You can’t fall off
the middle
Direction
yours to choose
Which way conceals
your downfall
Which way
awaits the Muse
The center offers
safety
Encircled
in the flow
Whose currents
hide a Siren
Enticing
— you below
(Dreamsleep: January, 2025)
Winter's mistress is now deathly cold
Her weathered brow highlights she is wise
As she contemplates the day unfold
The twinkle lives on in her dark eyes
Though she has known of good times before
Winter's mistress is now deathly cold
Memories past so she can explore
Reflecting on stories she once told
Stunning enchantress; a sight to behold
Youth in the spring time filled her with glee
Winter's mistress is now deathly cold
She longs for the sense of feeling free
Her once auburn hair splayed out on the floor
Now white as the snow with a halo of gold
She wishes the seasons would last evermore
Winter's mistress is now deathly cold
I remember that feeling—
The pain.
The lump in my throat.
I wanted to cry.
I was so angry.
But why?
New text alert flashed across your phone:
“Thanks for the ride home ??”
It read.
“Love, Rose.”
My heart dropped.
I froze—
Filled with dread.
You lay there asleep,
Unaware of what I’d just read.
My thoughts started racing:
What do I do?
Who the heck is she!?
My head throbbed.
I felt so lost.
And then—I cried.
What does she have that I don’t?
Does he love her?
What are his other replies?
I remember
Wanting to open that message,
Needing to see—
What do they talk about?
Is she prettier?
Does she know about me?
So many questions.
So much pain.
I remember that feeling.
And it still hurts the same.
Staring at her reflection in
chatoyant mirrors, learning my
last blessings, creeping past
poltergeists during marauder
inspections while I transcribe
her flesh on caesura, pleading
with the Pleiades for soprano
notes to stay on his alto clefs,
hanging gardens in her image
Ombrielle mistress,
Black Narcissus as my witness —
Extravagant, solivagant nymphs
born from lascivious river spirits
want to hear their voices Echo
in mountain cliffs, carried
by arid winds to places
gods’ garments are ripped,
convicting the Prince
The Mistress
She is the one
to whom my heart
has been enslaved
who shares my bed and plate
oh she manipulates
finds ways to hold me
captive to her whims
my time is hers to command
then she demands
a tease while she will fox
I indulge her impish ways
this purring ball of love.
A charley horse is killing me, so I am dragging my left foot
I cannot meet for lunch, for my face is full of dirty soot
I am limping a little thanks to a torn meniscus on my knee
You will have to have your church tea without little ole me
Arthritis is crippling my fingers, so I cannot do quilting you see
My eyes are doing poorly, so I cannot help with the spelling bee
Baked goods are not possible, my oven is on the blink.
I cannot bathe your baby; there is a cobra in my sink.
I cannot meet you that day; I have an appointment I know.
I despise giving you these excuses because I love you so.
Maybe I could meet you next September for some dinner.
I want to wait until then, in the hopes I might be thinner.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun.
Her skin's mahogany, not regal white.
She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton,
and has the dress sense of an anchorite.
Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer.
Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine.
She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer:
thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein.
It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles,
and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk:
she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells,
and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk.
A fiery, funny, perky popinjay?
I wouldn't have her any other way.
I was listening to roller skating tunes.
Yes, I am shallow, sir.
And though thou may say villainess or mistress,
I am content to be who I am.
One noon, we were over dull
and our hearts we serviced
like two thieves there
in the kissing place
where breaths are both as one
and the first of many kisses doubles.
He made vows in mine ear.
He has such hands and lips
and his fortunate nature fed mine eyes
oh, nothing was scarce.
Our horns locked together
with the intensest chutzpah
and we well-made our match.
We sparked feelings we all ascribe to heaven.
I would not tell you
I can serve a man
that by slow designs
men can melt.
He swore oaths
and dropped
half won.
Later he paid
the sweetest
after-debts
—he did owe it.
.
.
songs for this:
Find Me the Pulse of the Universe by Laetitia Sadier
Stormy (Bossa Mix) by S-Tone Inc
Aloysius has a mistress.
That shops at Tiffany's.
And he grants all her wishes.
Seems easier than Explain.
Schoolmistress, I loved you
I was fourteen and sixteen, in school, and I loved you; love
In beautiful city, the school, you are a diamond in my heart; love
Yes, I will never forget your airy walk, your fluttering skirt; love
Amazing sexy lady, oh, your skirt always in my heart; so loved
I loved you, you killed me, destroyed my life, oh respected love
I needed you, I hope you, but you are far, still, love is yours; love
My dear teacher, hmm, time is time, the present is not our life; love
Remember, remember me, please. Coming always the time; love
I loved you
1987
is so far
passed
times
I love you
my schoolmistress
Vilmos
Love you
Do you want to destroy my life?
this isn't meant to last forever
he whispers into my neck
I am the rot that grows in humidity
I am the mud on his shoes
in this wetness–
the tendering of his hand
my body
how it aches
When I saw her first here, I fell in love with her like a shot
She is an idealistically beautiful, impressive phenomenon
She is the dream, but in reality, memorable visual moments
I need her, I need one of them…, I have few mistress friends
This lady is an extraordinarily and idealistically magical person
She is one of my most important inspirations, this is a true love
Platonic Mistress, you are my muse, an unattainable flower
A flower, a noble and a patinated lady, who always blooms
I locked you in my heart, I kneel before your throne. Love you
Poetry is my mistress
I write everything in her name.
If you’ve not heard from me in a while
It is poetry to whom you must blame.
Poetry is my mistress,
My girlfriend will have to make do.
When I am not reading and writing
I show my girlfriend some affection too.
Poetry is a spirited woman.
A fine lady in love
Who wears an erotic fragrance.
Wearing and sharing like clothes
Her mood feelings and emotion.
She has my total devotion.
Saying what needs to be said
I hear what needs to be heard.
Giving voice to the spoken word?
Poetry....
We share the love of twin
surprising little girls.
Epiphany and Inspiration.
Not of what poetry is...
But of what poetry can be.
An invitation for those who heard a calling.
A song of how the mighty have fallen.
A story of hero’s.
How the many moved as one
How a battle was won.
When we counted on one.
Poetry is nether foul nor fair.
Love is never lost she is always there.
Poetry...
Her heart was
whirling,
swirling,
twirling
inside the eye
of a
whirlwind,
so I
weaved words
to calm her rage,
because,
like an empathic eagle,
a poet is a
storm chaser,
unafraid of
human hurricanes.
A wordsmith word weaves
against windstorms,
decorating nebulous skies
with rainbow bridges,
kissing the warm balmy
neon glow of the sun,
softly soothing,
vivid vexations
through
intimate intrinsic artistry,
because,
a cloudless day
is a bandage wrapped...
Too tight.
Only a bard can
affectionately alliterate
the grip of grief,
as poetry can be the cure
to calm tempested trauma.
Ink is the mistress
to butterfly sentiments.
I will not stop the moths
from devouring you,
as long as they feed
on toxic thoughts.
I have made a home on the moon,
where stardust scribbles carry us to freedom.
Hopelessness is a loyal mistress.
Tender agonies whispered in ones ear,
twisted thoughts to forget by sunlight;
only the uneasy shadows cast doubt.
Warming embrace of past mistakes,
lovingly corrupting every though;
every joyous memory left defiled.
She is a tenacious, unstoppable force.
Sacred truths lifted from impenetrable walls;
raised up as if by providence, thusly burned.
Loneliness is the timber piled to the sky,
entombing childish dreams of the everlasting.
Hatred for the self becomes a ready tinder,
Lost sparks of loving hands burn forever.
Motherly care scorning innocence;
beautiful tenderness charred to a black husk.
Hopelessness is a loyal mistress,
ever guiding you into the abyss.
Hope a bonfire lit by loving hands.
Sub Categories
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