When fields gleam aureate and song birds sing
and transient stars in clusters scintillate,
when sweet perennials are coaxed by spring
to blossom forth, he comes with sprightly gait.
He wends his way along the mountain trails
past opalescent rush of streams and rills,
goat-footed, on the paths that ribbon dales
and wind around and up and down small hills.
Then nymphs appear as, through the woods, he trips
to flower-smitten meadows. Fancy-free,
he leads them with his reed held to his lips,
till blithely they embrace his rhapsody.
So hear the music; watch the wood nymphs spin. . .
Then captured by sheer merriment, join in!
For Nathan A.'s ANY POEM GOES Poetry Contest
Oh, angel, how you flutter 'bout my heart
The joy of love and living you impart
Your voice my soul does carry into flight
Illuminates with incandescent light
Your eyes are blind to wonders of this world
Yet, when you sing, its beauties are unfurled
I live a dream unmarred by pain and strife
Where passion, joy, and love are verdant, rife
You sing my heart into that special place
Where naught resides but beauty touched by grace
Angelic face when lit up by a smile
Invites my heart to dream a little while
Bocelli, angel sweet of paradise
In blinded eyes, the light of heaven lies
March 30, 2014
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Listen. The colors of the notes are wrong.
Where is the perfection of sapphire-chords
that I am due? Cornflower doesn’t belong
here, plotting the composition’s borders.
Master music has all fingers contorting
to fit themselves into the metronome’s tock
and these tight strings have badly distorted
my repertoire. I’ve lost both key and lock
in a palette of sorrow that canvasses pain.
Oh, the cavernous range of a rhapsody
releases those scales of anguish again
until I am concert and concert is me.
Dissonance and harmony do not combine,
Still, under eye sockets black and blue shines.
About this Poem
This modern sonnet is inspired by both Picasso's The Old Guitarist and pianist David Helgott's struggle with mental illness.
The movie Shine is based on Helgott's life, though one sister disputes that their father ever abused David. David had a breakdown while practicing Rachmaninoff's 3rd Concerto, a highly difficult piece. He received electric shock therapy.
Picasso's blue period is said to be the result of his poor standard of living at the time and the suicide of a dear friend. The old guitarist shows a bone thin blind man hunched over his guitar, as though boxed in by the canvas.
A warbling vireo hops from oak to elm.
Your gaze wanders, too. This amphitheater
hosts the lyrical, almost overwhelms,
for beyond the mill ruins, the Grand River
is deep in thought, reflecting. It’s as though myth
lives; Summerland has come to the hillside
where weathered fieldstones beguile the impish
to dance. They do or else tin flutes will chide.
Though cozy the spot, the world is at our feet.
Tanned toes can not help but tap. Strong is the lure
of pipes and those songs that dulcimers keep.
When night softly falls, one group brings rapture.
They sing until stars tire and all are hoarse
like poets rousing words to supplicate verse.
The blue-grass music blares from speaker's face
as guys and gals entwine moon-round the floor,
she sits alone, ignores the dancers' pace
although her ears record the rhythm score.
He begged her love; he painted instant fame.
She nursed her song in dreams alive to wit,
she trusted him to give the verse her name,
and reasoned out they spun a perfect fit.
With traitor's greed intense, he stepped aside,
and claimed her song as his with no remorse.
He left her raw, his chest out-puffed with pride.
Disgraced, abased, her anger reinforced,
she writes another song, recounts the tale,
assured his star will now commence to pale.
Auburn lady envious of the blue night with its gleaming, capturing stars;
those rare diamonds, belonging to the silent and vast Universe,
you've stolen to adorn your undulating hair,
brushed by the July's harebrained breeze,
so temptingly soft and adorably fair;
if no admirer or lover seeks you, can I offer you my first dance?
Your melancholic look is fixed downward,
and you refuse to look above, nothing excites you tonight;
your external beauty cannot be resisted or ignored,
and will an harlequin, in his vividly colored costume, make you smile?
I'll play the flute brightly and make him dance to cheer you with his wit...
until your sadness leaves no sign on that sad face!
The shrill sound of the crickets can darken your spirit; listen closely, auburn lady...
sing along with the blue night, while your musical tones become the chords of my harmony!
Inspired by Edward Robert Hughes's painting: Night
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
My morning retirement ritual,
Provides breakfast to the birds on my street.
Food for fowl, silencing bellies that growl,
Watching the many hundreds gather near,
Huddled together on branches they meet,
With a calm patience we’ve learned to revere.
Feeding the birds of every pedigree,
Flying things, all sizes, colors, and shapes.
Hungry beaks, vibrant feathers, sharp clawed feet,
Small Finches and Wrens, large Sparrows come round.
Harmoniously singing us awake,
Their only care: yummy seeds on the ground.
My morning retirement ritual,
Feeding the birds of every pedigree.
1) Sonnet written in Anapestic Pentameter
She walked by my side
trying to clasp my hand,
I was dreaming wide
with a lonesome land.
Where she could not follow
or call me through the night –
my heart is now hollow
and whiteness is my sight…
A man with a smile on his lips
and an old guitar on his back
gave me life’s wicked tips:
Love is better when love lacks,
you will follow alone his track
surrounded by scattered lilacs…
Tears In The Wind
Left hand deftly fingering strings on frets,
While my right hand is picking or strumming.
Composing a sad song about regrets
And searching a melody by humming.
I easily find a chord progression,
Played in a melancholy minor key,
Then add some dynamics for expression--
Reaching a fugue-like state releases me
Fleeting perfection is my endeavor.
Like tears in the wind, now lost forever.
My sweet angel , slowly close your eyes
Dream of stardust wisps and satin thread,
My arms gather your toes unto twinkling skies
Come now ,let moon beams cradle your head
Heaven’s fairies touch your cheeks to render
Blue sky lights fireflies and teddy bear kisses,
Smile now, winds blow fluffy twirls from yonder
Filled with magical pillows from soft night wishes
Cherubs spray chuckles on a bright wand
They’re babies too, keeping you safe and sound
Sleep now, drift off to wonder , wonderland
Mommy’s beside you, my love songs abound
This lullaby chimes straight from my heart
Till tomorrow brings us to new bubbly start
Listen when you awake at crack of dawn
hear the chorus of all the birds singing
watch them as they scurry and dig the lawn
until a nasty cat sends them fleeing
How very dull and bland without any birds
silence would greet us with it's bleakness
less colour everywhere, half mast halyards
how lucky to have birds to add brightness
So many feathered friends around
delighting us with their wonderful songs
the sound of harmony our souls surround
for the sweet mellifluous songs prolongs
Tunes everywhere blending in harmony
sweetly combining sounding like honey
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Electric stage pumping music builds
He always brings spectacular shows
Awesome concerts since sixty-seven
The master artist his power wields
Sir Elton John, this crowd's in heaven
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll
Piano genius is in his hands
Rhythm and blues performance has soul
Mesmerizing fans for four decades
Three hour marathons for loyal fans
Flamboyant Brit in his famous shades
A sold-out house the excitement grows
Power ballads of sweet rock and roll!
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: Your Favorite Artist
Dangling from the tree I can see,
Broken wind chimes that still sing.
They just hang on by a split string.
Sending a harmony of tunes to thee.
Their tones and vibrations are a bit broken for me.
I listen and I ponder for what tunes they can bring.
From the tree they will sway when they can swing.
Bits and pieces are released through the air and flee.
Caught in the wind is it’s vibrations.
Carrying signals of great magnitude.
Funneling clouds into new creations.
Bringing air into a brand new mood.
Broken wind chimes can still sing a song,
But their messages are scattered all along.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
Tears of a little girl
that's so young, that's in her childhood,
make a golden well, make a golden well,
but she doesn't realize
her tears sing a song so beautiful.
They sing a song of treasure,
they sing a song so wonderful,
they sing to worship God,
but she doesn't realize
she has a gift to sing.
She mustn't sing for anything
she must sing for the King,
but she doesn't realize,
she can sing so goldenly, (so as a golden well)
Opening the box, she peers deep inside
Soft music is played from its underside
A smile appears on her cute tender face
Within her a giggle is everyplace
Her thoughts race, exactly how could this be
How do sounds exit something so pretty
The intricate markings on the box’s side
This is where the music comes to confide
She closes the lid and the music ends
Underneath she looks to see where it sends
But curiously she just finds a key
She turned it, twisted it, quite endlessly
Hearing nothing, she flipped the lid open
To hear the sounds that emanate within
I'm not as beautiful as a rainbow
I am the morning dew
Dancing on the tip of a leaf
Transient in the light of day.
Life is inviting me to dance
On the edge of time
To the music of love.
So come along for the dance
On the edges of time
I invite you to dance lightly
With me, to the music of love
Where the world is made of
Faith, trust and pixie dust
Like the dew on the tip of a leaf..
Your head is dead a chamber vast and void
and nothing's what you think on anymore
forgotten are all things you once enjoyed
and are replaced by life the constant bore.
Your brain's been drained you sit alone and stare
all hope's run out, your heart is solid stone
from night to day and day to night it's there
the wish to be forgotten and alone.
You think and sink into Oblivion
not caring if you fade or if you die
but only that you shed the shell you're in
you've gone beyond the questioning of why.
You are the death, the dark of greatest fear
the song of life only the dead can hear.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
My eyes are dazzled at the sight of you,
Extremely chic, your sparkles they just grew.
Your penguin costumes always sat just right,
With candelabra burning there so bright.
Yours eyes they glittered as if they just knew,
The secret to life was you, being you.
Your smile was a magical starlit gaze,
When you came out, we were all in a daze.
That you were eccentric, no one would doubt,
The crowds would go crazy, when you came out.
Walk to your piano, sit there so tall,
Fingers would move, and captivate us all.
Rings filled with diamonds slid over keys,
Magical misfit, our senses appeased.
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
Mystic Roses Contest: Eccentricize my Eyes
Listen now carefully, what do you hear?
sounds abound as you tune in to listen
universe of noise fills the stratosphere
birds singing, rustling leaves in transition
Blades of grass crackle sounding like gun fire
the trickle of the brook harmonious
I settle down by the roaring campfire
drinking in the sounds most melodious
As magically they blend together
creating music so soulful to hear
playing perfectly keeping in meter
in the background reed pipes clamor come here
Music around us abounds all the time
listen to it play enjoy the downtime
As golden daises there, I see
The morning sun so lazily
Shines down upon some sleepy trees
As they dance upon the breeze
Joni Mitchell on the set
She sings a song I can’t forget
Both sides now I hear her sing
Such joy the morning she does bring
Willy Wagtail sings along
With Joni, as two voices strong
Do reach into the heart of me
Enhancing morning mystery
I sit here, greet the morning in
As the new day does begin.
15 August 2014 @ 0913hrs.
Today's so-called music is nothing more
Than repetitious, raucous rot performed
By untalented, unaccomplished bores.
Their cacophony is worthy of scorn.
Instead they are held in admiration
By tin ears insensitive to sound.
Instruments amplify modulation
Or it might be the other way around.
Nevertheless, its purpose is to drown
Out feigned singers who couldn’t hold a tune
In a shower lest risking being found
Out. The day will finally come, and soon
I hope when these hucksters who can annoy
Are replaced with music all can enjoy.
The orchestra was loud when I walked in,
Performing a whimsical waltz by Strauss.
I picked a group of friends and settled-in,
And perused the fineries of the house.
The chandeliers were unevenly spaced,
Creating random spaces of shadows
Where intimate strangers chastely embraced,
And not-so-innocent virgins caroused.
A friendly acquaintance introduced me
To his available little sister.
Turned out she was charming and quite lovely,
So I gave up trying to resist her.
“I would be most honored, beyond measure;
If you’d care to dance, it’d be my pleasure.”
A song masterfully crafted, by a man hard of hearing:
able to sooth any man or woman's ear.
Beethoven could barely hear, the crowd's crying and cheering
Still the beauty of his works, would not disappear.
Moonlight Sonata outlives, even it's composer's death
Like Moonlight; the Sonata shines upon the world.
Tis so human, it can rob one, of one's breath
for to describe its beauty, man possesses no word.
But always must I remove, my spirits from aloft,
When I hear the end-silence, of the sonata I adore:
Never again, will a song like a kiss be soft.
For the composer who had such power, composes no more.
I remain grateful, though I will never hear the moonlight, played in a great hall
For I would be worse off, if I had never, heard it at all.
Time Was when I heard a raging fire
And the sound of glory raised from the Ash:
When my Sometime World long playing higher
Dazzled the age with a hot vinyl flash!
That Flying V, Fender Strat, Blowin' Free
Amplified in my ear and in my brain:
And The King Will Come slowly unto me
When I hear the piper and drum again!
In beauty of Leaf and Stream evermore
Comes the hypnotic Wishbone trance that was:
Like a Warrior at the gates of war
To rise again the legend of Argus.
And in the end a new age will record
The great band of four who Throw Down the Sword.
Dedicated to one of the greatest albums ever from 1972.
I couldn't choose just one song - you must listen to the
"Argus" by Wishbone Ash. Still a classic!
**This is a little different from any sonnet I have wrote. I normally write Shakespearean
sonnets but I found one called Spenserian sonnet and wanted to try my hand at it!**
Vibrations pierce me straight through my core
settling gently alongside my heart.
Awakening a burning yearning want of yore
a craving unquenchable from the start.
The tears stream down--my eyes they smart!
How music can touch a person I know not.
Floating aloft o'er my head as does a lark
and the strums and the riffs they plot.
Upon the soul and mind the sound picks a spot
nestles down into the thickest of thick,
The deepest deep recess where I am caught
and chooses to lodge there--in the quick.
An invasion of my senses entirely welcomed.
Tasted on the tip of my tongue; notes envisioned.
You carried my emotions from the start
Each emotion bound in the small black note
Each one coming straight from my chilly heart
The music you make is my antidote
Through the preludes my comfort softly lay
By way of mazurkas my soul does fly
But to divulge you must learn how to play
Although learning is not a piece of pie
Piano brings emotions around town
You have the power to bring my heart up
Or throw me on the floor and beat me down
There are hard times when I just want to cup
My hands in my face and rock back and forth
And think Piano is a friend of worth
Swallowed up into false nothingness around,
Captured only by my thoughts with no sound,
My mind wondering throughout the land,
No music to spare, not even a marching band,
Swiftness of stream, within walking distance,
Captures my thoughts, breaking my stance,
I break away and chase after calming echo.
Not knowing what I would find or know.
My soul relates to natures swishing flow.
Heart beating softly, in rhythm as I go,
As if, my spirit is writing music so sweet.
Picturing the notes, expressions of the beat,
Welcoming environments of musical twitter,
Spread outward in view, of natural glitter.
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Breathe in the silence
Hope is wonderful, it's a word I have come to appreciate
It appears in my life presently, hope knows I can wait
For in the coming months freedom will open my door
To a new life I'll lead and rid my past of sores
Music will be my capture, whilst my art will re-awake
To be more free in years to come, I need to for my sake
Whether I'll be alone in life, only time can tell
Inside my soul I'm reborn again to rid my saddened hell
To concerts I will go, many bands I have still to see
Buggles, Asia & Bryan Ferry, thrall their sounds in me
Maybe Queen will tour again, pasts efforts I should have made
Fingers crossed I won't be alone to share my Gigs cascade
Hope is a wonderful word it can open up future doors
To cross that threshold with open eyes, new horizons to explore
Though her true name was Opal Boniface,
Most knew the songstress as the Midnight Pearl,
A Creole whose crinoline voice could trace
frissons on the heart till that muscle would curl.
Jazz shone from her eyes, blues shadowed her lips,
She silenced a room with each naked note,
Women closed their eyes, men eyed her full hips
as she reached the rapt with the gems she wrote.
Words of loss stunned the crowd, laughter was hushed,
The spotlight wept and the clock stilled its hands,
moved by her lyrics of love’s gritty touch...
A N’Orleans girl making luster from sand.
How luminous this queen of melody,
Glowing on a stage called the Big Easy.
By Cyndi MacMillan, April 18, 2012
For Russel Sivey's Midnight Pearl Contest
About this Poem
This is a work of fiction. However, the photo is that of Leighla Whipper, singer, songwriter and restaurateur, who was bestowed the title Creole Belle.
How I will see you in the sparkling night
jazz meter caressing your frame
inflamed dancing sails its heights
making the music look tame
I enchant you with this cello of mine
with the bridge of my thumb and the strings
As I fly through the music in three quarter time
harmony takes sail without wings
I watch your body rise and breathe
a flock of doves want your style and grace
from these melody I will never leave
Gliding us to at a heavenly pace
instruments sings the mood that will be
you and I forever a loving rhapsody
When the winter winds have stole
their shivered breath,
And warmer now, snow is shed,
what lovely can bring when it sings;
(From mountains deep to waken sleep)
And gather the birds to their blossomed boughs,
singing their elated woody sounds,
(gently loitering in elder trees)
speckled chirps in forest green
Neath budding Sylvan mistletoe
the earth is born-again,
returns this ditty of long ago
(til rejoicing in leafy worlds)
Portugal is not Lisbon it consists of small villages and districts
where people have their own songs, local costumes and sing
songs relating to their world. To Alte they came for
an evening of music and dance. What were the songs about,
they were about hardship of working in the field looking after
animals and milking cows and goats. But it was very sexy too,
a woman sang, you can’t come to my bed unless you behave,
and a man´s voice promised he would always take care of her
if she would be a bit forthcoming. And there were songs about
young love kissing in the hay stack and disapproving parents.
Like religions folk music has the sharing about love and human
hardship, it doesn´t matter which country songs emits from
which religion they believe in; no it is about simple drama of
love, jealousy, and chaste kiss under the olive tree of peace.
There was an AM station from years ago.
I tuned in at night to hear my radio.
Their tower was based in Windsor, Ontario.
They would let the best of Canadian artists flow.
During the day, it was a station I could never hear.
Another entity on the same frequency was broadcasting near.
When 8PM rolled around, that broadcaster went off the air.
The Canadian station took over from there.
I always heard the latest sounds from the Guess Who.
They also had the Stampeders and the Bells too.
One day, the broadcasts would disappear.
Their music and messages I could no longer hear.
That Canadian transmitter’s call letters were CKLW.
Like many other AM locations, they bid adieu.
Dedicated to Willie Nelson
His eyes reflect the wisdom of eighty-one years
The gentleness of his words can bring me to tears
Though he tries to conceal it, his eyes reveal pain
Red lines emerge from “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain”
Emotive eyes from a thin man with braided hair
Not handsome, but his eyes made love to ladies fair
Just to leave “Angels Flying Too Close to the Ground”
He shed tears, kissed them, and left with a heart unbound
“Always on My Mind” are the windows to his soul
Just like his eyes, Willie’s music seeks to console
Tenderness still shines in the “Midnight Rider’s” gaze
“Living in the Promised Land,” this is where he stays
Weathered eyes speak of lean years without compromise
His music will live on, long after Willie dies
*Written September 3, 2014 for Mystic Rose’s contest
(Words in quotations are songs written by Willie Nelson.)
Motifs as varied as the notes they sing,
hanging from your front porch or tree.
Small silver bells on delicate chains ring,
swaying softly in a warm gentle breeze,
Or dancing chaotic within a storm.
Hollow bamboo sections of different lengths,
resonate a sound that is rich and warm.
Metal cut into varied shapes has strength,
colored glass in geometrical shapes,
offers you a teasing tinkling sound.
A graceful addition to your landscape,
you can have one or spread a few around.
A wind chime sings gentle to your spirit,
they calm your soul each time that you hear it.
As water trickles from the aqua sky,
I silently ponder over my life…
And how much I care, oh can’t you see why?
Your bright smile, like the sun helps me through strife.
Before now, I never knew who I was,
but you helped show me the world’s vivid glow.
You are my best friend, brave, funny, and just.
With you will I feel the bitter, cold snow?
I know that together we’ll move mountains,
Our fates like a vine have become entwined.
Our pleasure spreads like water in fountains,
Moving forward, we'll never press rewind.
Holding hands as we keep moving along,
You’re the drum behind the beat of my song.
No sonnet to hold the magic of feeling,
A trembling tenderness in my soul delights –
A shadowing sonnet to reflect the lights,
The beauty, the beauty, of ever believing.
No sadness to spoil the depth of compassion,
A freedom so simple, though love lives still –
A flyaway sonnet to soar with the thrill,
The release, the escape, of all love and all passion.
No days and no years could cut its throat,
A timeless emotion that cannot know never,
That can never quite give enough.
No cymbals for us with one splendid note –
A tambourine sonnet for you, forever
For the soft steady shake of this love.
Copyright (c) Silverla StMichael 1998 (previously published under a prior pen name Sherry May Curnock)
The rose must grow to taunt all other joy's,
with it's beauty can humility be,
such triats never to be equally poised,
for beauty sets those ill-composed thoughts free,
To undrape the skin of this lovly thing,
in the hopes to find a fairer essence,
beneathe this rose a true purpose to sing,
It must be that I'm in heavens presence,
to find the rose beautiful inward out,
to find the rose that soothes the hearts of men,
but that this rose exists I am in doubt,
for this would be a rose bereft of sin,
still I search for this elusive flower,
that my heart will be soothed in my hours,
Taps thrice. It all begins in the ocean.
The waves shamble slowly, progressively
They initiate clutter and commotion
But sustain metronome successfully.
The trees rattle eloquently with style
Branches falling, scraping against the vines
Like strings. And the songbirds are versatile,
Harmonized wind instruments… well defined.
Mother Nature herself, brilliant and proud
Emits the most beautiful flourishes.
The crescendo arrives pure, free and loud.
She picks up her staff, smiles and approaches.
Conducting a 48-piece orchestra,
Suspended in music forever, contra Tempus Temporis
From the Eastern Spain region of Catalonia,
he was born in 1900 in Barcelona.
His family would later emigrate to Cuba.
He performed with the Teatro Nacional Orchestra.
Sailing to New York aboard the SS Havana,
Xavier achieved great fame in America.
He and his band opened the Waldorf-Astoria.
Nineteen-forty brought his greatest hit “Perfidia”.
Some later recordings popularized the conga,
along with other styles such as mambo and cha-cha.
Xavier Cugat maintained great popularity,
until he passed and left this world in 1990.
Among the greatest of the twentieth century,
Cugat left to later musicians a legacy.
I thank wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for valuable information I obtained to write this poem.
The end may become a beginning,
to go away can be to arrive,
life,as nature has its seasons,
sometimes short bit oftimes long;
To sense the aroma of change,
to experiment a new attire,
walking without a map,
Th past,as yesterday,will ever be
remembered,blessed,but filed away,
a stage,a stepping stone
a springboard to another day.
Today is done,tomorrow will be
a future advnture,rests with thee.
When tears are plucking out my empty sighs
My loyal friend still sits upon my wanting thighs
And waits my hand without no how’s and whys
As his taut echoes lift me to the skies.
Even if my songs are lonely and sad
The more I strum the less I feel so bad
My guitar, travels with me o’er this land
And always there to simply take my hand
In this union my heart’s singing, glad
My strumming days weren’t just another fad.
On my journey my voice never denies
In joyful songs of nature’s wondrous highs
The truth of love on which my heart relies
And loneliness once more has lost its ties.
When bird song rumored dawn, I climbed a hill,
A hill I've climbed before, again, again.
I came to learn a song so glad and still
It only sounds at dawn, just when...Just when.
I climb because He said the shadow lifts
Like mist is burned from silver mirror lakes,
Then new reflection on the surface drifts
As all below the surface breaks. It breaks.
A breeze strummed grass, and gold announced the dawn.
The common graces seemed to chant the start
Of day; yet only this day breaks upon
The symphonies inside your heart. Your heart.
Among the miracles that Easter gives
Are songs of Always. Listen now. He lives!
HInoi Team dances, lovely on the stage
Spreading the moves, so famous they have made
Para Para takes its place in this age
Among the great fav’rites, never to fade.
Like a bright, rushing stream, the movements go
And round the curves of music they bend.
As one with the beat, the time seems to slow
The song seems forever, sans start or end.
While the wind teases the leaves of a tree
The lovely blossoms it causes to fall.
With effortless rhythm it calls to me,
The melody captures us, one and all.
Though simple as a child’s favorite game,
This dance has taken root, and risen to fame.
Dice clicking in loaded hands, empty pledge
Hair-shaking wetness on steamed windowpanes
Fingernail file passing on painted edge
Eye lashes blinking against flashing lanes
Grey Fedora and white knuckles knocking
Urgent business with platinum blonde and lace
Neon crackle and alley cat loving
Dark passageway to dead end people place
Sunglasses sparkle above ruby lips
Be the lovely handmaid of French delight
Scarf trailing red over twilight cool hips
Secret midnight panther fading from sight
Endless shelves of knowledge tempting poets muse
Hidden, private visions he dares to peruse