The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

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To a Girl with Green Eyes

 

Watchful beacons fierce and free

The kind so green as verdant sea

Of mint and clover sentiently…

Wrapped around your pupil be

 

Etchings on a radial gem

Echo to my deepest whim

Crystal carvings never dim

Further from thy pupil stem

 

Glistening gaze of dampened jewel

Strings along the avid fool

Not so kind, but not so cruel

Instead a different kind of school

 

Luscious is the teary glaze

That gifts me just beyond the maze

To gently whisper sensual praise

And rival my most treasured days

 

Subtle flits of dashing green

Shifty, charismatic sheen

Piercing through prosaic scene

Coaxing me to intervene

 

Sights aligned with passion’s will

Sting me with thy lover’s quill

A woman, lest my heart be still

As she moves in for the kill

 

Iris twin; an emerald pair

Tell of field and forest fair

Gradient of goddess stare

I wonder what thoughts may be there

 

© Brandon Gene Petit

 

She Awaits

Eyes aflame with sapphire grain, my sultry mistress ebon-cloaked

Witch’s queen and lover’s vice, her hair reminds of raven’s coat

Her crimson lips boast thicker spells, my incense-perfumed spirit tease

In wait for me in amber light, midst pyromantic luxuries

 

Dressed in shadow-melding cloth, her form sylphlike yet hard to draw

Shifty in the flickering light, her flux offending natural law

Her skin is neither pale nor dark; polite to touch as dewy fruit

But never cross her path with spite; beware, my friend, her soul is brute

 

Her beauty shines when sadness looms, her tragedy devours as flame

Restlessness consumes her bed, a full moon I am glad to blame

She tends to an erotic lair, a curiosa wonderland

Lit by slanted window shades and kissed by oriental fans

 

Flightless fairy, clad in black, her voice divinely resonates

Requesting me to drop my guard and lend my heart out to the fates

She slithers through the velvet sheets, a French composer in the air,

Lending out a finger curled, commanding with a demon stare

 

Labored with nigrescent opals heavy on her neck and wrists,

She opens up her curtained arms to soon begin this sacred tryst

Breath of cloves with hint of mint, a fragrance that soon greets my face

Her lips the color of her heart, her hair the scent of pillow lace

 

Time is not a rigid service, meaningless within her vault

Hours pass, so fleeting, as her tears and sweat reward me salt

Torch-flames tremble to the passion; vaulted roof, two lovers under

Unity of souls ensues, entwining to the song of thunder

 

Then she shows me opiate visions clad with necromantic zeal

I swallow them with wormwood wine; drunk, I question what is real

Her fingertips caress my cheek; strokes me with her dainty claws

She stimulates my weaknesses and enters through my mortal flaws

 

Her pulse resounds within my chest; my mantis lover takes control

I’m weakened to my very knees, unstable like a newborn foal

She leads me down a stairwell where the edge of darkness titillates

I follow her to drunk abysses, faithfully, where she awaits

© Brandon Gene Petit

gather round ye ghosts 2

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Poetic Descriptions of Wombs

I noticed more than a couple of 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 either been assigned or chosen themselves. 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.

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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

 

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