what was and what is

renoir peachRenoir

that grimace
like when you bite into
a gooseberry
eyes clench
mouth a straight line of
sour overload
that’s the legacy
you left behind
for i have found
the sweetest of fruits
succulent and smooth
the kind like when
you bite into
a summer peach
and laugh as
the juice trickles
down your chin

ceg 4.19.2020

A Little Frank by the Firelight

he wooed me with Frank
dancing barefoot
breast to chest
my cheek warm against his shoulder
his fingers trace shivers up
and down my spine
moving me slowly about the room
the firelight dances with us
casting enchantment and desire
around the room like a
diamond in the sun
his breath hot in my ear
whispering not sweet nothings
but passionate promises

ceg 4.7.2020


Beware the Whirlwind

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .


tell me, old mother, how
how do i make him love me?
i will tell you, child for
the shiny coppers in your hand
they are yours, old mother
please, please tell me the secret
dirt from his foot steps
hair from his head
what, tell me what
do i do with those things?
burn them and grind them
and feed them to your true love
thank you, dear mother
i will do so tonight
beware, young daughter
a warning i give you before you depart
a warning, for me, dear mother
but why and of what?
beware the whirlwind, young girl
for it is the devil dancing with his witch
old mother, for that i would give
the rest of my coppers to see
nay, my child for if
you get too close
yes, please tell me, what
what if i get too close?
they’ll catch you up body and soul
and take you with them straight to helland did the child listen to the old woman’s words?
i’m afraid i don’t know, but this i can say;
never was the girl seen again
since that night when the winds howled
through the trees and the sounds of gypsy
laughter danced in the leaves

ceg 12.31.08

Skin Deep

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .

The Kiss (detail)  Gustav Klimt~The Kiss

he never could discern just what the flower
was that curved delicately down her hip bone
to her upper thigh and then disappeared
somewhere behind her knee, trailing
tendrils of green and lavender
she had told him once-was it lilac?
or something else-wisteria?
she had not been a delicate girl
her hair a ruddy red and a spray
of freckles across her body
her jaw was a bit too square and her
eyes tried to be green, but were
grey and smoky
her arms told of her strength and
she could drink most men under
the table, telling dirty jokes to make
a sailor blush
but that traveling flower down her
leg, from hip to knee always made
him see her as something ethereal
and dainty; how he loved to kiss that
purple ink, leaving a trail of moisture
on her pale skin
he would lie awake at night
alone in his narrow bed and wish that
he had learned to love more than
just that tattoo

ceg 11.2.11

Memories Yet to Be

From adventofreason’s Xanga Archives . . .



it was a rather savage memory
and it almost always came back
to her this time of year
with the hushed sound of snow
falling and the smell of distant
smoke from fire places that burned
without a second thought about
the fact that she was not there to
feel its heat against her face
she had to admit to missing those
peppermint kisses and the fragrance
of evergreen and presents hastily
wrapped in whatever paper was handy
she missed the sweet harmonies
they had made together
tears, half frozen to her face, causing
frosty curses to issue past her lips, made
her fall against a blameless bank
of snow and glancing up from where
she lay, she spotted a ring around the
moon and the promise of gifts yet
unopened and memories yet to beceg 11.18.11

Vigilans Somniat


as i lay dreamless
wearing only the night’s stars
i remember your voice
whispering love
against the pulsing of my throat
and how you covered
my skin with the honey
of your words
your song so beautiful
it makes my heart ache still
as I lay dreamless

ceg 8.4.15

A Story and A Dream


People said that “her hair was as black and as wild as the grackles which kept vigil at her window.”

I don’t know if this is true, but I can tell you that it framed her face with visions of midnight dances against the glowing embers of a January fire.  

Her laughter was a song, almost lost to the capricious winds that made sailors dream of spice islands and nights spent in the arms of desire.

They say the her lips were succulent berries, plucked from vines no man has seen before or since.  Men would swear that if you kissed them long enough, passionately enough, you would taste the essence of ecstasy. 

The contours of her form were meant for delight, joy, and enchantment.  

Goddess, woman, stuff of fairy tales; I do not know which.  

But I do know that I loved her once.  

In memories.

Or dreams.

she dreams of knights and maidens fair
and wonders now if she should dare
to see beyond her virgin’s bed
a man who yearns see her wed
who, swept up with passion’s thrall
would beseech her to forever call
his favored name as her true love
a radiant blessing from above
if only she should dare to pray
that he will find her some golden day

ceg 1.23.14