I don’t know if it was all the ‘Supermoon’ hype, or my sexy muse at work, but I know I felt something at 1:40 a.m. the other morning- and then dreamed the rest of it later.
The Moon Dance
The moon, tho’ not full
Cut the night left and right
Like a surgeon’s sharp tool
Blackest black and dreamy white
I stood in the dark
Stuck my arm in the glow
And felt your yearning hark
Your lips on my arm I did know
Taking half a chance
Standing part in, part out
I offered you a dance
“Yes!”, your reply nearly a shout
My steps split the night
I was afraid to commit
As you played in the moonlight
Not crossing the ethereal split
Then a sudden twirl
Found me full in
Phoebes ghostly dream swirl
You looked at me with a loving grin
We pitched and spun
Made love in her beams
We danced again before we were done
Nothing like it in any dreams
Then she fell low
And sadness took your face
You kissed me, said you had to go
Too fast you went, I couldn’t chase
Tonight, clouds rule the sky
My heart- heavy with rain
A single tear rolls from my eye
As I look to dance with you again
After all these months, I finally have an inspired counterpart to the sonnet, The Burn. After The Burn was published, a dear friend asked for an answer to it— of sorts. So I scratched my noodle, wadded up a ton of paper, drained 47 ink pens, and came up with not only an answer, but a poem that that uses the same gimmick as The Burn.
Helen, Sweetheart, I hope this satisfies you..
Thawed
Shall I speak of the way you ere freeze me
The manner in which your blaze chills my spine
Ice in my veins, not because I fear thee
To the point, you melt my frost and you’re mine
Brisk is your breath against my needing soul
Like a Siberian breeze on a tropic day
Your love cools my scars and renders me whole
No frigid spots, when your love smiles my way
Your touch, like a thin atomic strand burning
Sears across my tundra, filling my need
Your thick glacial honey, sets me yearning
Thawing gelid juice, lighting up my seed
Lust isn’t what wakes me from wintry sleep
Thawing me is your love so very deep
My dreams often drop me off at interesting places, and this one left me somewhere I need to be…
The Keep of Dreams
On a Scottish Knoll, somewhere near the coast
Where seas were crashing, spraying salty foam
Above the plain, where bramble is the host
Sat the ruins of a long gone king’s home
Under a faded blue and cloudless sky
In the smile of a brightly smudged noonday sun
Frolicked my lover the artist, and I
She painted fiercely; I penned verse ’til day’s done
Then under sparkling stars and gentle moon
In lilacs and sand making love so sweet
My lover the artist, and I, did swoon
Under night sky, we both were then complete
My sweet love, gorgeous, barefoot, child in womb
At the Keep of Dreams, ‘neath the Scottish moon
As I sat on the porch at 2 in the morning, a mighty storm passed through the landscape around me- crashing into the primal tempest boiling in my soul.
This poem is the result…
The Rage
Rain driving through concrete
Wood, trees, and asphalt
Thor’s mighty hammer rattling
All life shivers to a halt
Lightning cracking fragile air
Splitting angry skies
All the while, the beast paces
Fire growing in his eyes
The storm screams and rages
He begins a searing howl
Tearing at my widespread ribs
Your name is his growl
You have opened his cage
Sniffiing through ozone
Looking past wind bent trees
Snarling ’cause you’re the one
Some would say lightning struck
Is a very bad way
But I say let the primal beast live
Let him have his day
Through his storms and boiling rage
His being makes me alive
He belongs to only you
From him, you can’t hide
His eyes aglow with lightning fire
There’s thunder in his chest
Your name bellows like pounding rain
He comes for you from the west.
Take and soothe the mighty being
Purr to him, make him melt
While he claims you again and again
Only you know the ache he’s dealt
Rain, wind, thunder, and lightning
Primal screams and love making chills
The beast must be allowed to rage
And soothe your rain, make it still
I am he, and his storm is yours
Prints of Judith Shaw’s Beauty Loves The Beast is available for purchase here.
Poetry written in spilled flour
Powder on flesh, tiger stripes traced
Wolfish eyes blazing for hours
Last letters blown silent so words would race
Verses blurred into whispered growls
Nails on skin as two hearts howl
Primal reduction where there’re no lies
At the core howling carnal cries
Heat, need, want, baking two souls
Kneading, rising, honey and seed
Fires of passion like nuclear coals
For anyone else, there’s no other need
Gasping, groaning, moaning, and drool
There’s no safe place to cool
Flesh and bone, baking so damn hot
How is it together we are not
The timer counts its way down
The result is sure to come
When our souls become dynamically one
And our sighs will be heard world ’round
But now we have burned the bread
As if we really care….
This wonderful poem was inked by a beautiful soul, Helen (@Colour_Being on Twitter) and inspired by Time Away.
Enjoy!
Distance
Can’t reach,
I’m sorrowed for every inch
Of distance -
Turns words into whispers,
Parts grace
In’ Leather and Lace.
We dance
With longing in every glance.
Apart.
..How can you stitch a heart?
Breathing
Easier when I kiss you
Harder when I miss you
Impossible without you
Unleashed within you
Under your wings
My breath sings
Away from you
My face is blue
Breathing
Today is Christi Floss’ Birthday and what follows is my gift (55 words of Flash Fiction) to her. Christi is a free spirited poet who owns Getting It Right where she unknowingly published one poem in particular, Breathing You, that …pinned me for reasons some of you may guess, and fewer will know.
Happiest of Birthdays Christi!
Fresh Air
“Air!” She gasped as her flight path sped upwards, “My sweet air.”
A tear marked her cheek as she glanced back at her cage. A tear for illusions she once knew, and for the freedom allowed by her muse and lover.
“I’m yours,” her scream filling the night air, “I am me- free to love.”
A love letter I wrote in the moment as it were. This exercise in creative writing, like all my poetry, may or may not have been written for someone specific- I love keeping you all guessing.
When I write in the moment, as opposed to writing from recollections of years ago, I write in the genre that strikes me most- Whether it be erotic scenes, poetry, love letters, or any one of a dozen formats. So, I am sure that some of you purists will argue that if indeed I am not writing for anyone specifically— that I must be faking the emotion.
Not to long ago, I wrote a kiss. The first inking of that emotional moment was admittedly lackluster. At the urging of someone close to my heart, I rewrote that kiss and I have to say I nailed it. That kiss sent hearts reeling, wet panties, and left me yearning for that kiss. In fact, I got a comment about that kiss that went something like:
I want that kiss
The real point is, I have never had that kiss myself, but I felt it- lived it.
Did I fake it?
Oh my sweet love….
The breath of late autumn has been fierce today. Coming under skies that
look brooding and contemplating, that breath has been constant with a
touch of ice on the edges.
The leaves of now abashed looking trees are littering lawns all up and
down Dale Avenue. Most of the fodder in the yards belongs somewhere else.
That breath truly has been strong.
But across from the porch, across two yards, and on to the next street,
there is one tree that has stood vigilant against the mighty breath of
fall.
That tree is painted with splotches of verdant green, chunks of old
orange, and a very healthy badge of rustic red fire.
The leaves hold fast against a steady wind that cascades over giving and
bending limbs and branches. They twist and turn, but do not yield to the
angry breath.
Today, as I sit here in awe of that one tree, in a neighborhood marked by
hundreds of naked dancers, I am humbled by our love.
A forever love that was discovered two springs ago. A love that has grown
for six seasons. A love that was sparked at the first grain drop in the
oldest hour glass.
A love that will spark life.
A love planted in strong soil and rooted with the total support of four
hands, two souls, two hearts, and fate. A love that has been nurtured, not
with exacting care, but with the fire of need. The need to know everything
about each other, the need to support and work side by side, the need give
entirely, the need to take without shame.
A love that has withstood mighty winds, and will withstand even mightier
winds to come. A love of complete devotion.
A love whose fruit is the fire of passion.
Today, that tree over on Janet Street standing tall against the elemental
onslaught…today, that tree is our love.
Tomorrow, Lover, the strength of our love will have outgrown that of the
tree.
I have been exploring various forms of poetry as of late- including Mirrored Refrain, Acrostic, and hell, I wrote my fist Haiku last week. I was even tormented and tortured by the Alexandrine(thank you, you know who)—a twelve syllable poem that is two lines of six syllables separated by ||—to the point of almost giving up. But I finally worked one out I liked.
The Japanese Lanturne (or Lantern) poetry form is one that I discovered to be a pleasant challenge. The traditional Lanturne consists of five lines whose syllabic sequence runs like this: 1-2-3-4-1— forming the shape of a Japanese Lantern when formated centered. Now, the strictest structure also mandates that the theme of the poem is nature, as is the case with most forms of Japanese poetry, and begins with a noun followed by a description of that noun.
For example:
Cows
grazing
in verdant
vales, making our
milk
Or some such shit.
Anyhoo…the number one unspoken rule about poetry is- write what you feel in any form that makes sense. As long as the emotion is conveyed, traditional structure takes the backseat.
So, taking that and running with it, I destroyed the Lanturne and created a variation of my own. I start with one noun, or abstract thought, and dialog about it throughout the poem until I end with the same one syllable noun or thought I started with— or something closely related to it.
I do try to maintain a structure that includes- a syllabic pattern that runs like 1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-1 (the sequence can run as long as needed); the one syllable words in the middle are transitions (they end the previous sequence and begin the next).
My best effort to date, using this variation, was written just this afternoon:
Baby
your Love
engulfs me
my love never
ends
of the
world will not
keep us apart
long
oh how
I long to fill
you
are the most
precious soul to
me
all I
am is yours
and yours alone
Baby
Want to give it a shot? How about a traditional Lanturne? Leave your poetry in the comments, and if I get enough, I’ll write a post featuring them.
Sam Spade, Phillip Marlow, Alexander Black, trench coats, fedoras, violence, and dames. Crime Noir is a literary genre made popular by the likes of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, and has survived since the genre’s pioneer Carroll John Daly’s story, Knights of the Open Palm was published in the June, 1923 issue of Black Mask magazine.
Daly’s main character in that story, Race Williams, became the model for many of the protagonists in fiction crime noir that have left bloody footprints and gasping bims since his first appearance. Williams’ sharp tongued, hardboiled, cold blooded, and shoot-first-don’t-give-a-damn-about-names attributes can be clearly seen in Chandler’s Phillip Marlow, Hammet’s Sam Spade, and Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.
But not all crime noir involves private eyes of eras gone by. Stieg Larsson’s wildly popular The Millennium Series, starring Lizabeth Salander as the main character, is considered crime noir, and Lizabeth is just a girl in a heap of trouble. Additionally, James Lee Burke and Richard Stark (a.k.a. Donald Westlake) are huge names in crime noir, and their main characters range from the on again/off again cop, David Robicheaux to the non-hero, professional thief, Parker.
What Is Crime Noir?
Buy Alexander Black for .99
To sum up almost all definitions of crime noir- the story must be dark, and treat violence and sex with the kid gloves off. In other words: fiction that makes us flinch.
In most cases, the protagonist is not a character instilled with socially accepted moral standards. Sam Spade and Phillip Marlow are known as anti-heroes- characters not above using unscrupulous methods to get the job done (entrapment, strong-arm tactics, and womanizing, Oh My!). And then there is Richard Stark’s most well known protagonist, Parker, a cold blooded thief who punches, bullies, and often shoots his way out of a soured caper so he doesn’t get pinched.
Also common in fiction crime noir are story lines where the central characters are somehow connected to a violent crime—-murder and armed robbery being the two biggies— and are forced to make a decision— should they seek help from the authorities, or should they attempt to untangle themselves using their own wits? Almost always, the decision falls on the latter side of the coin, providing opportunity after opportunity for the protagonist to dig themselves into a deeper hole.
Think Dr. Richard Kimble of The Fugitive.
Can Crime Noir Be Literary Genius?
Why not? James Lee Burke is often hailed as one of the genre’s masters with praise attached for his literary prowess. And it’s true- Burke’s tales are written beautifully with complex characters and stunning metaphors. His talent for laying down descriptions, putting the reader in the middle of wherever Burke dictates, is nearly unrivaled. This passage from The Glass Rainbow is a prime example of his talent as Dave Robicheaux describes a room he rented in Natchez, Mississippi:
…the ventilated storm shutters were slatted with a pink glow, as soft and filtered and cool in color as the spring sunrise can be in the Garden District, the courtyard outside touched with mist off the river, the pastel walls deep in shadow and stained with lichen above the flower beds, the walkways smelling of damp stone and the wild spearmint that grew in green clusters between the bricks. I could see the shadows of banana trees moving on the window screens, the humidity condensing and threading along the fronds, like living tissue. I could hear a ship’s horn blowing somewhere out on the river, a long hooting sound that was absorbed and muted inside the mist, thwarting its own purpose….The wood floor and the garish wallpaper and the rain spots on the ceiling belonged to another era, one that was outside of time and unheedful to the demands of commerce…
Even if Burke does deserve the praise he gets for his awesome ink, it is almost unfair because there have been authors in the genre equally talented. Where Burke is a master of painting almost surreal scenes taken from the reality of the Mississippi Delta, Richard Stark was a master at putting the reader in the taut mind of professional thief.
Parker—just Parker, no first name, no last name—was as hard as cold blue steel. But he didn’t operate without rhyme or reason; Stark let us in on his protagonist’s psyche and showed us how Parker logically evolved through the series of twenty-four novels. One Parker faithful made this observation:
And Stark…yes…moving words- active, eliciting emotion…and subtleties find their way between the lines. Like the poor beauty shop owner, how she died accidentally, how that guilt seeps in long enough to resonate within Parker’s psyche, and then..somehow…he let’s himself off the
hook..thereby letting you off the hook..
What is the common denominator that makes all memorable crime noir work? The same magic trick that all great authors have up their sleeves, no matter the genre— tension. The tool of champions is what has readers reaching for the a book when they should be doing something else, or turning one more page than they promised themselves they would.
In 1980, among the top fifteen U.S. fiction titles sold, seven belonged to Mickey Spillane— in spite of the fact his books were constantly crucified by literary critics who found the high content of violence and sex in his work to be distasteful. Mickey’s reaction:
Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar… If the public likes you, you’re good.
From the era of fedoras, trench coats, classy women who knew how to play, and acerbic gumshoes to modern themes involving abused girls and doctors trying to prove their innocence while running from the law, crime noir has proven over and over that it is a genre that can’t be plugged and sent to the big sleep.
Alexander Black operates below the surface of every day life. Some would call him a Cleaner, others a Fixer, but few would call him by his real name more than twice. Pledging allegiance to no one, he works on both sides of the law, performing the type of wet work that calls for molten steel in his veins, and a noble approach to justice before legal.
The newest anti-hero legend of the crime noir genre can be found at his web site- Alexander Black. Pick up some of his short stories while you are there. Guaranteed brain candy for the gritty minded.
I turned the burner up a little with this sonnet—okay, a lot. But I also toyed with another concept here and will leave it to you, my faithful fans, to discover it. If you do–drop it in the comments….
You Folks Rock!!!
The Burn
Hungry fire builds in your emerald eyes
Those gorgeous orbs burning with constant greed
They taunt me, singe me, and tell me no lies
They blaze ’cause it’s me you want, crave, and need
Your touch gentle and warm, yet aching
And your lips glowing sweetly against mine
Inflamed moans claiming you’re mine for taking
Your Gasps searing lustful trails up my spine
Your throat seethes passion, calling for my hold
Ardor rises as your breasts beg my lips
A fever in your swells as they unfold
My seed ignites your honey as it drips
Our flesh and bone doth spark the night skies
Starting with the boil in your wanting eyes
My latest poetry submission, this sonnet, was inspired by some very beautiful words I read somewhere. Knowing where I read those words isn’t nearly as important as seeing what I felt because of those words.
Inspiration is out there, floating around- all anyone needs to do is to be open and ready for when the ideas fly in. And then the fun starts: We have to take those ideas and dig deep inside of ourselves to discover all emotions we tag to the incoming concepts…
The River’s Mist
There on the river, inside the ethereal mist
Where most won’t go and fewer yet find dreams
And even less see what most of us have missed
It is there where life is more than it seems
Twixt logic and heart, steps fall in the veil
Our souls collided, melting into one
Through the dreams we can see that we’ll prevail
Logic’ll guide us to when the day’s done
I took your hand, mind, and eyes in the brume
I claimed your breasts, your swells, and fiery lust
You adduced my being as your heart’s groom
And in me you find a deep love to trust
We dance as one on love’s glorious floor
In river’s mist, in the real, evermore
My third published poem in a week is again not a sonnet, hell, I wouldn’t know what to call this except another foray into an emotion uncovered and played with while I watched the sun come up a few days ago…
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