Think Outside the Box
You know how people are constantly saying 'think outside the box'?
I realize there are very few boxes I fit in to begin with.
I'm not a smoker.
Not a doper.
I'm not vanilla,
I'm not a drinker,
I'm not conservative.
I'm not Republican,
I'm not a super model.
I'm not a housewife.
I don't define myself by my children.
I don't work in a cubicle.
I'm not an athlete; I'm not a tweener.
I'm not a country girl.
Nor am I the girl next door.
I'm not a crackhead, a hooker or a midnight toker.
I'm not a trekker or a trekkie.
I'm not a computer geek or a hacker.
I'm not Mrs. Robinson.
I'm not a zealot, a cultist, or a Christian.
I'm not a vegetarian, a Presbyterian or an aquarium.
And I've met so many pagans that are drug fiends, I'm not sure I even want to say I'm pagan.
Copyright fzh 2005
More of my poetry is at Poetic Muse http://hubpages.com/profile/Poetic+Muse
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 16, 2005
Friday, May 13, 2005
Raggedy Man
Raggedy Man
Once I met a raggedy man
His name was Peter Jay
He’d knock on doors collecting rags
From dawn till end of day
He’d take them back to his old grandma
She’d cut them into long strips
Then she and ma would braid them
Round and round they’d go
And make a rug as big as a horse
From pieces of old calico
Peter Jay the raggedy man
He’d go from door to door
His bells a’ jingly jangling’
Around his belt so worn
The housewives would drag out their old rags
Tied up in threadbare sheets
And sometimes they’d give him a biscuit or water
And beg him to sit and rest his feet
Peter Jay grew old and gray
His back was bent from toil
But he never grew no beans nor cotton
Or made no olive oil
His garden was a city full of rags and scraps
His Ma would make them into rugs and hats and bags and sacks
The braiding would go round and round
Until the work was done
Then they’d sell them in the market
Under the summer sun
Peter Jay he is no more
I haven’t seen him in many years
But I still have that braided rug
And my grandkids love it dear.
Copyright FZH 2005
Once I met a raggedy man
His name was Peter Jay
He’d knock on doors collecting rags
From dawn till end of day
He’d take them back to his old grandma
She’d cut them into long strips
Then she and ma would braid them
Round and round they’d go
And make a rug as big as a horse
From pieces of old calico
Peter Jay the raggedy man
He’d go from door to door
His bells a’ jingly jangling’
Around his belt so worn
The housewives would drag out their old rags
Tied up in threadbare sheets
And sometimes they’d give him a biscuit or water
And beg him to sit and rest his feet
Peter Jay grew old and gray
His back was bent from toil
But he never grew no beans nor cotton
Or made no olive oil
His garden was a city full of rags and scraps
His Ma would make them into rugs and hats and bags and sacks
The braiding would go round and round
Until the work was done
Then they’d sell them in the market
Under the summer sun
Peter Jay he is no more
I haven’t seen him in many years
But I still have that braided rug
And my grandkids love it dear.
Copyright FZH 2005
Another poem, same word list
Tweener Summer in Albuquerque
Remember when we tied a string on a June bug
We never worried that it might stress the poor thing out so
Then the boy next door always trying to moon Doug
And I would obsess over that uptown boy Joe
And then Doug put that snake in my new purse
And chased my Manx cat Moot up that old oak
Then you pretended you were a waitress and served cake and I was a nurse
And Cliff caught that bullfrog that was such a beaut, no joke
Then Cindy put on her mom’s Garbo hat
And we would put on a play like we were movie stars
And the boys would tease that old hobo that was fat
On the last day I saw Joe and Cindy under the monkey bars
And he gave Cindy a rhinestone heart bracelet and acted like her man
And I was so mad I poured his smelly cologne all over his Dad’s van
Copyright FZH 2005
This poem used the same word list, but the words were used as internal rhymes.
June
stress
moon
obsess
snake
moot
cake
beaut
Garbo
play
hobo
day
rhinestone
cologne
Remember when we tied a string on a June bug
We never worried that it might stress the poor thing out so
Then the boy next door always trying to moon Doug
And I would obsess over that uptown boy Joe
And then Doug put that snake in my new purse
And chased my Manx cat Moot up that old oak
Then you pretended you were a waitress and served cake and I was a nurse
And Cliff caught that bullfrog that was such a beaut, no joke
Then Cindy put on her mom’s Garbo hat
And we would put on a play like we were movie stars
And the boys would tease that old hobo that was fat
On the last day I saw Joe and Cindy under the monkey bars
And he gave Cindy a rhinestone heart bracelet and acted like her man
And I was so mad I poured his smelly cologne all over his Dad’s van
Copyright FZH 2005
This poem used the same word list, but the words were used as internal rhymes.
June
stress
moon
obsess
snake
moot
cake
beaut
Garbo
play
hobo
day
rhinestone
cologne
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Dancing at the Crystal Moon
In this challenge, you were to write a poem using the word list below and keep the same rhyming pattern as the word list.
Dancing at the Crystal Moon
Her name was Sally but he always called her June.
Though their affair caused her stress,
When they danced the foxtrot at the Crystal Moon
If was for her he would obsess.
But when he got home he felt like a snake
Even though his marriage was moot
He wanted to eat; yet still have his cake
But June was such a buxom beaut.
With her creamy skin she reminded him of Garbo.
He snuck out that Friday to take her to a play;
He felt like some sort of lurking hobo,
Sneaking out of work in the middle of the day.
He brought her a ring with a big rhinestone
And splashed himself with cheap cologne.
Copyright FZH 2005
June
stress
moon
obsess
snake
moot
cake
beaut
Garbo
play
hobo
day
rhinestone
cologne
Dancing at the Crystal Moon
Her name was Sally but he always called her June.
Though their affair caused her stress,
When they danced the foxtrot at the Crystal Moon
If was for her he would obsess.
But when he got home he felt like a snake
Even though his marriage was moot
He wanted to eat; yet still have his cake
But June was such a buxom beaut.
With her creamy skin she reminded him of Garbo.
He snuck out that Friday to take her to a play;
He felt like some sort of lurking hobo,
Sneaking out of work in the middle of the day.
He brought her a ring with a big rhinestone
And splashed himself with cheap cologne.
Copyright FZH 2005
June
stress
moon
obsess
snake
moot
cake
beaut
Garbo
play
hobo
day
rhinestone
cologne
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Portrait of Living Room
Portrait of a Living Room in My Middle Ages
I live in my living room.
It’s never tidy.
It’s either somewhat cluttered, very cluttered, or ‘when did the tornado hit’ cluttered.
The radio is playing ‘Lean on Me’.
There is the oscillating fan & the new TV; all that’s left of my mother’s last days at the nursing home.
There’s the iron sitting on the ironing board; not for clothes mind you.
My boyfriend is using it to iron words onto arrow shafts.
Then there’s the baby dragon coming out of its egg.
I made it by painting on a gourd, and it’s still sitting on my folding wooden table, perched on a soup mug, until I make the clay nest for it to sit in.
Wallop the cat is snoozing on the couch nestled between The Poet’s Companion, a dozen arrow shafts rubber-banded together and my blue carry sack for my dragon needlepoint that I’ve been working on for at least 3 years.
The upright piano I’ve had since I was 8 has seen better days. Covered with the plaster chess set I’ve been meaning to paint for 20 years, and two snow globes; one of a clown and one of a dragon. The fake flowers I hate that show off the black glove vase I painted. Two new photos of me looking presentable in their black cherry frames.
The didgeridoo I’m making out of 2 snake gourds that’s shaped like a giant saxophone.
I can’t finish it because I can’t decide if I want to paint it with petroglyphs or a wizard.
I can’t play it without spitting all over myself.
The 2 couches friends gave us covered with Celtic print bedspreads so the cats won’t shred them.
The Oriental rug I bought at an auction for $200.
I had to wait until all the bidders had run out of money so I could get the price down to where I could afford it without cringing.
Black Bob the cat resting with all four paws tucked under his body so he looks like a black Roomba with a tail.
The stuffed shaggy white dog on the bookshelf with Rachel’s sequined red, white and blue collar. The dog is perched precariously on top of books
and next to a tower of tarot decks from my days as a psychic.
The belly dance bin with a veil spilling out; still sitting there after a belly dance student told me she wasn’t coming back. I lent her a veil and I guess I never learn, because every time I lend something to someone they never come back. Seriously.
The fairy plate I painted when my friend worked at a paint-it-yourself pottery shop. She died of cancer at 27 but the plate lives on in a way that only inanimate objects can.
The white angel votive candleholder wrapped in my red crystal rosary sitting on the piano keys.
Try as I may to keep the piano ready for playing its covered with stuff 99% of the time.
Did I mention my hermit crab? He’s the biggest one I bought. He’s the last survivor. Did he kill the other one’s for food? When the cats startle him he jumps back inside his shell with a thud.
My two wooden practice swords for sword fighting. I never could afford the real thing.
Well, I’ve learned two things:
I collect dragon objects.
Broken dreams leave skeletonized remains all over my living room like a shrine to creativity.
I live in my living room.
It’s never tidy.
It’s either somewhat cluttered, very cluttered, or ‘when did the tornado hit’ cluttered.
The radio is playing ‘Lean on Me’.
There is the oscillating fan & the new TV; all that’s left of my mother’s last days at the nursing home.
There’s the iron sitting on the ironing board; not for clothes mind you.
My boyfriend is using it to iron words onto arrow shafts.
Then there’s the baby dragon coming out of its egg.
I made it by painting on a gourd, and it’s still sitting on my folding wooden table, perched on a soup mug, until I make the clay nest for it to sit in.
Wallop the cat is snoozing on the couch nestled between The Poet’s Companion, a dozen arrow shafts rubber-banded together and my blue carry sack for my dragon needlepoint that I’ve been working on for at least 3 years.
The upright piano I’ve had since I was 8 has seen better days. Covered with the plaster chess set I’ve been meaning to paint for 20 years, and two snow globes; one of a clown and one of a dragon. The fake flowers I hate that show off the black glove vase I painted. Two new photos of me looking presentable in their black cherry frames.
The didgeridoo I’m making out of 2 snake gourds that’s shaped like a giant saxophone.
I can’t finish it because I can’t decide if I want to paint it with petroglyphs or a wizard.
I can’t play it without spitting all over myself.
The 2 couches friends gave us covered with Celtic print bedspreads so the cats won’t shred them.
The Oriental rug I bought at an auction for $200.
I had to wait until all the bidders had run out of money so I could get the price down to where I could afford it without cringing.
Black Bob the cat resting with all four paws tucked under his body so he looks like a black Roomba with a tail.
The stuffed shaggy white dog on the bookshelf with Rachel’s sequined red, white and blue collar. The dog is perched precariously on top of books
and next to a tower of tarot decks from my days as a psychic.
The belly dance bin with a veil spilling out; still sitting there after a belly dance student told me she wasn’t coming back. I lent her a veil and I guess I never learn, because every time I lend something to someone they never come back. Seriously.
The fairy plate I painted when my friend worked at a paint-it-yourself pottery shop. She died of cancer at 27 but the plate lives on in a way that only inanimate objects can.
The white angel votive candleholder wrapped in my red crystal rosary sitting on the piano keys.
Try as I may to keep the piano ready for playing its covered with stuff 99% of the time.
Did I mention my hermit crab? He’s the biggest one I bought. He’s the last survivor. Did he kill the other one’s for food? When the cats startle him he jumps back inside his shell with a thud.
My two wooden practice swords for sword fighting. I never could afford the real thing.
Well, I’ve learned two things:
I collect dragon objects.
Broken dreams leave skeletonized remains all over my living room like a shrine to creativity.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
More Please
My tongue loves banana pudding.
My fingers love tiny polished pebbles.
My toes love plush carpeting.
My nose loves pink jasmine.
My eyes love red diamonds.
My skin loves cocoa butter lotion.
My ears love gypsy violin.
My hair loves long smooth strokes with a boar bristle brush.
My shoulders love warm rain.
May I have some more please.
My fingers love tiny polished pebbles.
My toes love plush carpeting.
My nose loves pink jasmine.
My eyes love red diamonds.
My skin loves cocoa butter lotion.
My ears love gypsy violin.
My hair loves long smooth strokes with a boar bristle brush.
My shoulders love warm rain.
May I have some more please.
Friday, February 11, 2005
The Slumber of Before
The Slumber of Before
A trusting heart can sleep anywhere
Without a care or worry
A soul with no malice or grief
No rush to wake
Sweet dreams partake
The stars will never hurry
Your brow so smooth
So free of care
So softly do you snore
Curled up in your quilted bed
Upon the sandman’s shore
So many years of life I’ve lived
Through many trials I’ve toiled
Through ills and wars in plenty
And politics embroiled
But as I watch you sleep
I realize there is something that I lost
Something so precious I cannot calculate the cost
I need to figure out just how
To leave my troubles at the door
Going to see if I can find my way back
To the slumber of before.
Fayme Harper
Copyright 2005
A trusting heart can sleep anywhere
Without a care or worry
A soul with no malice or grief
No rush to wake
Sweet dreams partake
The stars will never hurry
Your brow so smooth
So free of care
So softly do you snore
Curled up in your quilted bed
Upon the sandman’s shore
So many years of life I’ve lived
Through many trials I’ve toiled
Through ills and wars in plenty
And politics embroiled
But as I watch you sleep
I realize there is something that I lost
Something so precious I cannot calculate the cost
I need to figure out just how
To leave my troubles at the door
Going to see if I can find my way back
To the slumber of before.
Fayme Harper
Copyright 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Another poem about the train crash
Juan
You single handedly caused
The crash of three trains
You wanted to end it all
But in the last moments
You walked away
The people on the trains
Just wanted to go to work
The people on the trains
They didn’t get to walk away
You stood and watched
Were you horrified?
The noise deafening
The twisted metal
The fires
The screams
The public running to pull
Victims from the trains
A veteran sheriff riding the train
Is survived by his widow and four kids
Just yesterday she was a wife
Another passenger’s legs buckled
And crushed his pelvis
One passenger said bodies
Were flying over her head
Another said the train went from 60 to zero in 2 seconds
All you wanted to do is take your own life
But you ended at least 11 lives
Eleven counts of murder
If you get the death penalty
You commit suicide by default
You single handedly caused
The crash of three trains
You wanted to end it all
But in the last moments
You walked away
The people on the trains
Just wanted to go to work
The people on the trains
They didn’t get to walk away
You stood and watched
Were you horrified?
The noise deafening
The twisted metal
The fires
The screams
The public running to pull
Victims from the trains
A veteran sheriff riding the train
Is survived by his widow and four kids
Just yesterday she was a wife
Another passenger’s legs buckled
And crushed his pelvis
One passenger said bodies
Were flying over her head
Another said the train went from 60 to zero in 2 seconds
All you wanted to do is take your own life
But you ended at least 11 lives
Eleven counts of murder
If you get the death penalty
You commit suicide by default
METRO
I wrote two poems about the Metro Disaster today. Poets have always dealt with life shattering events. It is part of what we do. It was a tragedy, and writing about it is a way to make sure we never forget the lessons to be learned.
Metro
Every day thousands of people choose to take the train
And on this day one man named Juan decides to commit suicide
He was depressed and tired of feeling like a victim
He was fraught with anxiety and mentally twisted
Somewhere down the road his life had jumped the track
The voices inside his head wouldn’t stop screaming
Every time he saw his wife they’d end up screaming
He even told his friend he would drive down to the train
And that he would park his SUV on the tracks
For weeks all he could think about was suicide
He devised a plan in his head that was definitely twisted
A way to punish everyone that made him feel like a victim
What he hadn’t visualized were all the innocent victims
Or that three trains would collide and all the awful screaming
And the chewed up train cars and glass and bodies would be twisted
Did he think about all those passengers on the trains?
He couldn’t even follow through with his own suicide
He got out of his car at the last minute when it was stuck on the tracks
And with his own eyes he saw the flames as they twisted
Around the crashing train cars on the buckled up track
Passersby ran to rescue people off of the burning train
Rescue crews ran past the injured looking for the more severe victims
Listening in the dark for sounds of life melting away in all the screaming
No one on those trains agreed to participate in Juan’s suicide
His orange car was so obliterated and twisted
Viewers couldn’t even see where it was on the track
It was lost somewhere under that first rushing train
“We went from 60 miles per hour to zero in 2 seconds,” said a victim
The lights flickered and went out inside the train and next thing there was screaming
Did Juan imagine thousands of people being involved in his attempted suicide?
Was he hoping to get the death penalty as a legal form of suicide?
Who can understand the rationale of someone so obviously twisted
Now it is the families of the injured and dying and dead that will be screaming
So many who have suffered greatly and somehow gotten onto the wrong track
All of us have to work each day to encourage each other so there are no more victims
Of all the things we have to learn, it is our own minds that we have to train
How many people do we know that are always screaming about suicide?
We need to train ourselves and not let our thoughts become so twisted
That we get off track and by our actions create more victims
Metro
Every day thousands of people choose to take the train
And on this day one man named Juan decides to commit suicide
He was depressed and tired of feeling like a victim
He was fraught with anxiety and mentally twisted
Somewhere down the road his life had jumped the track
The voices inside his head wouldn’t stop screaming
Every time he saw his wife they’d end up screaming
He even told his friend he would drive down to the train
And that he would park his SUV on the tracks
For weeks all he could think about was suicide
He devised a plan in his head that was definitely twisted
A way to punish everyone that made him feel like a victim
What he hadn’t visualized were all the innocent victims
Or that three trains would collide and all the awful screaming
And the chewed up train cars and glass and bodies would be twisted
Did he think about all those passengers on the trains?
He couldn’t even follow through with his own suicide
He got out of his car at the last minute when it was stuck on the tracks
And with his own eyes he saw the flames as they twisted
Around the crashing train cars on the buckled up track
Passersby ran to rescue people off of the burning train
Rescue crews ran past the injured looking for the more severe victims
Listening in the dark for sounds of life melting away in all the screaming
No one on those trains agreed to participate in Juan’s suicide
His orange car was so obliterated and twisted
Viewers couldn’t even see where it was on the track
It was lost somewhere under that first rushing train
“We went from 60 miles per hour to zero in 2 seconds,” said a victim
The lights flickered and went out inside the train and next thing there was screaming
Did Juan imagine thousands of people being involved in his attempted suicide?
Was he hoping to get the death penalty as a legal form of suicide?
Who can understand the rationale of someone so obviously twisted
Now it is the families of the injured and dying and dead that will be screaming
So many who have suffered greatly and somehow gotten onto the wrong track
All of us have to work each day to encourage each other so there are no more victims
Of all the things we have to learn, it is our own minds that we have to train
How many people do we know that are always screaming about suicide?
We need to train ourselves and not let our thoughts become so twisted
That we get off track and by our actions create more victims
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Garden Plaza~ a word substitution poem
There is an assignment in Creative Poetry by John Drury that is called a word substitution poem. You take a poem you like, and substitute words, matching verbs to verbs, nouns to nouns, etc. and leaving some of the original words. I used words from Twelfth Night to base mine on.
Shakespeare's
Come away, come away, death
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it:
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown,
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
And here is mine:
The Plaza
Dance away, dance away, life
And in garden plaza let me be kissed
Jump away, jump away, lust
I am revived by a homely kind fool
My gown of silk trimmed all with beads
O, declare it:
My art of dance, clad all in blue
Did dare it.
Feel the power, feel the power, leap
On my long hair let there be thrown
Flower petals, flower petals sweet
My limber body, where my joy shall be grown
Spin me, no cares
Happy kind fool dance upon my grave
And play there.
Fayme Harper, copyright 2005
Shakespeare's
Come away, come away, death
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it:
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown,
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
And here is mine:
The Plaza
Dance away, dance away, life
And in garden plaza let me be kissed
Jump away, jump away, lust
I am revived by a homely kind fool
My gown of silk trimmed all with beads
O, declare it:
My art of dance, clad all in blue
Did dare it.
Feel the power, feel the power, leap
On my long hair let there be thrown
Flower petals, flower petals sweet
My limber body, where my joy shall be grown
Spin me, no cares
Happy kind fool dance upon my grave
And play there.
Fayme Harper, copyright 2005
Monday, December 20, 2004
What's a word morgue?
A word morgue is a box full of words used to trigger creativity. Add as many words as you like. Choose them at random and use them to launch poetry or journal entries or blogs or stories. 
Think Pink
Think Pink
Today I'm going to stay ahead of negativity.
I'm going to put on my rose colored glasses.
I'm going to stop being such a cynic.
I'm going to close my eyes and remember what my kids looked like when they were babies.
I'm going to think about my best stage shows.
I'm going to sing my favorite songs from childhood.
I'm going to put on my make-up and pretend I am a princess.
I'm going to remember what I was like when I was a virgin,
Before I knew how much it hurt to have a lover reject me.
I'm going to look for the best in people.
I'm going to be kind to strangers, even the seedy looking ones.
And I'm going to smile on the outside even if I don't feel like it on the inside.
Today I'm going to stay ahead of negativity.
I'm going to put on my rose colored glasses.
I'm going to stop being such a cynic.
I'm going to close my eyes and remember what my kids looked like when they were babies.
I'm going to think about my best stage shows.
I'm going to sing my favorite songs from childhood.
I'm going to put on my make-up and pretend I am a princess.
I'm going to remember what I was like when I was a virgin,
Before I knew how much it hurt to have a lover reject me.
I'm going to look for the best in people.
I'm going to be kind to strangers, even the seedy looking ones.
And I'm going to smile on the outside even if I don't feel like it on the inside.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
The Last Dance
I just finished this a minute ago. I'm sure I'll be making some changes. It's R rated so if such things offend you, don't read it. Otherwise, enjoy.
The Last Dance
She watched him in the shadows as she danced with great lust
Her garments laced tightly but not so tightly her breathing would suffer
Within the boning and velvet her buxom cleavage was embraced
Her fashionably tattered skirts topped by her blood red corset
And spilling over it were her spiraling auburn tresses
The drums played faster and she could feel the pounding of her caged heart
In the end it always came down to matters of the heart
She knew in the long run it would take more than lust
She danced faster, her dark eyes flashing under her wild tresses
She was proud that she had made men suffer
Made them long for what was under her skirts and corset
Made them pay dearly to pull her into their drunken embrace
But she’d had enough of sweaty drunken embraces
While those encounters wet her thighs, they never won her heart
She felt chills as she saw his eyes wander down her corset
So she danced closer to the shadows just to feed her own lust
Licking her full lips, staring into his eyes, watching him suffer
Close enough to feel his fingers entwine in her tresses
Feeling his lips suddenly on hers, his elegant hands dragging her by her tresses
Dragging her behind the heavy velvet drapes, pressing her into a hard embrace
And she kissed him back just as fiercely, as if he would by her passion suffer
As if she could stoke the fire of his need until it was hot enough to win her heart
For she was quite the savant when it came to deepening a man’s lust
She felt his nails slide down her neck, her chest, to her corset
She felt consumed by his fire, suddenly wishing to be free from her stiff corset
His other hand pushing aside her sweaty tresses
His body pinning her firmly to the wall behind the draperies, the musk of lust
She couldn’t focus, she was gasping in his embrace,
She wanted him more than she had wanted anything, wanted him with her whole heart
And she who wants it most will be made the most to suffer
And then she felt his nails pierce her breast, and in her eyes he saw her suffer
Blood dripping slowly down her décolletage, splashing on her corset
His acute other worldly ears heard her ragged heart beating
He buried his face in her hair, sinking his fangs in the pale flesh beneath her tresses
And she knew, too late, too late, this was her final embrace
She was paying the highest price for her passion, paying with her soul for her lust
Finally a being that could take her heart as no human could, could make her suffer
And so heightened was her lust that she had a final orgasm, even as the blood flowered like a rose on her corset
And he lifted her into his arms, her tresses sticking to the blood, as he finished the embrace.
The Last Dance
She watched him in the shadows as she danced with great lust
Her garments laced tightly but not so tightly her breathing would suffer
Within the boning and velvet her buxom cleavage was embraced
Her fashionably tattered skirts topped by her blood red corset
And spilling over it were her spiraling auburn tresses
The drums played faster and she could feel the pounding of her caged heart
In the end it always came down to matters of the heart
She knew in the long run it would take more than lust
She danced faster, her dark eyes flashing under her wild tresses
She was proud that she had made men suffer
Made them long for what was under her skirts and corset
Made them pay dearly to pull her into their drunken embrace
But she’d had enough of sweaty drunken embraces
While those encounters wet her thighs, they never won her heart
She felt chills as she saw his eyes wander down her corset
So she danced closer to the shadows just to feed her own lust
Licking her full lips, staring into his eyes, watching him suffer
Close enough to feel his fingers entwine in her tresses
Feeling his lips suddenly on hers, his elegant hands dragging her by her tresses
Dragging her behind the heavy velvet drapes, pressing her into a hard embrace
And she kissed him back just as fiercely, as if he would by her passion suffer
As if she could stoke the fire of his need until it was hot enough to win her heart
For she was quite the savant when it came to deepening a man’s lust
She felt his nails slide down her neck, her chest, to her corset
She felt consumed by his fire, suddenly wishing to be free from her stiff corset
His other hand pushing aside her sweaty tresses
His body pinning her firmly to the wall behind the draperies, the musk of lust
She couldn’t focus, she was gasping in his embrace,
She wanted him more than she had wanted anything, wanted him with her whole heart
And she who wants it most will be made the most to suffer
And then she felt his nails pierce her breast, and in her eyes he saw her suffer
Blood dripping slowly down her décolletage, splashing on her corset
His acute other worldly ears heard her ragged heart beating
He buried his face in her hair, sinking his fangs in the pale flesh beneath her tresses
And she knew, too late, too late, this was her final embrace
She was paying the highest price for her passion, paying with her soul for her lust
Finally a being that could take her heart as no human could, could make her suffer
And so heightened was her lust that she had a final orgasm, even as the blood flowered like a rose on her corset
And he lifted her into his arms, her tresses sticking to the blood, as he finished the embrace.
My first Sestina~The Last Dance
The Sestina is a 39 lined poem developed by the French in the 12 century. Here is a page that explains the format. http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/sestina.htm
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