Benediction

 

He was her all black and blue

He was her every backward move

 

Bitten lips, sugar swollen tongues

unable to breathe, only to succumb

 

Wild-rose rush, indecorous release

bewildered by being hostage beneath

 

Afterwards, he whispers her to him:

“You are so loved,

you are so loved.”

 

© Katypoetess 2015

The Gentleman and the Gypsy

 

Hunting

 

Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches

scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,

trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.

 

Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –

pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,

skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.

 

Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek

need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,

wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.

 

Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,

tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads

sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daises to caravan of calling

 

He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,

“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying

to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”

 

Shooting

 

Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.

Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides

her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home

 

Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption

in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.

He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.

 

She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.

Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.

Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.

 

Slowly the revered curse of middle aged folly bears a gallant courtship

of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.

Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.

 

Fishing

 

Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.

Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.

Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.

 

Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,

but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into

caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daises once again.

 

In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,

he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine and their fortunes aligned

The circling raven caws an oath to them both – “So mote it be, so mote it be.”

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

 

 

Dumb Destiny

 

I cannot speak to you anymore.

Though over these clay hearted years,

we never really spoke at all.

 

So now it finally must end

as I am taken once again

by collared, artistic agenda.

 

I cut languid love loose

re-tie dumb, devoted knots

that only he will now render.

 

Forbidden of fruitful verse

which may wistfully introduce

play on words of mourning.

 

My pen breathing jealous

reluctantly moulds itself madly

into new, amorphic belonging.

 

So you remain not lost – yet never found.

Source material that floats as cirrus,

I cannot speak to you anymore.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

Epitaph – November 2011

 

Forgive me as I dip my pen into blood of the past.

Memories.  Hanging bright as the whitest moon

in my blackened, indecorous thoughts.

 

I was his lover, his muse, his friend,

his counsel over secret canal side walks.

Both sharp suited, professional by day,

we drove fast through boundaries

into love first after taking vows of never.

Towpath widened into world of champagne,

shopping trips to Ann Summers, Agent Provocateur,

in Bicester, London, staying in hotels with no cares

who’s there – where he adored every curve of my body.

 

Crossed texts delayed, mislaid, misunderstood,

snatched hours of lust and hot mugs of tea,

in between days of mutual rampaging jealousy.

His possession and my consequential obsession.

We met in every weather and I dressed for him,

danced for him, submissive to his every whim.

I would have died for him (some say that I did).

 

Those times at The Cottage we raged in peace,

tangled in a rookery of rope and red thread,

only the Atlantic held us in our iridescent castle

of quicksand.  Endless poetry written, photos taken,

music of longing and love’s fatal confusion as “our songs”.

As suspicions grew, intimate rituals and his administration

of injustice grew more painful on my skin and in my heart.

 

Then I was left all alone with our mourning moon.

Three years later.  Cruel mischief reigned again

and returned (as he did promise) to my front door.

I was not there any more. A neighbour told me

a friend called, would not leave his name,

but a photo gave him away.  I wrote him a letter,

to say I am better, have a good life now and whatever.

 

I am resigned to dogma it will never be over,

but I have picked my four-leaf clover – held tight

as I write while he watches in silence from afar.

For him and me – are buried alive – in my poetry.

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

 

Residual Haunting

 

There are these times of the year

that hunt and haunt my soul.

If I am undistracted – unaccompanied

then I become unexpectedly – unnerved.

 

Whispers on the breeze I cannot hear

catchlights in eyes I cannot see

memories of you I can no longer feel.

 

You are only 10 miles away

out of my life –

but no distance away

from this

residual haunting.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

Ezzelin and Meduna

 

 

 

 

Vampiric Chivalry

 

I am undone.
I am flayed –
not by a strike of hand
but of gentlemanly politeness.

I am bereft.
I am rejected –
not by a lover’s spurning
but of frustrated licentiousness

Will my vampire ever brave the depravity of reality,
from the enigmatic dark of brutal chivalry?

© Katypoetess 2015

 

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Dodging Cupid’s Arrow

 

To say

I don’t think of you

Would be a lie

But I dare not pine

As you cross my mind

 

Do not

ascertain as I close

the bedroom curtains

my wildness is founded

in uncontrollable desire

 

Ignore that

contented smile

while you hold my gaze,

I suggest gently that

you need new glasses

 

Sipping more

or less Dom Perignon

I’m sure it won’t be long

before barman calls time

on this unexpected escapade

 

Giving no

weather warning of mood

you flatter my virtues

declaring an eternal bond

I can only say, that

of you – I am quite fond

 

I command

you must not be too long –

but if you return quickly

you would be wrong that

I just wanted you by my side

 

Self-deprecating

a sweet ambiguity

I’m rather proud

I’m dodging

Cupid’s arrow

rather nicely

 

But I know

I said

I was just

passing through

 

I thought

I might

 

stick around

a bit longer.

 

Would you?

 

© Katypoetess  2015

Iron Lung

 

Sometimes.  Sometimes, when I am alone,
I slowly, warily try and bring myself back.
Cry out the rotting lump in my throat,
pull at greying hair, a constant reminder,
life is passing and you are no longer there.
Unable to breathe. A little girl lost,
flying kites into thunderclouds.

Glancing faces of mornings in all their glory
delivers me to rest – and now I’m blessed
with a life I guess at in your absence.
Heart stolen hard – drum tight face
that’s melting the hell of no tomorrows.

New riches to rags physician stirs and grinds
toxic past into sand, a pacified thoracic cavity.
Fission and fusion of soporific delusion
feeding a longing for foetal peace. I am safe
and saved. Yet iron lung love is stillborn.
His unexpected, resisted gift of healing
is only sealed by white ribbon of time.

© Katypoetess 2015

Sweet Light

 

The hour before sun does set and twilight born
hazy aroma of cooling fields and hearts forlorn
Homeward bound, and bound to home
The wayward desires cease to roam

Sweet light nymph strays into beaten field
To catch that haze she dares to feel
She writes a glimpse of hope untold
As fragile as the petals she dares to hold

© Katypoetess  2015

 

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Solstice

 

Come to me.

In darkening clouds

and balmy breeze

that boldly bucks

my willow tree

into enlightenment.

Come to me.

 

Touch me.

Touch me where

I ache the most

show the least

and love you the best.

Touch me.

 

Stay with me.

Share my twilight

sultry sensual stars

with a shine that

warns off dawn

of atonement.

Stay with me.

 

© Katypoetess  2015

Beholden to Behind

 

A thumb – intently placed on chin

caressing every freckle into a letter

that spells out a story blushing lips

that remand and remade the ending

 

Forefinger – smoothing the jaw

straight as lines read and re-read

he turns her over like a page

his favourite fable, every inch

a mythology of unreason.

 

Genteel palm – perfectly placed

on ripened white, depressing spine

into maidenly goading of docility.

Two hearts, to start – a beautiful violation

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

Funfair

 

Posters – depicting your attraction

were long ago hollered and rolled up

into human curiosity of loquacity.

Sights and signs remain crystal bright.

The fortune teller sees to that.

 

How I strip teased round ribboned pole

Winding that prize in disguise was the yow

I knew. Then not chosen to be May queen,

I helter skeltered to hate, heal, redeem

Tortured by silence amongst the crowd

 

You, nag drawn and I despatched

to merry carousel. Riding up and down

on horses for courses with names saddled

  • pain, shame, anger and sympathy

gilded with lilies and forget-me- nots.

 

Waiting and wondering, you stay and play

hoopla on crooked cross of wedlock.

Meanwhile, I rest content in tent of salubrity.

Tasting, thriving, on every last supper offered,

delectable dishes wanting to be served cold.

 

Occasionally we ring bell of number withheld.

Letting off engine steam, reminding us

it’s you and me. Punch and Judy of frilled

fabled connection, red and white stripes –

delightful delusion, dangerous deflection.

 

Your wilful tuppence in a tear bottle

Now ladylike half crowned princess,

a nelipot chancing the side stalls

However you twist card of fate, decision made.

I will not fall shy of the hardest coconut.

 

So – before we pack up this freak show

Who’s the hook and who’s the duck?

Paddling hopeful swingboat of truce.

Popguns loaded, one of us will run out of luck.

Holler loud. Roll up. Now that’s the way to do it.

 

© Katypoetess 2014

Masquerade

 

I

Staring a half-hearted wonder of who you really

are into a crackle and glow of home comforts,

I swill serene glass of Margaux round and round

in hand that writes and re-writes reminiscence.

 

Commuting through those sullied Surrey suburbs,

did the severity of your suit cut a sharp intake of

my breath as I pushed through the hollow crowd?

Poetry flames in devotion, an awakening in motion.

 

Far away, but recklessly closer than you think,

you slowly shut your MacBook down in disquietude.

Restlessly twisting vexed metal round and round

on hand that has reached out to any port in a storm.

 

Paroxysm of ravening strikes at being lost within loss,

eternally searching  for your own fire nymph of fervour.

Body ages with resigned alacrity and mind unkempt,

a lonely clandestine, mixing glitter with fool’s gold.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.*

 

 

II

Our host never lets guise slide as he enters

the ballroom, face familiar but unknown,

creating mystery with grammar school tones.

An iridescent blend of anxiety and cunning

He tastes debauchery with decaying eyes,

every flavour of colour through a screen of lies .

Host of followers delightfully exposed

on account of his whims, letting masks fall

dancing hither and thither, beautiful curves

weave and smile, they come – and they go,

but what he really craves for is a beautiful soul.

To keep him alight as years ember and cajole.

 

Clock strikes darkest hour before dawn,

he divines brilliant blue flame in hearth,

an uncomplicated complexity, rising a

Pandora’s paradox with hell-fired hair.

A nightmare dressed like a daydream

in libertine gown, tempered high heels,

an antagonist extreme, holding brave glass

chalice of mistrust, and whip of austere suspicion.

 

She strides – cracks right through his marrow,

Hands him her whip and blood-red drink

Even though they have only just met

She smiles an indecorous, whispering light

“Don’t look at your face in the mirror,

look at the nymph that sustains your soul.”

Stroking ashen hair at his tempestuous temple,

“You are not so faded yet – I think.”

 

*Excerpt from Dylan Thomas – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

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Momento Mori

 

“Chin

down

slightly,

head towards finger, keep going, keep going, there – stop.

Eyes to me.”  

 

Sequestered devotion to bemused muse.

She stares back digressive, dictated expression.

Seeing now not the man, but the Brady stand.

 

© Katypoetess  2015