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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
New Book Reviews
Sarah Ann of @Dreamworldbooks Tweets:
“I’m having a hard time finding the right words to describe the genius that is Dreams in the Womb by @BGPetit for my review. #toogoodforwords ”
Well, she did finally find the words she was looking for. To see the full review she ended up posting for Dreams in the Womb, click on the link to her blog below:
http://www.dreamworldbooks.com/2013/06/dreams-in-womb-by-brandon-gene-petit.html?spref=fb
…And follow her on Twitter at @Dreamworldbooks
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Mina De Caro of Mina’s Bookshelf also shares her insights and her favorite pieces here:
http://minadecaro.blogspot.com/2014/02/dreams-in-womb-writings-and-verses-by.html
Don’t forget to follow her on Twitter at @MinaDeCaro
Looks like these two book bloggers were deeply moved by the lovelorn and muse-centered pieces in the book. Funny how a mention of the power of muses can connect us all! What pieces stand out the most to you?
Spoken Word: “The Wiccan Dove”
The Wiccan Dove
Young demigoddess who so coolly ignores my angst, queen of autumnal avenues dipped in golden twilight, won’t you show me the path to nature’s purest ventricle? I want to learn your pagan passion, and be part of your amorous druidism… I may have stemmed from the light but the more I learn about you the more the dark holds my attention. You are the source of spell, the mother of rebirth. Winter, fall, spring and summer are all one within you, for you breathe life into every realm that I am sentenced to endure. You are memory incarnate; you take me back to places that I thrived in, and without you those places are lost forever. Heiress to the mid-warm night, I am lost inside your Wiccan ways… and I have come to the conclusion that the mind that allows itself to forget you is doomed to ignorance without bliss.
You are synonymous with the smell of fire on a winter breeze, and the crunching of leaves beneath the footsteps of a lonely bard. Well rehearsed incantations flutter through your head, and the dust of sacred parchments powders your fingertips. You have the evasive wit of a fox, the mystique of a wolf and the gravity of a raven… When you are silent you have the solemnity of a grave, and when you are outspoken you are blunt like a waterfall’s hiss. The consequences of your existence have a severe impact on my life; without your birth my life would never have been the same. I need you, not as a lover in the traditional sense, but as a portal to a more thorough nourishment of the senses. I am jealous of your deftness in traffic with ghosts, and your audacity in spiritual exploration… I long to be by your side on those graveyard walks and dark forest outings too bold for the meager spirit, but it is all just a fantasy in more ways than one. May I worship you from afar, and utilize you as a symbol for my high-fevered longing? I promise I won’t interrupt your precious planes of enchantment, though I want to be a part of them so badly… The least I can do is translate your world into a world of my own.
You will never be true love; you are my obsession, my fascination. My love for you is childish, but grievous, and it rivals the restless longing that calls to the migratory birds when the seasons are in position. I smell the winter winds and wonder where you are, in the same manner that I wonder what archaic poetics decorate your book of spells. The inspiration I crave grows wild in your broom-hazel eyes, and the unique shade of salvation I require resides only in the aura you have created. But if it were possible to cage you, you would wilt upon capture… for you belong among the moonlit reeds where the night sky is your chapel. The wilderness is your only spouse, and I am in no state of mind or soul to compete with that! I am just as content with being blessed with your image as a tool for my mind; may it lead me on to braver pastures long after death’s curtain falls.
© 2012 Brandon Gene Petit
Spoken Word: “To a Girl with Green Eyes”
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
© 2012 Brandon Gene Petit
Spoken Word: “She Awaits”
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
© 2012 Brandon Gene Petit
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.
