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I find it pretty cool that the University of Montana has my book in their library: http://t.co/FAHxmyBgJS 
— Brandon Gene Petit (@BGPetit) May 3, 2014
@BGPetit That IS awesome!
— Sarah Ann (@DreamworldBooks) May 3, 2014
Poetic Descriptions of Wombs
I noticed more than a few times that people have used the search terms “poetic descriptions of wombs” or “poems about being in the womb” in order to stumble across my website. My suspicions suggest that some of these people might be college students searching for poems applicable to a topic they have been assigned to write a paper on, or something of that nature. I’d hate for them to feel frustrated by seemingly arriving at my site in error, so I decided to post a couple of womb-related pieces on my page in hopes that they would search again and possibly find these posts of some assistance in their project.
Hearts without Quarrel
I picture my days most fruitfully spent with a woman acquired from some foreign outing in a land of high culture; I lock with her eyes from a Venetian boat as she smiles from the concrete spires of a busied riverside walkway, lowering her camera upon realizing the advent of our initial chemistry. She is wise beyond her years, dainty in composure but brute in wit; she speaks of art both Apollonian and outlandish, outdoor cafés on overcast days and books of which I’ve heard but only now wish to own. Together we embark on exotic travels without the hindrance of a second thought, forever adding to our experiences and embellishing the tale of our growing affection.
A vacation home planted in white sands waits for us to grace it with our auras, probed by temperate gusts that spill through open glass doors and visit the modern sculptures from room to room. After a day of tourist indulgence, my woman enters through the foyer, lays her keys on the table and quickly thereafter transforms into a goddess evening-gowned… a form that accepts me graciously in front of a hearth’s humble blessing, and accompanies me on a patient walk upstairs into the care of satin sheets. After a night of instincts aflame – arguably the product of a moon-bridled lunacy shared between beasts no longer repressed – the next day eases in with the sounds of the bay soothing the cinder of forgivable sins, an ambience signified by the sigh of palm-tree ferns being fondled by the ocean breeze.
Sated is the bed where the cool sheets contrast the warm body of my lover, our legs overlapping as we sleep in dream-tickled serenity. Clutching our pillows, faces smiling obliviously to the sun as it creeps in through the gaping bay windows, we are close though we face opposite walls to allow space for comfort… a symbolism of our bold independence that remains wild even as our relationship tightens. Our love proceeds with tantric patience, a cunning passion which brandishes the blade that is our life in each other’s hands… an alliance destined for the spectrum of eternity.
Our days are filled with pigeons, fountains, buildings in the blinding sun and waters sparkling from beyond the wharf… our nights are filled with velvet pillows, champagne corks, and the curvature of glassware shimmering in light subdued. The evenings smell of wine and candle fire, the mornings smell of breakfasts sunning on the balcony. The waiting arms of Athena could not gift me a better ally in eroticism, and desire could not devote its sweat to building a better structure than that of our union. Gracious is the luck that entwined our paths, and our paths will continue to enfold its blessings. Hand in hand we fulfill a dual destiny; money never an object, travel always an option… the perfect place, the perfect girl, the perfect love.
“Hearts without Quarrel” by Brandon Gene Petit
Taken from Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno
© Brandon Gene Petit
Image
La Dame Verte
Her smile a notch above a frown,
The subtle way she drags her gown;
Drifting to the garden tub,
Slipping off her black lace gloves.
Evening of unwinding wrath,
Absinthe and a bubble bath;
Ignorant to clock-hands turning,
Sleeps content with candles burning.
Velvet curtains brushed aside;
Sleeping, soaking, Devil’s pride;
I find her in a sultry moat,
Asleep where lotus candles float.
…Where that trail of petals led,
In the room where dress was shed;
I thought I heard her hum a hymn,
Escaping through subconscious whim.
Her eyelids twitch above her smile,
Her hair descending to the tile;
For her thoughts I’d offer pence,
Red lips hushed in confidence.
Her marinated body froths,
In body oil and castile broth;
Half asleep, beneath her breath,
She tells me romance isn’t dead.
Taken from Dreams in the Womb
© Brandon Gene Petit
Author’s Note: This was inspired by a witchy woman I know, who told me on a late night phone conversation that she once spent an evening drinking absinthe and eating M & M’s while taking a bubble bath. (Needless to say, I took out the part about the M & M’s.)
