On my back in bed
with a book to read
while being gently mauled -
she digs into my breast.
The delicate skin breaks
under her needle pricks
red stains suffuse nightdress
while she purrs and kneads.
Expressing her content
to have me trapped at last
not moving round the house
ignoring her embrace.
Warrior goddess
Diana
the huntress
With quiver
on back
Arrows flying
straight and true
Target
in her sight.
''Q''
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by
Constance La France
28/09/2021
I watch you walk in a forest of green
The land of love for a huntress, in your eyes there is a light
I see a will to fight, flames lit by the wild
Your love for another so strong
Your eyes bright like a goddess of the green
Would you fight for me my love?
For us? for you.
2011
Shedang, huntress of the forest, it is said that her arrows are true.
A protector of deer, squirrels, and other wildlife; her quiver will do.
Is she an entity or someone created by the wildlife of the trees?
I wonder as I walk through the forest, accompanied by a soft breeze.
Is it true she can leap from branch to branch, from elm to oak?
I have heard so much about her from the Germanic folk.
She maims the hunters, rarely kills them, the storytellers say.
I have heard this story since I was a child from those who were gray.
She is bewitched, some say. She can hear you coming from the lake.
I listened to these stories, and my knees began to jive and quake.
She sounded dangerous to me, it made me want to never hunt.
My grandpa kept inviting me, but I got a ball and asked him to punt.
Watch out for Shedang, they warned, don’t even step on the ‘shrooms.
She could easily fly out of a tree, and get you with arrows that zoom.
I saw her sitting way up high in a maple polishing arrows last spring.
Averted my eyes, and went back down the trail, without hurting a thing.
There once was a Norse goddess named Skadi
A Winter Ruler in huntress’ body
An expert at skiing
Her enemies fleeing
Ester Ledecka she did embody
My wife, my huntress, rides the Holy Wind,
But still, daisies adorn her thick brown hair!
Her muslin robes blow out, her hair's unpinned,
Let dark thoughts try to chase her, if they dare!
For she outrides them all, strews flowers like hopes
And, with her hunting-dogs, argent, and gold,
She frees all prisoners, breaks all hangmen's ropes
A sure shot from her bow, and - young and old,
The wretched find their freedom come at last!
The hopeless rise and throw off fear's dull chains,
The blinded see the Now, Future, and Past
The horses lead their riders without reins!
Now, through the Night, she bolts like lightning's fire!
A fiery seraphim, who'll never tire!
Ghost-striped by wild magic, night roams into the night
with a mystique like the darkness of the moon’s shaded face.
A jet silhouette with shadowed rosettes prowls ebon-air’s hue;
liquid-liner-black strides in silent fluidity
melts night into the night.
Susan Ashley
April 20, 2019
~Fifth Place ~
Contest: April 2019 Premier 7, Max 5 Lines
Sponsor: Brian Strand
*A black panther is a leopard with excessive melanin giving it its black coat. Like a regular leopard, the panther has black spots, but they are usually hidden by its fur’s black background but they can be seen in the light at certain angles, this is known as ghost-striping.*
Girded loins sway
in restive need of sterile quarry,
lithe star spangled limbs
span the velvet heavens,
silver huntress Diana
unbends slender crescent arms,
looses the gleaming arrow,
unknowing, unerring, the missile
flies to the mark,
unflinching, the prey falters
in fatal ecstasy,
finite pleasure
alloyed with infinite pain.
She makes love
like a hungry lioness
I adore her shadow
the way it arches
performing upon the wall.
Her black hair flows
age and experience
makes her hunt for a lover
jungle fever in my bed.
She desires a skilled man
stalking through the tall grass
growling along the way
I wait for her scent.
I would hunt and kill for her
bringing her a fatted calf
stuffed with wild fowl
to celebrate her return...
~ ~
In nightshade she rages in fumes
And drives me to the edge of unrest
Inside coal eyes, my breath exhumed
Granting her to stew, I feel pressed.
Dark tresses of fire keeps burning
A passion that ignites a whirl...
This vixen’s scold reeks like a sting
But truth of her words were sincere.
Enticed, I drink the spiced potion
That bathes deep down inside of me;
Possessing a huntress’ grit, she drones
As my pride she melts, heavenly.
My woman is both river and sleet
Her quarter moon flushed with grace;
Eclipsing my will, my defeat
To accept a female's bold ways!
Dr. Ram Mehta's Husbands Are In Heaven.. Contest
by nette onclaud
Diana goddess huntress
your glowing love abides.
You match my wish
and bring in the tides.
You reflect god light
in your nurturing essence.
Reminding me tonight
of my infinite wholeness.
Your hunt is for the god,
the god that eternally shines upon you
remembering your service
is what remains True.
You are the guide
and the direction
into our knowing of Source revelation.
As I turn within
as the huntress,
I recall,
the Sun is my eminent fortress.
Goddess Diana, a tribute to you.
Your reflection is your devotion
and tonight I emulate your love pure
and with virtue.
She really knows herself...
She really knows herself...
She really knows herself
Through and through...
She really knows what it is...
What it really, really is...
What it really, really is
What it is that she wants...
She wants what's strong and true.
She really, really knows...
She really, really knows...
What it is that she needs...
She really knows what she needs...
She really, really needs
What it is that she knows
That she wants.
He is the one that she sees...
That she really, really sees...
He is the one that she knows that she needs...
She wants his intellect...
She wants his strength of mind...
She shares his love of words.
She knows that he really, really IS...
That he trully, trully IS...
A Veritable One of a Kind.
And so she watches him
She tracks him down...
She sets her sights on him.
It's the shot heard round the world.
(November 21, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
(for: Deborah Guzzi)
The forest sings for her hunter
The twin of the fierce panther –
& I sing a sonorous song
That echoes beyond the sky
Of a thousand miles;
I sing like Dinta the hunter
Craving the hearts of clansmen
& the soul of my native drum
To greet a maiden of a lofty dance
This huntress beyond the Niger’s banks!
& fondly I bend to cast
I poise pleasantly like laying a wreath
To sing like Dinta the hunter
To cast my songs on these marbles
The marbles on her memory
’Tis a memory of a thousand miles
To greet a maiden of a lofty dance
This huntress beyond the Niger’s banks!
A perfect cast I crave
The melodious weaver’s band
Of songsters, of dancers, of praise-singers
I crave the ancient hearts of drummers
To dance the dance, my native dance
& drum the drum, my native drum
To greet a maiden of a lofty dance
This huntress beyond the Niger’s banks!
For she who drank of the dregs
Of yonder Niger’s banks
'Tis the rite, my write, our write
The fruit of my forest
The forest of my songs
The songs of my drum
The drum of my clan –
O, the forest sings for her hunter
A hunter still in poise for a huntress?
Slip of Smoke (Huntress)
kiss me
you fool
before it's
too late...
walking away
i leave
for a
date,
looking back
sadly still
you will
stand...
shadow of
boy
in weak
minded man,
with a
slip of
smoke
and slide
of hand
off into
tomorrow
i step
beyond
feeble plans
7-21-07
fine, faintly flickering face,
a goddess' gilded grimace;
eyes sharp, slightly squinting,
lips pursed, concentrating;
arms strained, straight, steady,
inch by inch, pulling in the cord,
pushing away at the sturdy bow
that bends so slowly in, arched.
deft fingers firmly clasp,
but ever so lithely guide
the lethal arrow's feather
past her cheek near the ear;
pulls hard, stretches taut
and tense the bare bowstring,
impatiently anticipating,
savoring the inner, aching thrill;
waiting for just the right time,
but waiting forever, it seems;
the prized prey, still out there
feeding freely on freedom still;
her destiny, chiseled, shaped
by her sculptor's whiffling whim,
is to forever take a careful aim,
but never to make the final kill!
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