The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

Posts tagged “prose poem

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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

© 2010-2013 Brandon Gene Petit

Author’s Note: This is an older prose-poem, from my previous collection of poetic works, Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno. This is the first truly romantic piece I did, that didn’t have to do with past incarnation experiences or anything remotely gothic in tone. There are a lot of modern elements in this one, including an underlying and aching desire to break out of mundane routine and travel the world.


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