gryphons_quill: (Default)
I am in love with your hands -
fingertip to fingertip with mine
or more often in motion:
adding accents to your words;
giving shape to your hair;
drawing sensation from my skin.
I am in love with your
fingertips
that write endearments between my shoulder blades
draw a heart above my heart
touch and trace and tease.
I love your fingers
in all their strength and quickness
the way they reach for my center
and find my voice.
We tell stories, your fingers and I
primal, preverbal tales
of love, of power.
In these and uncountable other ways
I am in love with your hands.


******************************

I'm kind of curious what people see in this... to me it's very simple, but I think there might be some nuances that are less visible to others.

I do like this one. I think I might end up with a small collection of poetry featuring hands... and this piece is definitely a cousin to this one.

Also, if you think this might be about you... you're probably at least partly right... ;)
gryphons_quill: (Default)
I wrote this for someone special several years ago. She recently found it and read it back to me... I didn't have a copy. It's strange, reading my own phrases, my own imagery, but with only a vague memory of actually writing it. The emotional memory is strong, but the more physical or image memory isn't there at all. So this gives me a glimpse into my past self, in a way; and into a relationship that was important to that past self, and is still important to me now. Continuity and change.

When first i winged my way to you, I dreamed
of night skies, and soaring,
...and of your light drawing me mothlike and unresisting.
I painted the darkness with living stars singing
and between them deepest echoing darkness.
I drew your light as you drew me in;
the color of wonder.
You smelled like burning and I remembered angels.
When I first found you in my dreams, I was haunted
by the familiar. I know now --
I wrote you already, a hundred times over,
when I was a gryphon and tasting the night.
I wrote you in darkness, my luminous one.
Now when I ride the winds to you, dreaming,
I see only light,
your light,
and I wonder --
how can anyone shine as an angel
but never fly?
I am become my gryphon again;
wing away with me, my love.

(I hope you like it, luminous.)

I think, on balance, that I still like the poem - and that I still mean every word that can be meant - and that we are still ourselves, [personal profile] lucia. Thank you for finding this and giving it back to me - it's like a little piece of me come back.
gryphons_quill: (Default)

We met through miles of fragile wire and glass,
through light that sped our words, our thoughts, our dreams
in streams of bits and bytes across the dark;
though even darkness, in these latter days,
has lost its mystery. Nothing hides
from lines of data crossing in the sky.

To touch more than your thoughts, I crossed the sky
in a fragile metal shell with panes of glass,
investigating clouds, where magic hides,
where thoughts are caught and yield fragmented dreams.
Above that blanket, sunlight loved the day;
beneath it sat a damp and gloomy dark.

When first I saw your face, the smothering dark
broke, as clouds reveal a clearing sky;
I felt the weight I'd carried all my days
crack and splinter, shattering like glass.
Surrounded by the fragments of old dreams,
I felt no need (nor any wish) to hide.

In a shy and gentle smile, beauty hides
and, shining, bears a light into the dark.
By night, entwined in sleep, we shared our dreams
and on imagined wings took to the sky--
I sought to catch our love in silvered glass
to keep it safe before the light of day.

We lived our love through endless nights and days,
a radiance that convention couldn't hide.
A joy was in me, sharp as shards of glass
and all my world was bright: the muted dark
that once had leeched the sunlight from my sky
fled toward the corners of my palest dreams.

Now, remembering our secret dreams,
I carry you inside me day by day;
my winged self would gladly search the skies,
chase streams of data where old magic hides--
I'd even dive into the looming dark
to find your light in more than wire and glass.

I found you in my dreams, and there I hide
on hazy days; but you've parted the dark:
my skies are clear, as sharp as cloudless glass.


[this needs a fair amount of massaging--feel free to help!]
gryphons_quill: (Default)

Both my hands are magical--
of course--
but it's the left
that's been baptised, been born
into a new life,
the left hand curled inward into
a gentle fetal fist
that weathered her contractions, resisted birth
as strongly as any child.

It was my left hand that reached
for the center of her, that was swallowed
by a swollen slippery mouth
gaping just wide enough;
it was those left-hand fingers
that probed, rippling gently
in the primordial sea, that felt the deep echoes
of her moaning.

And then when she had panted her way to the edge
of exhaustion, when
the earthquake shudders slowed
it was the left hand that broke glistening from her flesh,
that writhed wetly into the air
and tasted its chill.

My left hand stretched then and sang.
Every uncurling joint, every damp fingertip
newly awake to magic, every piece
and part of flesh
sang out as if newly born, crying
alleluia!

Prism

Aug. 24th, 2007 10:40 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)

Once
when I was small
I stepped into a room of captured light,
where colors danced on all the walls
and more bits of glass than I could count
hung in the windows.  The plants
drank rainbows; I drank juice
while light was broken all around me.

Wandering

Aug. 17th, 2007 10:41 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)

I often walk on warm nights,
follow the moon's trail until
I find a cloud enclosing me
in prickle-skin cold.

The moon is broken
into a million drifting droplets.
I am lost in light,
silver without source or center,
brilliance without end.

An owl's hoot is everywhere,
soft, thrilling, insistent--
directionless. If I were to speak
the fog would carry my words
all the way to the moon.


gryphons_quill: (Default)

In our darkness here, my senses sing
drunk on sweetness and replete with wine.
Like crystal lightly struck our bodies ring.
I'll learn to share in every song you sing--
a love unplanned.

I sometimes can't believe you could be mine.
I stroke your hair, strand by silken strand
and bow to taste the flesh I've made a shrine.
Without possessing you I've made you mine,
without a word.

I can feel your skin beneath my hand,
strong and delicate as a trembling bird.
I wish that we could soar and never land,
as, shivering, you rise to meet my hand--
love on the wing.

There's no more perfect sound I've ever heard
than your breath drawn in soft and shuddering.
I see you're luminous, though my vision's blurred;
love is an inner light, or so I've heard.
With me, you shine.

I'll take your hand and, pressing it with mine,
I'll sing of passion in music never heard.
Love on the wing and without a word;
a love unplanned, but with me you shine.

Fantasy

Aug. 3rd, 2007 10:46 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)
A promised distance keeps you from my bed.
At times I wonder what we have begun;
where flesh could be lies fantasy instead.


I understand your words, said and unsaid:
what's never done can never be undone.
A promised distance keeps you from my bed.

I've tasted you in every tear I've shed
and felt your lips on mine, warm as the sun.
Where flesh could be lies fantasy instead.

Between us is a long and sturdy thread,
love once born in words and finely spun.
A promised distance keeps you from my bed.

I feel your heartbeat underneath my head,
but when I seek your skin my lips find none;
where flesh could be lies fantasy instead.

I find that we are somehow strangely wed,
although in dreams alone we breathe as one.
A promised distance keeps you from my bed;
where flesh should be lies fantasy instead.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

As evening's folding curtain yields to night,
she sits beside me, soft beneath my hand,
unbridled laughter ringing with delight.
She beams in darkness, fire in the night.
I fade; she glows.

I sometimes dream of my far-distant land,
a place where time is waylaid as it flows
and sunlight softly kisses stone and sand.
I wish that I could soar and never land.
But here I stay.

She rarely dreams, I think, of what she chose--
to never taste the magic of a day
lived far away from creeping mundane woes.
This life's a shadow, nothing that I chose.
I crave the light.

She has possessed me, molded me like clay,
my sculpted body fired a vivid white,
my brilliance bleached to captive lifeless grey.
I fear I'll never see my native clay.
This wasn't planned.

I chose her once, her fire in the night.
The weight of clay has trapped me in her land,
so here I stay, although this wasn't planned.
I fade; she glows; and still I crave the light.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

Between skin and skin, the distance
is immeasurable, is infinite in each moment--
thick and rich like honey, viscous
with anticipation
in the spare moments, the eternal
and undying moments before
we touch.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

I shiver with a song you've left unsung.
Your eyes are dancing in the candlelight--
invitation, soft as sugar on the tongue.

The bells that greet the evening hours have rung.
You words are trapped in courtesy, too polite;
I shiver with a song you've left unsung.

I am impatient, though the night is young;
a scent like longing promises delight,
invitation, soft as sugar on the tongue.

One touch; you startle as if you've been stung:
a fledgling bird preparing to take flight.
I shiver with a song you've left unsung.

To your warm skin a honeyed taste has clung,
a silken sweetness begging me to bite--
invitation, soft as sugar on the tongue.

A thousand whispered secrets are among
the many pleasures promised by this night.
I shiver with a song you've left unsung;
invitation, soft as sugar on the tongue.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

I kissed her--the storm had made me daring.

Then the world broke in two
with a noise like splitting wood
or splitting air—which it was--
against my closed eyelids I could see
the forked, bright track of lightning.
It struck a rock so near
I could have run to it in a heartbeat.

She couldn't hear, but I
made her see, and we ran--
I never looked to see if she was behind me
or ahead.
I ran hard and fast while lightning struck on all sides,
through rain too thick for sight,
forever.


gryphons_quill: (Default)

His lips were electric; I tasted
ozone, sizzling, sharp in the back of my mouth.
I didn't know why
he broke away, gestured--
the sky had opened into
a world of cold hard rain,
a world without room for any other sound.

I had always loved a gathering storm,
had come to the water with him to watch
clouds darken, to see salt waves
reflect the turmoil in the sky.
“It's green,” I said, and
the sky opened above us--
but he was afraid, because a jagged finger
of lightning
had kissed a rock in the water just there...
He made me understand, and we ran.

We crossed a field of ruined hay;
a tree fell crashing behind us.
I laughed as I ran through waist-high wet grass.

My foot touched the rough-hewn stone step
of his parents' house—safe--
but then I was caught up in sound
too loud and low to hear at all,
my chest hinged open
and the heart inside lost its rhythm
to join the storm's.
I was inside the thunder.

Then I was inside the house,
wet, alive, elated,
not knowing or caring how close
the last one came.


Lullaby

Jun. 27th, 2007 10:57 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)

comfort is grey-brown bark
rough under hands sticky with sap
the enveloping smell of fir-trees
sharp-edged, hinting at winter
and branches that bend and sway
with weight and wind
creating a cradle
where a small child sleeps


gryphons_quill: (Default)

You found a truth once hidden far from view
and wore it close, a new and changing skin.
As truth is beauty, beauty graces you.

No simple search would lead you inward to
those depths, but still you dove within
and found a truth once hidden far from view.

A single change can right a world askew;
a life can end as quickly as begin.
As truth is beauty, beauty graces you.

You lived a life of love, although you knew
that given time its fabric would wear thin:
you'd find a truth once hidden far from view.

You sought the sea, the salt, the deep taboo
like any ocean's child, roanish kin;
as truth is beauty, beauty graces you.

All life is change, and change is no less true
than soft and secret hide, than selkie-skin.
You found a truth you'd hidden far from view;
as truth is beauty, beauty graces you.

 

gryphons_quill: (Default)

Our land is green and fragrant as the dew
that glistens in the dove-grey light of dawn,
where sunlight pools as day begins anew,
caresses every hilltop, lights upon
your upward-tilted face, the lines of you
as clear and clean as any newly drawn.
A living piece of art.

On winds and wings that sing the swallows dart
and trembling dawn gives way to breaking day.
The light is living now, a thing apart,
as vibrant as the land, as soft as clay;
the beating earth is red. So is my heart,
given to my love so fair and fey,
and ringing with the sun.

The daylight lingers long; as rivers run
lightly through the crevices of land,
just so I trace your burning skin, fine-spun
as courtly linen, golden as salt sand.
I could seek for softness yet find none
near half as strong and tender as your hand.
You touch my very core.

The gloaming-tide that creeps along the shore
brings magic, not arcane but simply this:
your sun-bright touch bestowed remembered lore;
now lips remind me of forgotten bliss.
In the mythic edge of evening, I adore
discovering the sweetness of your kiss.
I thank you for this boon.

In darkness lit to silver by the moon
that, crescent-sharp, will rise to kiss the skies
and tease a touch of magic from the dune
that cradles us and catches whispered cries,
I hope to learn a shared and sacred tune
from my reflection dancing in your eyes.
Time is winding on; each day begins anew,
and still I sing my song for love of you.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

What makes you think you're welcome in my bed?
Familiar, yes, I know your shadowed shape,
your smell, your pounding blood beneath my head:
so many times I've sought out sweet escape.

Familiar, yes, I know your shadowed shape
and how it fits with mine--across the years,
so many times, I've sought out sweet escape
and used your fluid flesh to drown my fears.

How well it fit with mine, across the years--
the memories are solid now as when
I used your fluid flesh to drown my fears--
and now your skin is calling me again.

The memories are solid now as when
our love was new and magic touched our hearts;
now your skin is calling me again
with spells remembered from the oldest arts.

Our love was new and magic touched our hearts,
yet even then we knew no heartfelt oath,
no spell remembered from the oldest arts
could ever be enough to bind us both.

Even though we knew no heartfelt oath
could suffice, the song of skin and skin
would almost be enough to bind us both.
We turned apart; our magic had worn thin.

It could suffice, the song of skin and skin,
your smell, your pounding blood beneath my head.
But we turned apart; our magic has worn thin--
what makes you think you're welcome in my bed?

gryphons_quill: (Default)

I swear that I had left my window closed,
yet there she was, a darker patch of night:
too real for disbelief, all golden skin
and darkness, and the sound of beating wings
that I could never see; the stuff of myth.
The air was cold and steaming with her breath.

When she arrived, she stole my very breath
and kept it captive, window still unclosed.
That very moment, opening to myth,
I welcomed in this creature spun from night;
she wrapped me warmly with her hidden wings
and feathertips made furrows in my skin.

No stranger to the touch of skin on skin,
still, I was unprepared for mingled breath,
for promises of flight on vivid wings,
discovery of secrets undisclosed.
I didn't see, that first impassioned night,
that I began to change, embracing myth.

She told me what it was to be a myth,
to crave the kiss of sunlight on her skin
but need the sanctuary found by night.
Belief in dreams, in magic, gives her breath;
the disbelief of minds too tightly closed
is poison that can cripple gryphon wings.

She begged for me to join her, said that wings
would grow from barren shoulders, that a myth
might then be born. I feared the window, closed,
could bar me from returning to my skin;
and so I trembled, tearful, held my breath
and watched her slip away into the night.

Now I dream of gryphons every night,
of lovers finding freedom on the wing.
Despite my choice, I long to taste her breath,
the woman who once wakened me to myth,
and feel her feathers warm against my skin.
My window, should she come, is never closed.

My arms, once closed, are open now to myth;
I long to see her wings against the night--
I'd give my breath to leave this lonely skin.

gryphons_quill: (Default)

My love is not for sharpened lines
or edges that the shadows trace.
No angle, limiting, defines
the contours warm in my embrace.

For edges that the shadows trace
can make for bold and bright designs--
but contours warm in my embrace
are worshipped in far softer shrines

in which the bold and bright designs
are lost to gentle, curving grace.
I worship in those softer shrines
where tenderness is commonplace,

lost in gentle, curving grace.
Our separate shadows intertwine
where tenderness is commonplace--
my love is not for sharpened lines.

After

May. 15th, 2007 11:06 pm
gryphons_quill: (Default)

Long or not so long
after the fall, the irony cuts deeply
and I watch, trapped behind glass,
watch wounds that need sutures
and wish I could stitch them
with thread made of sinew and a needle of bone.

Instead my fingers are caught by keys, my bones
not so useful as a needle now, only
fumbling, striking the syllables, wishing I could translate
emotion into language with any precision.
How do I say that
I wish I could bleed for you?

You chose, a choice not entire but a choice,
and lost that in the instant.
Of all the wounds you bear, that is the worst.

You lived in the wind's arms and the water's,
through some kindness perhaps or
only luck.
You lived through the fog,
the grey-toothed and sucking darkness
that stripped you of caring.

Trapped behind glass and with nothing but words
to give, nothing to offer, I wish
again and again that I could buy you joy
with my own, that with my arms and my flesh
I could show you beauty again.  I would give
my name, my voice, my very bone
if you could remember laughter.

It is not so long after
the fall, not so long yet, and still
the grey and toothed apathy tastes you.
You wonder, still, if you should struggle; and
if the wind grasps you again, will you fight it?
This is what cuts so deeply, this
is the wound I cannot help you to heal
from behind glass and wire.  My skin against yours
could carry a message of life and even,
I think, joy.
Let me thread my bones for you
and stitch these wounds.

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