Francesca’s Love

I finally showed myself to him.

My heart I did reveal.

He turned and ran.

I caught him.

He became my evening meal.

His blood was rich,

his scream sublime.

And as I held his head

I bit his throat apart

and sucked.

He bled and bled and bled.

His skin grew cold.

His heart grew weak

as in my rage I slew.

“Did you not realize,” I asked,

“that I’m in love with you?”

And in the end he shuddered hard

within my arms and died.

“I loved you too.”

His final words.

I cried and cried and cried.

 

In Olden Tymes

“So what were you before…?”

“I was a knight: a defender of the weak, a protector of the realm, and a servant to the crown.”

“And what makes you believe that in 2017?”

” I always write about it. I see it in my head: the pastoral scenery, the castles, the nobles and peasants, I smell the wheat, the dung, and the hay, I feel the sparks of the forges burn into my forearms, hear the clang of metal, smell the tang of smelted steel. I’ve seen new blades gleaming in the sunlight over time become nicked and scratched by battle.”

“I’ve seen the gore of the enemy dripping from both.”

“I see the hills covered in winter snow, and springtime wildflowers. I smell the perfumes and sweat of the women I’ve known.  I’ve wiped their smudges and circled their nipples with my thumbs, kissed their tears, put my hands where they let me, and sometimes where they wouldn’t.”

“I smell the alleys of trash and waste, redolent and pungent in the rain and the heat of summer.”

“I hear the creaking of the rocking ships, the ding and clang of chains and anchors, and I hear the ancient sailor songs in languages I’ve never heard, from places I’ve never been, carrying heavy burdens and tying thick ropes. I hear the harbor rats, feral cats in their wake or on the hunt.”

“I see the grand, high-ceiling halls full of intricate sculpting, paintings, candles, garlands, splendid gowns and noble robes. I hear the lilt of lute and pipe and mandolin, I hear the torches sizzle in their sconces, see the idols of forgotten gods on the hilltops, and smell the rot of forgotten kings in their tombs.”

“I’ve been to the armories of kings of empires, and seen the high pyres of the dead from wars, plagues, famines, disputes, and fires.”

“I’ve traveled with players’ troupes in colorful wagons, tumbling in air and throwing knives.”

“I’ve seen the candles burn in the wizards’ towers and the sorceresses cottage, and the witches’ caves, and the mad hermits’ burrows.”

“I’ve heard the forest whisper, scream, sob and laugh when no one was there.”

“I’ve been in the dank of rat infested dungeons, staring at hungry red eyes.”

“I’ve been trampled, burned, butchered, beheaded, and strangled in my bed. Then I returned the favors.”

“I’ve lost my life to the raging sea and the calm, relentless desert sun.”

“I’ve been poisoned, robbed, and tortured at length.”

“I’ve scaled walls into treasuries and bedrooms.”

“I’ve fought in tournaments of backwater villages, and in arenas of cheering crowds, and in taverns of ill repute of both food and customers.”

“Everything in my blood harkens back to olden tymes.

“And I possess it still.”

Too Old to Dream, Too Young to Know

They say ‘You grow too old to dream’

They say that ‘You’re too young to know’

Yet say  ‘You can do anything.’

So do I stay or do I grow?

For if I am too old to dream

my time here is already done.

And if I am too young to know

then teach me, so the rising sun

will never find me void of thought

as I look at the world through eyes

of what I’ve learned of love and wonder,

cynicism and surprise.

A jaded innocence possesses

all the years I’ve been alive;

still taking people at their word

though most of them are talking jive.

I’ll never get too old to dream.

I’ll never be too young to know.

I’ll keep exploring although it may seem

there’s nowhere left to go.

 

A Trip to Sangre-La

Look,

a tigress.

Her

green eyes

over the rim of the glass

of Sangria

stare through me

as she

contemplates

her next move.

I see her at the edge

of her territory,

confident, fearless,

and ready to explore

new boundaries.

Like a

broken-winged bird

resigned to its fate,

I can only stare

into the depths

of those

verdant,

ocular seas,

and wait

in hope

she strikes.