The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

Posts tagged “dreams in the womb

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A Woman Beyond Your Wildest

Piercing the mists of audacious dreams with a blasphemous air of clarity… nude in presentation of nature’s newfound glamour that it practices now with skillful veneration… A woman beyond your wildest imagination, beyond your wildest dreams and desiring hours, lies mock-vulnerable on her back in a field of dream-made flowers.

 

Her hair of interweaving hues of gold… spread like an enflamed Rorschach of angel wings, or Chinese fans, to frame her face with a call for silk-lusting fingers to hold. Her eyes gleam of sea-dyed blues and greens, though wincing slyly as if in reply to a subtle breeze. Her breasts, like two pods of honey-colored flesh at rest… half-sunken into her chest as she lay back on a mattress of floral debris.

 

Rose petals tumble across her skin… propelled by a phantom gust to scamper across her firm, golden belly and part the fingertips of the coy hand that caresses it. She beams with encircling sin… but the sin comes from you, for her body is as pure as the goddess who blesses it. This precious body, bronzed in hue, glistens… no matter whether with body oil or sun-shower dew.

 

And she listens, listens for the song of Heaven to resume… to call her back from among those floral plumes and return her to tropical dreams and their sensual ivory dunes. Even as my desire is bursting at the seams, the lure of my lyre of wooing cannot call her back from the palm leaf shade… where in minnowed shallows bronze calves wade under spells of chastity with no undoing.

 

Taken from Dreams in the Womb

© Brandon Gene Petit

 


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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 cool, 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 the out the part about the M & M’s.)

 


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In Praise of Long-Lived Love

It is more than the mustiness of old, familiar furniture having graced many a tired photograph… more than the tinge of floral pattern curtains so often romanced by evening pipe smoke… more than the huddled, dingy hues of decorative gourds in their baskets, or the unpolished brass of various equine statuettes that garnish the place with a love of horses.

 

It rests in that room like an ottoman cat, or a fireside hound, content in slumber at the end of its journey. It is the mark of fate having completed its duties, satisfied with the pairing and parting of a couple that at least fulfilled their promise to grow old together.

 

It all started with so much park bench romancing, such quaint eye-to-eye entrancing, so long ago in a world claiming immunity to change. It was a time when chivalry was alive and well, and frequented the sidewalks and cafés despite the looming shadow of economic hardship or the occasional presence of war in posters and monochrome television screens.

 

Baseball heroes echoed their triumphs across the amber waves of grain, reaffirming the confidence of soldiers returned, and petals were pulled as young men in love counted their chances. One man, I am sure, tested his chances… handsome with the reins of a horse in one hand and a soft spot for crooners latent in his throat.

 

He knew the keys of a piano… the inner workings of a car… and he painted more paintings hung in that house than he would admit to his grandchildren before they reached a certain age. She knew the beauty of God beyond the rhetoric of the Bible… the strange wonder of owls… and the importance of books even beyond the premature demise of her schooling.

 

A pyre of steaming tea between longing eyes of crossed lovers’ gaze… An arm-in-arm stroll over elfin bridges on days of wind and raining flowers… A lingering, statuesque kiss on a park bench amidst sparkling fountains and puddle-tramping geese… these are the images that celebrated a shared, sunlit youth, now sealed and tucked away in velvet-lined jewelry boxes, sepia photographs and scribbled poems on soft-veined paper.

 

To me, there is no sound more majestic than bagpipes at a funeral… I would have liked to have heard them that day, but there was only the ambience of birds, cicadas, and a calm spring breeze. But I am always okay with that shade of silence… those are the kinds of sounds that go with anything; universal like the color black. Oddly enough, we did not wear black in attendance, though our solemn respect was unmitigated.

 

Now, in this elegantly comatose room, clocks tick from nearly every wall and shelf; echoing to each other, diligent albeit entranced. Many of them have stopped and started through the years, either resurrected to rejoin the race or left to sleep ornately in a silent conversation with the eye. There are porcelain teapots and shelf-banished china, propped up and glistening even in the dull light. The light is warm as the soft crackling of a vinyl record, and every conversation over coffee seems to mumble just as quaintly… only a little more thinly in timbre, now that one familiar voice is missing.

 

Peace arrives with parting kisses between a ghost and a woman’s beating heart, sugaring the sadness so that it may never ill to misery. There was destiny with hello, and closure with goodbye. Two hearts were introduced, fulfilling betrothal and igniting parallel paths, and this leg of their journey is now boastfully complete. Love was created… and fate has done all that it set out to do.

 

 

Taken from Dreams in the Womb

© Brandon Gene Petit

 


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