The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

Posts tagged “audio

 

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

 

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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


Travelers Beware

I am a naïve vagabond with much to see, a peddler partaking of roadside roses; hobbling along crimson clay pathways with only moments to pay to the villages he crosses. I have parted the field grasses to come upon bread-scented cottages and Shetland ponies grazing; antique facades that profess to know only the passing of swallows and the language of rickety windmills murmuring. Who knew but a sage blessed with a profound clarity that only nights ago legends sought verification in the eyes of bewildered passersby? Who knew that the ambiguous creatures that stalk my dreams… and more frequently, my nightmares… could have poisoned the very streams of the next town? Furthermore, what ill-begotten whim provokes a man to tether his horse at a questionable tavern and enter to dull his senses with ale, allowing those wild fabrications of local legend to gain leverage over his weakening mind?

This, I say with woe, was my error to claim… to stay long enough to indulge in a town’s legends, and sleep at its inns with its strange liquors in my belly. Dream-vexed in a fitful sleep, haloed with a frigid sweat that chilled my brow beyond any threshold of comfort, I slumbered in the strangeness of a dark alien room in a dark alien village, denied for that night of any homeward hopes that might steady a reflection of familiarity. My pulse quivered and resounded into my pillow, echoing the steps of werewolves clutching stolen infants in their trek across moonlit fields… the wails of restless banshees shook the flame upon my bedside candle, a flame doomed to fail under the pressure of cacophonic winds.

The next morning woke me with reluctance, as though it pondered over leaving me for dead. Yet sunlight pried through the cracks in the ceiling to evaporate the sweat that stained my brow, and a walk to the window revealed only those Shetland ponies grazing and field workers dirtied in clouds of hay. I ignored the creaking floorboards under my feet that reminded of the previous night’s unwelcome oddities, robed myself and began to shed the hex a stay in this village had put on me. Haunting dream echoes lingered in my head as I breakfasted on a sunlit veranda, memories fading with each sip of steaming tea about my lips. Soon my feet would again feel the warm clay of those summer-sweet pathways, disappearing under the shade of oak tree overhangs and leaving those legends to sleep with the town that guarded them well.

© Brandon Gene Petit