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amazon-syren.livejournal.comI wrote this for my girlfriend, 'cause I love her and wanted to turn her on. :-)
*~*~*~*~*
The Scent of Cedar
“What do you want me to wear?” I’d asked, a week ago, on the phone. I had asked, wanting to please her, to give her the final say in how I would present myself to her for our first private play-date.
“Where something that feels good on your skin,” Morgan had answered. “Something that turns you on.”
I must have considered and rejected a dozen things over the course of the week between that phone call and our play date, but I finally decided on green silk. The night of our date, I dress carefully, zipping the dress tight over my ribs, my small breasts, and letting it fall from my hips, skimming my thighs. I pair it with my brocade cuffs, royal blue and deceptively strong, wrapped around my wrists. I straighten my hair, making it soft and feathery around my face, dab honeysuckle perfume in the hollow of my throat, loving the way my body warms the scent and makes it float around me.
I dither over footwear but eventually conclude that I’d be happier going barefoot, and so slip into my sandals, planning to leave them in the car when I get to her house.
An hour later, I pull into the driveway of a modest, brick house in one of the more residential areas of down town. White roses gleam in the light cast by the porch lamp. I can smell them in the muggy August night.
I swallow, setting my shoes in the foot well of the passenger seat and slide my hands over the slippery, emerald silk of my dress, thinking about all the secret desires that Morgan has uncovered in me over months of public play, and weeks of all-too-vanilla dates, the alchemy she works on my skin and in my heart.
My breath gets shallow and I feel my heart beat start to race, my pussy growing moist. It occurs to me that I could leave my underwear behind, turn up at her door in only this green dress, these cuffs, this heady desire.
I leave the pink cotton panties in the passenger seat. The light, slippery silk brushes my hips, my thighs, my now-naked pussy. I can feel the slick wetness of my own arousal, my hungry cunt already drooling, and I think that if this doesn’t convince Morgan that I’m hers for the evening, nothing will.
( Read On... You Know You Want To )
*~*~*~*~*
So there you have it.
Suggestions and concrit (and, y'know, fan letters) are always welcome.
In particular, how was my descrition of what it feels like to climax from flogging?
The description is a re-write (it wasn't even close to accurate before) and I'd like to know if I'm in the right general area now.
- TTFN,
- Amazon.
*~*~*~*~*
The Scent of Cedar
“What do you want me to wear?” I’d asked, a week ago, on the phone. I had asked, wanting to please her, to give her the final say in how I would present myself to her for our first private play-date.
“Where something that feels good on your skin,” Morgan had answered. “Something that turns you on.”
I must have considered and rejected a dozen things over the course of the week between that phone call and our play date, but I finally decided on green silk. The night of our date, I dress carefully, zipping the dress tight over my ribs, my small breasts, and letting it fall from my hips, skimming my thighs. I pair it with my brocade cuffs, royal blue and deceptively strong, wrapped around my wrists. I straighten my hair, making it soft and feathery around my face, dab honeysuckle perfume in the hollow of my throat, loving the way my body warms the scent and makes it float around me.
I dither over footwear but eventually conclude that I’d be happier going barefoot, and so slip into my sandals, planning to leave them in the car when I get to her house.
An hour later, I pull into the driveway of a modest, brick house in one of the more residential areas of down town. White roses gleam in the light cast by the porch lamp. I can smell them in the muggy August night.
I swallow, setting my shoes in the foot well of the passenger seat and slide my hands over the slippery, emerald silk of my dress, thinking about all the secret desires that Morgan has uncovered in me over months of public play, and weeks of all-too-vanilla dates, the alchemy she works on my skin and in my heart.
My breath gets shallow and I feel my heart beat start to race, my pussy growing moist. It occurs to me that I could leave my underwear behind, turn up at her door in only this green dress, these cuffs, this heady desire.
I leave the pink cotton panties in the passenger seat. The light, slippery silk brushes my hips, my thighs, my now-naked pussy. I can feel the slick wetness of my own arousal, my hungry cunt already drooling, and I think that if this doesn’t convince Morgan that I’m hers for the evening, nothing will.
( Read On... You Know You Want To )
*~*~*~*~*
So there you have it.
Suggestions and concrit (and, y'know, fan letters) are always welcome.
In particular, how was my descrition of what it feels like to climax from flogging?
The description is a re-write (it wasn't even close to accurate before) and I'd like to know if I'm in the right general area now.
- TTFN,
- Amazon.
amazon-syren.livejournal.comSurfacing
I swear I saw a mermaid
Flash of fin
celadon green
between blues of sea and sky
She surfaced
when she heard me
crying
slipped her arms around my neck
voice gentle
her mouth
tasting of salt
tasted mine
a sudden kiss
my lips, cheeks, wet
then she was gone
i swear I saw a mermaid
sometimes
I hear her singing
in the deep
I swear I saw a mermaid
Flash of fin
celadon green
between blues of sea and sky
She surfaced
when she heard me
crying
slipped her arms around my neck
voice gentle
her mouth
tasting of salt
tasted mine
a sudden kiss
my lips, cheeks, wet
then she was gone
i swear I saw a mermaid
sometimes
I hear her singing
in the deep
Clouds (poetry)
Apr. 30th, 2009 08:23 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comClouds
I rise with the sun
house crowded with furniture
dirty dishes
unwashed laundry
pick my way between paper bags and patio chairs
forage in the fridge for food
something I can stuff in a tupperware
take to work
I haven’t cooked in weeks
dawn on Gladstone is concrete under foot
walking
toes cold
on mornings that are still
cool
cumulus mist disperses like dreams
but this grey miasma lingers
ghostly
waiting
Sun burns slowly through
her haze of halo’d clouds
wish I could do the same
I rise with the sun
house crowded with furniture
dirty dishes
unwashed laundry
pick my way between paper bags and patio chairs
forage in the fridge for food
something I can stuff in a tupperware
take to work
I haven’t cooked in weeks
dawn on Gladstone is concrete under foot
walking
toes cold
on mornings that are still
cool
cumulus mist disperses like dreams
but this grey miasma lingers
ghostly
waiting
Sun burns slowly through
her haze of halo’d clouds
wish I could do the same
Lost (Poetry)
Mar. 11th, 2009 03:04 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comLost
A laughing labyrinth of leering
Faces
the music’s loud
Pounding
bass
on the outside
You’re fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine
Lovin’ the beat and the big city
Sex that they grind, grind on the dance floor
in the bathrooms
hard against the wall
against you
are you trembling
inside
when someone offers you a drink
another
another
Liquid courage burning
all
the
way
down
to a churning stomach
are you trembling
inside
Wanna forget where you are
what you want
what YOU want
forget that you’ve been here before
Baby
are you trembling
on the inside
Did someone tell you
THIS
is what you’re for
A laughing labyrinth of leering
Faces
the music’s loud
Pounding
bass
on the outside
You’re fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine
Lovin’ the beat and the big city
Sex that they grind, grind on the dance floor
in the bathrooms
hard against the wall
against you
are you trembling
inside
when someone offers you a drink
another
another
Liquid courage burning
all
the
way
down
to a churning stomach
are you trembling
inside
Wanna forget where you are
what you want
what YOU want
forget that you’ve been here before
Baby
are you trembling
on the inside
Did someone tell you
THIS
is what you’re for
Mireille/Amaya (502 Words)
Mar. 3rd, 2009 12:37 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comMy eyelids are heavy with sleep. I am drowsing still from the wine and the languor in my limbs which belies the couple who have long since left our impromptu bed under the stairs. I can hear the revels, yet, laughter spilling from the ballroom down the hall, but here all is still and there are stars above me.
Here is where Amaya finds me, her feet near-silent on the marble floor.
“May I join you?” she asks, formally.
I smile, still reclining on the broad couch, pillows strewn about me.
“Always,” I answer, feeling generous.
Her mouth, lips painted as dark and red as blood, turns up in an almost-smirk, but we both know she is too sweet for sarcasm.
She joins me on the couch, propping a velvet pillow behind her. The black silk of her long, long hair falls over my arm.
“You’re watching the stars tonight,” she comments, following my gaze to the glass-domed roof, the constellations visible beyond the burnished spiral of filigree stairs.
I nod, but I am not watching the stars anymore.
Amaya’s gown is cut very low, a valley of ivory skin between two dark peaks of ruched and gathered silk. I can see the inside curve of her small breast, and a single dark spot just below it.
“What’s that?” I ask, too late to bite my tongue and guard my foolish question.
Her liquid eyes slide towards me.
“What?” she asks, curious or cautious, I can’t tell.
“Forgive me,” answer, retreating to formality.
“No, I want to know,” she turns towards me slightly, and her eyes search my face.
“This,” I whisper, hesitantly, and my finger brushes the dark spot – a beauty mark, my fingertips tell me – on her skin.
“I have a lot of them,” she says, sounding rueful. “All over.”
I can’t help thinking of the witch trials, then, the way the priests would prick a woman’s body to see if she bled. But Amaya is a witch’s daughter, I remember, with the skills to hear the whisper of hidden truths, no matter how hard one strives to hide them.
Would she bleed for me if I pricked her skin?
The thought makes my mouth water, my pulse quicken.
Amaya draws the fabric aside, bares her pale breast to the moonlight and my hungry eyes.
There are four of them, dark beauty marks under her breast.
“Casiopia,” I murmur, tracing the lines between them with fingers grown suddenly too bold.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if she is agreeing with my pronouncement or asking for more, but her breath is quickening under my touch.
“Amaya,” I breathe her name without thinking.
Her hand trails up my arm, from wrist to shoulder, and she claims my gaze with her own.
Her river-dark eyes hold me in thrall.
“Yes,” she answers.
There is no uncertainty this time, only her fingers tangling in my hair, her supple body rising to meet me, her blood red lips, full and ardent on mine.
Here is where Amaya finds me, her feet near-silent on the marble floor.
“May I join you?” she asks, formally.
I smile, still reclining on the broad couch, pillows strewn about me.
“Always,” I answer, feeling generous.
Her mouth, lips painted as dark and red as blood, turns up in an almost-smirk, but we both know she is too sweet for sarcasm.
She joins me on the couch, propping a velvet pillow behind her. The black silk of her long, long hair falls over my arm.
“You’re watching the stars tonight,” she comments, following my gaze to the glass-domed roof, the constellations visible beyond the burnished spiral of filigree stairs.
I nod, but I am not watching the stars anymore.
Amaya’s gown is cut very low, a valley of ivory skin between two dark peaks of ruched and gathered silk. I can see the inside curve of her small breast, and a single dark spot just below it.
“What’s that?” I ask, too late to bite my tongue and guard my foolish question.
Her liquid eyes slide towards me.
“What?” she asks, curious or cautious, I can’t tell.
“Forgive me,” answer, retreating to formality.
“No, I want to know,” she turns towards me slightly, and her eyes search my face.
“This,” I whisper, hesitantly, and my finger brushes the dark spot – a beauty mark, my fingertips tell me – on her skin.
“I have a lot of them,” she says, sounding rueful. “All over.”
I can’t help thinking of the witch trials, then, the way the priests would prick a woman’s body to see if she bled. But Amaya is a witch’s daughter, I remember, with the skills to hear the whisper of hidden truths, no matter how hard one strives to hide them.
Would she bleed for me if I pricked her skin?
The thought makes my mouth water, my pulse quicken.
Amaya draws the fabric aside, bares her pale breast to the moonlight and my hungry eyes.
There are four of them, dark beauty marks under her breast.
“Casiopia,” I murmur, tracing the lines between them with fingers grown suddenly too bold.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if she is agreeing with my pronouncement or asking for more, but her breath is quickening under my touch.
“Amaya,” I breathe her name without thinking.
Her hand trails up my arm, from wrist to shoulder, and she claims my gaze with her own.
Her river-dark eyes hold me in thrall.
“Yes,” she answers.
There is no uncertainty this time, only her fingers tangling in my hair, her supple body rising to meet me, her blood red lips, full and ardent on mine.
amazon-syren.livejournal.comMUSICIANS
We are singing
together
a duet in progress
the tune learned from each others' lips,
plucked from each others' tongues
written in skin
Sweetness of sixth and third
Passed mouth to mouth
voice to voice
I learn to trust
To follow
In the shifting
Unfamiliar patterns of your song
Find the hidden logic of your spiral path
Find ways to bring that sweetness out again
You make allowances
Re-learn the simple and familiar
For me Draw closer in the learning
Reach and give me another reason
to feel safe with you
this is composition and performance both
intricate collaboration
constant improvisation
variations on familiar themes
searching for elusive resolution
dissonance giving way to harmony
a refrain cherished in fingertips and tongue
that returns again and again
a piece written by and for the both of us
a piece that we can only write together
We are singing
together
a duet in progress
the tune learned from each others' lips,
plucked from each others' tongues
written in skin
Sweetness of sixth and third
Passed mouth to mouth
voice to voice
I learn to trust
To follow
In the shifting
Unfamiliar patterns of your song
Find the hidden logic of your spiral path
Find ways to bring that sweetness out again
You make allowances
Re-learn the simple and familiar
For me Draw closer in the learning
Reach and give me another reason
to feel safe with you
this is composition and performance both
intricate collaboration
constant improvisation
variations on familiar themes
searching for elusive resolution
dissonance giving way to harmony
a refrain cherished in fingertips and tongue
that returns again and again
a piece written by and for the both of us
a piece that we can only write together
There are No Shadows Here II
Feb. 14th, 2009 09:22 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comA Fireside Confession
Outside it’s snowing.
I know that.
People who come here think we have no windows, but we do. There is a hidden courtyard, where only we may go – there is a hidden spring there, and trees that bear cherries in lat summer, apples in early autumn.
Mist lifts off the burbling surface of the stream, which never freezes, and mingles with the snow.
I stood at the window and watched it for a time, I don’t know how long, before I came upstairs again.
Dimitri offers me a cup of tea from the samovar, and I take it, gratefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, when the teacup rattles in its saucer.
I didn’t know my hands were shaking.
I sip my tea.
I have played the confessor to a thousand men, and no few women, held their hands as they told me their secrets, punished them when they needed it and offered absolution on my altar.
But in ten years, I have not stood on the other side of the screen. I have always kept my secrets to myself.
“Mireille?” the lightest touch on my knee.
Who can I tell, if not him?
Outside it’s snowing.
I know that.
People who come here think we have no windows, but we do. There is a hidden courtyard, where only we may go – there is a hidden spring there, and trees that bear cherries in lat summer, apples in early autumn.
Mist lifts off the burbling surface of the stream, which never freezes, and mingles with the snow.
I stood at the window and watched it for a time, I don’t know how long, before I came upstairs again.
Dimitri offers me a cup of tea from the samovar, and I take it, gratefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, when the teacup rattles in its saucer.
I didn’t know my hands were shaking.
I sip my tea.
I have played the confessor to a thousand men, and no few women, held their hands as they told me their secrets, punished them when they needed it and offered absolution on my altar.
But in ten years, I have not stood on the other side of the screen. I have always kept my secrets to myself.
“Mireille?” the lightest touch on my knee.
Who can I tell, if not him?
There Are No Shadows Here (Prose)
Feb. 11th, 2009 06:02 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comThere are no shadows here.
That is, in fact, its selling feature.
Light gets into every corner, reflects off every surface. Music and jasmine are thick in the air, and champagne flows like water. Men with gold watch fobs and women with red lips and satin gowns, gather here to laugh and dance, sip wine from crystal glasses and forget, for a time, that the outside world exists.
Here, strangers become lovers in the space of a song. They cling to each other in twos and threes, their skin glistening with sweat and diamonds.
High above the whirling crowd, the moans and sighs of lovers, the skirl of music, there are windows in the domed ceiling. During the day, when the halls are empty, when the beautiful girls and boys who populate this place are sleeping off the previous night, shadows form as easily as breathing. One can track the passage of the day by the way the light moves across the floor. But at night the mirrors and chandeliers conspire and no shadow may appear that it does not fade or flee at the touch of light.
It’s said that if you come here once, you will leave a part of yourself behind and will return, again and again, trying to find it.
That is, in fact, its selling feature.
Light gets into every corner, reflects off every surface. Music and jasmine are thick in the air, and champagne flows like water. Men with gold watch fobs and women with red lips and satin gowns, gather here to laugh and dance, sip wine from crystal glasses and forget, for a time, that the outside world exists.
Here, strangers become lovers in the space of a song. They cling to each other in twos and threes, their skin glistening with sweat and diamonds.
High above the whirling crowd, the moans and sighs of lovers, the skirl of music, there are windows in the domed ceiling. During the day, when the halls are empty, when the beautiful girls and boys who populate this place are sleeping off the previous night, shadows form as easily as breathing. One can track the passage of the day by the way the light moves across the floor. But at night the mirrors and chandeliers conspire and no shadow may appear that it does not fade or flee at the touch of light.
It’s said that if you come here once, you will leave a part of yourself behind and will return, again and again, trying to find it.
Vulnerable (poetry)
Feb. 4th, 2009 07:53 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comVulnerable
If you would offer
Yourself
On my altar
You must understand
It isn't screams I want
Nor begging I crave
Don't give me this easy submission of mere flesh
From you, I demand something greater.
From you
I want nothing
Less than the whole of your heart
Not blood and tissue
Nor the one you wear on your sleeve
But the heart you keep hidden
Armoured against the world
Can you place it in my hands and trust me
to carry it
care for it
can you place it in my hands
and trust me
If you would offer
Yourself
On my altar
You must understand
It isn't screams I want
Nor begging I crave
Don't give me this easy submission of mere flesh
From you, I demand something greater.
From you
I want nothing
Less than the whole of your heart
Not blood and tissue
Nor the one you wear on your sleeve
But the heart you keep hidden
Armoured against the world
Can you place it in my hands and trust me
to carry it
care for it
can you place it in my hands
and trust me
Written in Skin (Poetry)
Feb. 2nd, 2009 06:12 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comSo I had the chance to etch words into someone's skin the other day.
I've decided that I rather like doing this -- hey, I'm a writer and a wordsmith, and I definitely have an interest in cutting people up. So this works for me. ;-)
Anyway - as so many things do, this got me thinking about how I could do this with/to my primary partner (I spent a few minutes over my brand-spanking-new lunch-break figuring out how to write in ambulance-speak so that words writting across her chest, for example, would be readable in a mirror) and the following poem-ette resulted:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Written In Skin
Maybe you're afraid to believe
someone could love you
to believe that
anyone could see beyond the social
butterfly
always up for a fuck
and love what's really there
but i have
i do
and i want
to open you up
lift that beating heart
long-bruised
in my two hands
press kisses into you
so deep
that you can't deny
the truth of them
i want to take up scalple
awl and needle
etch it into your skin
so deep
that you know this
in your bones:
you
my darling
are
beautiful
courageous
cherished
strong and
loved
I've decided that I rather like doing this -- hey, I'm a writer and a wordsmith, and I definitely have an interest in cutting people up. So this works for me. ;-)
Anyway - as so many things do, this got me thinking about how I could do this with/to my primary partner (I spent a few minutes over my brand-spanking-new lunch-break figuring out how to write in ambulance-speak so that words writting across her chest, for example, would be readable in a mirror) and the following poem-ette resulted:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Written In Skin
Maybe you're afraid to believe
someone could love you
to believe that
anyone could see beyond the social
butterfly
always up for a fuck
and love what's really there
but i have
i do
and i want
to open you up
lift that beating heart
long-bruised
in my two hands
press kisses into you
so deep
that you can't deny
the truth of them
i want to take up scalple
awl and needle
etch it into your skin
so deep
that you know this
in your bones:
you
my darling
are
beautiful
courageous
cherished
strong and
loved
amazon-syren.livejournal.comLike a White Stone
If I give you my love
this white stone lifted
from the depths
of my internal sea (desire mingled with affection, currents of fascination mixed with comfort)
Will you take it
solid and tangible
in your two hands
and drop it
into the well of your own heart?
Will you take it
for all that the ripples of its passage
will never leave you alone?
*~*~*~*~*
I Live in Hope
Hope is a house
Its wide bay windows look out
On lush gardens
Trees heavy with pears and persimmons lean
low over deep pools (every one a wishing well)
Hope is a house
Its garden unfenced
Its library filled with books that all begin:
When I grow up, I want to be…
Or
With this ring I thee…
Hope is a house
Its larder full
The scent of chai and the sound of music, faintly stir the air
Where sunlight catches floating motes of dust
I live in hope,
This quiet house
Of books and tea and the clock’s
tock tick
in the hall
my footsteps echo
and I hope
I will not remain
alone in this house
where anything can happen
and nothing ever does
If I give you my love
this white stone lifted
from the depths
of my internal sea (desire mingled with affection, currents of fascination mixed with comfort)
Will you take it
solid and tangible
in your two hands
and drop it
into the well of your own heart?
Will you take it
for all that the ripples of its passage
will never leave you alone?
*~*~*~*~*
I Live in Hope
Hope is a house
Its wide bay windows look out
On lush gardens
Trees heavy with pears and persimmons lean
low over deep pools (every one a wishing well)
Hope is a house
Its garden unfenced
Its library filled with books that all begin:
When I grow up, I want to be…
Or
With this ring I thee…
Hope is a house
Its larder full
The scent of chai and the sound of music, faintly stir the air
Where sunlight catches floating motes of dust
I live in hope,
This quiet house
Of books and tea and the clock’s
tock tick
in the hall
my footsteps echo
and I hope
I will not remain
alone in this house
where anything can happen
and nothing ever does
Cadence (Perfect) -- A Poem
Jan. 4th, 2009 08:16 pmamazon-syren.livejournal.comCadence (Perfect)
If I am your Dominant
You must be the key
by-which I set my life
Your voice
the place
where my heart
finds its anchor
Your pleasure-pain cry
the note
that gives me form
If I am your Dominant
You must be the key
by-which I set my life
Your voice
the place
where my heart
finds its anchor
Your pleasure-pain cry
the note
that gives me form
Tongues (Poetry)
Jan. 3rd, 2009 11:28 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comTongues
I can’t speak
you ask me what I want and
my tongue
locks up
desire courses,
hot, under skin
a river moving under ice
but my tongue is frozen
my mouth is more certain, kissing yours
than whispering my wants
come closer
my hands will show you
how they ache for your skin
my lips
will claim the kiss
they long to give
I can’t speak
you ask me what I want and
my tongue
locks up
desire courses,
hot, under skin
a river moving under ice
but my tongue is frozen
my mouth is more certain, kissing yours
than whispering my wants
come closer
my hands will show you
how they ache for your skin
my lips
will claim the kiss
they long to give
Atlantic and Court (Poetry)
Jan. 3rd, 2009 11:03 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comAtlantic and Court
somewhere you're sleeping
curled on cold concrete
no lock between you
and the new york night
i'm here
wrapped in blankets
heat cranked in every room
candles burning
on the altar of courage
but i don't feel safe
and i can't
get
warm
somewhere you're sleeping
curled on cold concrete
no lock between you
and the new york night
i'm here
wrapped in blankets
heat cranked in every room
candles burning
on the altar of courage
but i don't feel safe
and i can't
get
warm
amazon-syren.livejournal.comAmazing Grace
Grace was old in Babylon
When the world turned
On the axis of her ankle
(when jewel-spangled hips caught fire
light in temple and caravanserai)
In Venice, she went underground
Named herself ‘artist’, not ‘priestess’
Wore pearls despite the prohibition
(audacious in the face of laws
that tried to brand her “wicked”
when she was anything but)
In frontier towns
She offered
Salvation
scented with jasmine
as Sister of Mercy
yes
Grace was old in Babylon,
But the world still spins
on the axis of her ankle
She makes those platform heels
look easy
(jewel-spangled hips still catching the light)
In clubs and apartments
on stages and street corners
Grace checks her lipstick
and smiles at the mirror:
Beautiful
Brave
Unbowed
And still
Amazing
*~*~*~*~*
Beautiful
I wish you could see yourself
The way that I see you
That you could look in the mirror, and see
beauty incarnate
not something unfinished,
in need of perfecting
it’s not that I don’t understand,
that I’ve never looked a my own reflection and seen
only heavy jaw
flat cheekbones
that I’ve never wished my image looked
a little bit different.
A little more like a model
A little less like me
But you
You are BEAUTIFUL
so beautiful
Your strong bones and
Sharp features make you so.
I wish
You could see yourself
The way that I see you
You would
Never
Want to change
again
Grace was old in Babylon
When the world turned
On the axis of her ankle
(when jewel-spangled hips caught fire
light in temple and caravanserai)
In Venice, she went underground
Named herself ‘artist’, not ‘priestess’
Wore pearls despite the prohibition
(audacious in the face of laws
that tried to brand her “wicked”
when she was anything but)
In frontier towns
She offered
Salvation
scented with jasmine
as Sister of Mercy
yes
Grace was old in Babylon,
But the world still spins
on the axis of her ankle
She makes those platform heels
look easy
(jewel-spangled hips still catching the light)
In clubs and apartments
on stages and street corners
Grace checks her lipstick
and smiles at the mirror:
Beautiful
Brave
Unbowed
And still
Amazing
*~*~*~*~*
Beautiful
I wish you could see yourself
The way that I see you
That you could look in the mirror, and see
beauty incarnate
not something unfinished,
in need of perfecting
it’s not that I don’t understand,
that I’ve never looked a my own reflection and seen
only heavy jaw
flat cheekbones
that I’ve never wished my image looked
a little bit different.
A little more like a model
A little less like me
But you
You are BEAUTIFUL
so beautiful
Your strong bones and
Sharp features make you so.
I wish
You could see yourself
The way that I see you
You would
Never
Want to change
again
amazon-syren.livejournal.com2am
Your voice on the line
is fractured
(could be static
could be sadness)
You’re asking me to
sing to you
My voice creaks
rusty with sleep
(wanting water)
I swallow
and search
For a song
*~*~*~*~*
Listen
Can you hear me?
There’s static on the line
and I know
you’re in a basement
I’m grateful
for every minute that we have
Can you hear me?
Your voice is shaking
I’m aching
to hold you,
rock you
and make you safe again
Listen
Can you hear me?
Can you feel my arms around you?
Can the warmth of my voice
(humming Judy Garland)
take the place of my warm body
curled into yours?
Listen
Listen
Just a little longer
My heart is right beside you
though we are miles apart
Your voice on the line
is fractured
(could be static
could be sadness)
You’re asking me to
sing to you
My voice creaks
rusty with sleep
(wanting water)
I swallow
and search
For a song
*~*~*~*~*
Listen
Can you hear me?
There’s static on the line
and I know
you’re in a basement
I’m grateful
for every minute that we have
Can you hear me?
Your voice is shaking
I’m aching
to hold you,
rock you
and make you safe again
Listen
Can you hear me?
Can you feel my arms around you?
Can the warmth of my voice
(humming Judy Garland)
take the place of my warm body
curled into yours?
Listen
Listen
Just a little longer
My heart is right beside you
though we are miles apart
More Selkie Poetry
Nov. 14th, 2008 10:43 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comIn the Bath, Remembering
I spend long hours in the bath
Soaking
Door locked against the world
And him
This water is scalding
Scented with roses
Not the icy flow,
Salt and chill,
I know
From years ago
But my buoyed body
Remembers
In flesh
The ocean’s cradle,
Wave-washed touch
And play,
As steam curls
Above my head
And hot water swirls
‘round my hips
*~*~*~*~*
Not Enough?
I walk the shoreline
One unwebbed foot in front of the other
Walking without aim and with
only anger
To guide me.
He has stolen my skin
Was it not enough that I said yes
Folded my second self into a chest
Showed his world my pleasing human face
Was it not enough that I left
the ocean
For him
*~*~*~*~*
Fading (Out of Time)
I thought I was you wife
Dearest
Partner of greatness
Not so
I am a hooked fish
trapped animal
Club me, why don’t you?
At least that’d leave marks.
Something I could see in the mirror
When I try to see where I left
Myself
*~*~*~*~*
Homeward
I spend whole days
On the shore
Following the tide lines
Towards the horizon.
Wind whips my skin
That I bare where he
Can’t see me
But that nagging voice
The thought of his reproachful eyes
Call me home again
When the sun starts to sink
I arrive
Unkempt
Skirts damp from the rising tide
To meet his questions
his silence
Pebbles
Plucked from the beach
Turn to boulders and
Burdened with the weight of his gaze
I turn shoreward, longing for the wind and the waves
These four walls
Are not my home
anymore
*~*~*~*~*
Quick Sand
I thought I could save my self
Spread out my weight,
Don’t move
I thought I could stop sinking
If I just stopped
Struggling
Only makes you sink
Faster
*~*~*~*~*~*
Comments & Con. Crit. are always wonderful.
I spend long hours in the bath
Soaking
Door locked against the world
And him
This water is scalding
Scented with roses
Not the icy flow,
Salt and chill,
I know
From years ago
But my buoyed body
Remembers
In flesh
The ocean’s cradle,
Wave-washed touch
And play,
As steam curls
Above my head
And hot water swirls
‘round my hips
*~*~*~*~*
Not Enough?
I walk the shoreline
One unwebbed foot in front of the other
Walking without aim and with
only anger
To guide me.
He has stolen my skin
Was it not enough that I said yes
Folded my second self into a chest
Showed his world my pleasing human face
Was it not enough that I left
the ocean
For him
*~*~*~*~*
Fading (Out of Time)
I thought I was you wife
Dearest
Partner of greatness
Not so
I am a hooked fish
trapped animal
Club me, why don’t you?
At least that’d leave marks.
Something I could see in the mirror
When I try to see where I left
Myself
*~*~*~*~*
Homeward
I spend whole days
On the shore
Following the tide lines
Towards the horizon.
Wind whips my skin
That I bare where he
Can’t see me
But that nagging voice
The thought of his reproachful eyes
Call me home again
When the sun starts to sink
I arrive
Unkempt
Skirts damp from the rising tide
To meet his questions
his silence
Pebbles
Plucked from the beach
Turn to boulders and
Burdened with the weight of his gaze
I turn shoreward, longing for the wind and the waves
These four walls
Are not my home
anymore
*~*~*~*~*
Quick Sand
I thought I could save my self
Spread out my weight,
Don’t move
I thought I could stop sinking
If I just stopped
Struggling
Only makes you sink
Faster
*~*~*~*~*~*
Comments & Con. Crit. are always wonderful.
Selkie Poems
Nov. 12th, 2008 10:48 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comHope Chest
Skin folded
Neatly
Like some strange stand-in for
table cloth
or bedspread
I put it away
Tucked into a chest
Like hope
For the future
(another day to come)
I slipped my broad feet into
Little white shoes
Covered my dark head
With a veil
Trappings for his family
He knew
What I was
When I came
Bare and beaming
To my bridal bed
He knew what I was
What I am
*~*~*~*~*
Pretend
I never pretend
Never lie
to his family
or to him
that this curvy body never knew
another form
that these long limbs
were never flippers
that this creamy skin
was never stone
grey-brown,
gleaming
with ocean brine
I never pretend
I don’t miss it
That, when the seals bark
On the shore
I turn my head
My dark eyes betraying me
Longing
I never pretend,
heart lightened by lies,
that it doesn’t bother him
to see the truth
*~*~*~*~*
Skin folded
Neatly
Like some strange stand-in for
table cloth
or bedspread
I put it away
Tucked into a chest
Like hope
For the future
(another day to come)
I slipped my broad feet into
Little white shoes
Covered my dark head
With a veil
Trappings for his family
He knew
What I was
When I came
Bare and beaming
To my bridal bed
He knew what I was
What I am
*~*~*~*~*
Pretend
I never pretend
Never lie
to his family
or to him
that this curvy body never knew
another form
that these long limbs
were never flippers
that this creamy skin
was never stone
grey-brown,
gleaming
with ocean brine
I never pretend
I don’t miss it
That, when the seals bark
On the shore
I turn my head
My dark eyes betraying me
Longing
I never pretend,
heart lightened by lies,
that it doesn’t bother him
to see the truth
*~*~*~*~*
Live Truly, My Heart: Part 36
Sep. 4th, 2008 11:25 amamazon-syren.livejournal.comThis is Trinity's story - AU due to a whole bunch of stuff, but mostly because of her getting unplugged in '1995' rather than in '1987'.
Enjoy! :-D
Part One: Real
Part Two: Search and Rescue
Part Three: The Oracle Speaks
Part Four: Revelations
Part Five: Half of Her Heart
Part Six: Batteries
Part Seven: Life Goes On
Part Eight: Shattered Flight
Part Nine: Truth Be Told
Part Ten: Goodbye, My Friend
Part Eleven: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
Part Twelve: Negotiations
Part Thirteen: Out of Order
Part Fourteen: Getting In
Part Fifteen: Getting Out
Part Sixteen: Breathe
Part Seventeen: Walls and Doorways
Part Eighteen: Know Thyself
Part Nineteen: Hope and Dread
Part Twenty: Come Together
Part Twenty One: Fire, Water, Earth
Part Twenty Two: Afterglow
Part Twenty-Three: Different Kinds of Trust
Part Twenty Four: Outfoxed
Part Twenty Five: Enter the Seeker
Part Twenty Six: Cravings
Part Twenty Seven: Coming Home
Part Twenty Eight: Quick Change
Part Twenty Nine: Practice Makes Perfect
Part Thirty: Conversations
Part Thirty One: Getting Ideas
Part Thirty Two: Chiaroscuro
Part Thirty Three: Game Night
Part Thirty Four: Wire Tap
Part Thirty Five: Aftermath
Title: Live Truly, My Heart
Fandom: The Matrix
Characters: Trinity, Switch, Cypher, mention of Neo, Morepheus.
Pairings: Trinity/Switch
Rating: PG13. If that.
Author's note: This me be twiddled and/or added-to over the next week or so. Also note: this chapter is set about a year and a half before M1.
( Part Thirty Six: The Things We Know )
*~*~*~*~*
Comments would be *wonderful*! :-D
Enjoy! :-D
Part One: Real
Part Two: Search and Rescue
Part Three: The Oracle Speaks
Part Four: Revelations
Part Five: Half of Her Heart
Part Six: Batteries
Part Seven: Life Goes On
Part Eight: Shattered Flight
Part Nine: Truth Be Told
Part Ten: Goodbye, My Friend
Part Eleven: Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
Part Twelve: Negotiations
Part Thirteen: Out of Order
Part Fourteen: Getting In
Part Fifteen: Getting Out
Part Sixteen: Breathe
Part Seventeen: Walls and Doorways
Part Eighteen: Know Thyself
Part Nineteen: Hope and Dread
Part Twenty: Come Together
Part Twenty One: Fire, Water, Earth
Part Twenty Two: Afterglow
Part Twenty-Three: Different Kinds of Trust
Part Twenty Four: Outfoxed
Part Twenty Five: Enter the Seeker
Part Twenty Six: Cravings
Part Twenty Seven: Coming Home
Part Twenty Eight: Quick Change
Part Twenty Nine: Practice Makes Perfect
Part Thirty: Conversations
Part Thirty One: Getting Ideas
Part Thirty Two: Chiaroscuro
Part Thirty Three: Game Night
Part Thirty Four: Wire Tap
Part Thirty Five: Aftermath
Title: Live Truly, My Heart
Fandom: The Matrix
Characters: Trinity, Switch, Cypher, mention of Neo, Morepheus.
Pairings: Trinity/Switch
Rating: PG13. If that.
Author's note: This me be twiddled and/or added-to over the next week or so. Also note: this chapter is set about a year and a half before M1.
( Part Thirty Six: The Things We Know )
*~*~*~*~*
Comments would be *wonderful*! :-D
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