac angora beret fell in the puddle forever abandoned,

although I studied myself with much head tilting when I bought it, a little conceited.
Drenched rats that scuttled below my feet under the glass doors ran across the beret,

leaving their paw prints, intermeshed and muddied across the flat cap, which sank into the dirt.
As I held my breath waiting for them to scurry off and the drains flooded piteously.
Than a face, it’s nose pressed close to the wet glass,

and Her complete calm as rats scampered off, and eyes that peered in,

behind spectacles that were wet and steamed.
Surprised at the co-incidence of an encounter with a Welsh friend,

her freckled face was nameless but a reminder of a tavern maid,

unbeknown to her, soaking spilt beer with her sleeves.
Whilst a graphite beetle scurried beside her hand, and made me shudder almost as I did now,

but then it was for a moment, but now I froze awaiting the vermin exodus for much longer.
Yet I remembered her love of starry fireworks, and a sparkler singeing her auburn hair,

which now was tangled with the string of the bamboo-chimes in the doorway to the small café, to which she beckoned.
Then exploring her face for signs of the girl I once knew,

with the intimacy that women share in frenetic dialogue that has no obligations,

when she was studiously in love, with her husband’s boss.
I listened to her and had offered ignored advice,

sometimes I did not,

instead just nodded in a bleak condescension for it seemed a hopeless parry.
Although there were changes around us that flickered like a moth in a paper lantern;

in her pebble brown eyes, there was an absence of profundity.
She stepped into a puddle, and her lemon shoe soaked the rain,

and dirtied left a wet mark on the floor tiles as we trekked to our wicker seats.
Her wet scented polyester ‘pashmina’ brushed my face;

as she threw it over her bag on the floor beside her sodden coat’s hem,

an impermanent observation,

fleeting whilst Vienna’s Blue Danube played in the background.
Upon which my own shoe left it’s guilty mark, and I pulled it under me,

slightly envious of her laughter, which came from a superior aura of sun-drenched beaches.
Steadily uncertain of the invisible visitations ,

that each such encounter reminded one of in a place that could be called memory.
Then sharing our story lines and love interests that laughter reduced to spattered eggs in a pan,

as sausages and tomato bristled with rage half singed.
Then a withdrawn silence, as we surveyed a New Yorker’s donut whetted like a brown duck in a pond,

in his coffee cup, with spilt brown sugar stuck to his elbow.
‘Greenwich Mean Time’… contradictory in Leicester Square, if defined by the body clock of a voyager.

with his hunger relieved by unfamiliar menus.
The begging addict whose lost insouciance was recaptured briefly when he discovered loose change in his pockets,

cussing in Italian, that was softly spoken in a hushed covert tone,

when the direction pointing policeman took his arm and led him away,.
As his eyes linked like a thread to mine,

and we knew for a moment that there was a tug beneath the eyelashes, between us,

unspoken anguish for sea surf and sandcastle consequences that distanced us.
What would never be found would be the chimera that earlier was his hot blooded amorato,

even as a shivering air trembled his limbs, he longed to see her glacial grey eyes, even for a moment,

but we saw her instead in the doorway of a newsagent, watching him frigidly.
As I held tightly to the coins I may have readily parted with, had I believed for sure in his genuine impecuniosities,

and hunger for a belly full of muddy soup and crust.
My friend elbow-propped as she strained to see around the corner that he was led away,

and then at a distance followed by the pock marked girl whose wet clothes stuck to her ribs;

as she trembled but then turned the corner at the Swiss Centre.
We talked in the riddles of those protected by merciful angels,

whilst others walked their own remarkable paths of victory and defeat.
She was the same, in her lighter veins remaining obdurately promiscuous,

the husband long since discarded and her new found joy in romance insulating her from comprehending pain,

as she painstakingly applied her mascara to cream cleansed eyes in her mirror.
The bamboo chimes that swung in the doorway,

softly clattered, and still had her hair caught around the splintered edge of the longest stems,

and I watched her twirl her hair as she chattered on.
Her primping stretching her crows-feet eye line by a severe ponytail that lifted her dimpled chin

towards the Heaven sent rainbow that broke the spell we were all under that wet London afternoon,

and then she smiled warmly… so did I,

but not at or with her,

but within myself.

Xsapph

Prose from July 2002

Suspense

2002-06-03T21:50:00.000+01:00

Hippolyte Flandrin's Jeune Homme Nu Assis au Boro de la Mer.... it leaves one speechless in anticipation for the moment when the man lifts his head and looks out to sea, and sends his amorous hopes and thoughts to the Universe...

Suspense

... Fading away-uncaught memory wisp: shaped incompleteness.

Even where loss was unintended, the ruptured imprint was left.

All but untold feelings had settled unreleased into abstraction.

Grazes and bruises hidden under pedestrian glances.

Titian tresses fall around sloping shoulders, greying in time....

Stanza from Suspense 3rd June 2002
Sapphirex

Power of a glance...

2001-04-27T01:07:00.000+01:00

Raising your eyelashes, in a way that was peculiar to only You.
A lift of your broad chin, with it's centred dip, your face in profile, motionless.
For a second, as if you stopped the world, all waited.

A Brittle, knee-jerking tenseness electrified the air...

[Stanza from Icicle Eyes, Sunbeam Smile 27 April 2001]