The Minstrel & the Maiden

Upon threads that nebulous, awn,

The Sun is drawn towards the Earth

Wherever his Sunlight falls and hits,

Enticing the Earthly Mother to delight in the pleasures,

Of coupling with His own glowing Radiance...

For as His golden glow cascades in waves

That froth and fall from Earth clad in mist,

What thistles midst the stings of existence

Could remain in the stead of such nuptial bliss?

Indeed what relief would arise

To see such urges and burgeoning thorns,

Shorn, in the Lovers' miraculous midst!

As his Illuminations grace the waves,

And gild the tides in His sparkling hints;

For if they should yield their roses amidst the barbs,

And discard their stings as the whole world shifts

Perhaps such joy would arise 'cross all great divides,

And disperse with the fragrance of fallen pines

And the windswept scent of wild mints...

Taking the form of a mortal man,

(With such a plan as would relay),

His solar sunder upon the greening wonder,

As it unfurls in calm or thunderous quay;

Indeed, the Sun had descended,

Along the path of his own Solar rays,

To shape himself amidst the rocky shelves,

Where the Mother as the Maiden played;

But how can this be,

That the Sun would wish for mortality,

When he is better suited, to be shining,

Afloat upon the celestial sea?

When, in his Solar Sundering

He has all the flare of an impartial, yet impassioned, deity,

Indeed, what could compel him to take a shape

Not unlike the ones that we, ourselves, embody?

Perhaps that, in itself,

Is the answer that you seek,

For such a portal into the mortal realm,

Is not above its highs and peaks;

And the makings of this mortal dance,

(That many bards have sung in flowering speech)

Might shed light upon His ponderings,

(And give feet to His musing wanderings),

As this giant burning, is so turned,

Into a mortal, musing, meek;

After all, why did the Mother, herself,

Wish to take such a shape,

That would compel desire of mortal make,

When She, herself, is beyond such longings,

And is vaster than all the worldly lakes?

Could it be, that She so endeavored,

To bask on warming shores the Sunshine bakes,

All the while, to be so styled,

In a mortal form, all for Her own pleasures' sake?

And in the same vein, it is natural to assume,

That if a man should spy such a glowing bloom, engaging,

That he (when such blooms he spies)

Would assume the role of wild Pagan;

For the maiden is still masquerading

As one who has hardly tasted the paces of aging;

Certainly mature, yet still demure,

Ready to take the Pagan as her lover,

(Or even as her plaything!)

Indeed, it is a riling rousing,

Many men, themselves, may know so well,

For as surely as the Sun will rise from the East,

It is as perennial a release,

As the flowers that exhume their fragrant smells;

And where birdsongs might cast their winged spells

(And poems likewise lilt upon the windy swells),

The instrumental of the minstrel, even now, is rising,

Comprising all the things that His heart may tell;

Flickering and flowing as surely

As His own impassioned flames may blaze,

Such a tune, the Sun, himself, did play,

And to the rhythm of such an orbital trance,

It seemed to make the Maiden dance,

And nakedly, Her glee did stay,

Like berries upon flowering vines,

Until ripe to let their juice run way,

Down the tethers, that hold together,

The earthly world with Solar rays;

Yes, She was an evergreen beauty

Lingering long upon the minds,

Of men of every age,

For Her beauty inspired both sensuous delights,

(As well as musings cast by wizards,

And all their mysterious, sagacious ways);

And appearing nubile, although assuredly ancient,

Her greening vines did seem to swing and sway;

Wavering in the musics' quaver, as the Minstrel labored,

To put her beauty into words that day;

Indeed, the subject of the Sun's shining praise,

Roused elation (but there was also consternation),

As the Earth came weaving an intricate textile,

In colors of all variety;

For, how beautiful a blooming thistle was She

Clad in green and violet resplendancy;

And yet how thorny, the horny bulb can be,

That holds the thistle to its Earthen seeds!

For as She honed his mortal loins so pointed

And took him from his usual Saintly Solar ecstasy;

The alluring pull of She, adorned in full,

Brought focus to that burden,

That begged to be freed;

Causing the Sun to think he might be

Better stationed in the stars

(Than in the seams),

That now stitched together his tights and leathers,

That clothed him in their modest means...

Although it may test the mettle,

Of the Sun, the once celestial,

(Now made a mortal, as if stepped through a portal,

That could turn the infinite into the, seeming, infinitesimal),

In time, the medicine of such dancing petals

Will dispel the sting of pesky nettles,

And the ensuing calm,

Will soften such a thrum and throb

Allowing heartbeats to slow and settle;

For isn't this, too, the way

Of our most gracious God & Giver?

(Electrically divined and deliberately delivered),

Across the moss, where bodies toss,

Like careening streams and calming rivers?

Where, cresting and ebbing,

As they tide and dither,

All thing first bloom before they wither,

And what builds up, must come free,

In such a shaking, as fingernails raking,

Might sublime a sensuous shiver?

Throughout the trees that lined the grove

Where the higher and lower things had wed;

The Sun was, indeed, clad in a mortal skin,

Yet illumined, his aura, like fire bled,

For in such a gleam,

Where sweet dreams could, indeed, be seen,

(The same that had been running through his head)

His skin, indeed, ran hot, at the mere thought,

Of a maiden with whom he might share his bed!

And as he endeavored, to ask of the Nether,

That such a thing, to him, be expediently sped;

His every sense sharpened,

His heart quickened, bloodred!

As his eyes met hers (the maiden arrayed in curves),

The Minstrel studied and devotedly read;

For in the wake of the wish he'd made,

It would not be long before it took him where it led,

Into the arms, where wiles and charms,

Might disarm him,

Without another word to be sung or said!

Such thoughts were indeed roused,

(And swiftly silenced in Her wake),

As the Maiden he had anticipated, now roused, in him,

Such a shiver and a shimmying shake,

Oh, for the pair of eyes, that he now spied,

Glowed silver as the moon would glow 'pon a flowing lake,

As if the bard had doused himself,

(And simultaneously aroused himself),

Within the sensous waters of the daughters' make;

And so delicate upon Her limber shape,

Her garb did billow and the breeze did blow,

And Cupid's arrows, now shot through him,

As if the cherub had loosed a quiver of Eros;

For the Maiden whom had merged

With the moon that streamed 'cross her Hair,

(As if over sheets of frost and snow);

Seemed so luminous in her humanness,

As if to remind him of his own celestial glow;

Indeed, She was likewise attracted

To the pair of glowing eyes,

That belonged to a longing bard,

Come alive in the fire's glow and its oh-so-telling shine;

And as her coy smile did belie,

She needn't guess as to what was on the musician's mind,

As she stood with a swish,

Abiding the minstrels' secret wish,

And delivering a chill up the merry minstrels' spine!

Unwrapped from

The fiberous trappings of cloth and modest hem,

Her skin shone so briefly, but so sweetly,

From beneath the veil, so frail and thin;

And billowing lightly about her,

As she stood to ascend,

Her silken dress did seem to express,

Music! More melodious than any mortal tune or hymn!

So who is to say what is wrong or right,

As sure as daytime precedes the night

When pleasures accompany pains,

Reigned, in full in many ritual rites;

Or what is good or bad,

When in the sway of sensuous delights,

Heavenly inspirations may affirm themselves

In the midst of temptuous stings and bites?

And so the night became an amorous delight,

Delectable in the spectacle

That shimmered within the Solar Fathers' sight;

For as he browsed across her glowing skin

That rousing shiver grew into ascendant flight!

Shimmying up his serpentine spine, his dragon lines,

They were filled with such a glowing light!

The Kundalini, like a cunning genie,

Whirled from its amber lamp,

And cast its spell as if to herald a sensous swell,

Of energy spiraling in a spinal dance;

And energy that before, had been drowsing,

Now was awakened and seemed enhanced,

Where his will to think, was doused with a drink,

Of the nectar that Her presence grants!

Yes, if but a mere pier across Her ocean body

Might unfurl pearls 'neath the worlds' own salty pores;

The bard would gladly set his intent in that instant,

To disembark upon Her distant shore,

For Her mortal melody was compelling glee,

And seemed such a shapely score,

That every step bathed in light and shadow

Compelled starbursts into mortal thirsts,

And merge the Cosmos with the Earthen floor,

And as the light and shadow seemed to merge,

Visual o'euvres to His open opals were served,

A feast of far more than flour and rising yeast,

For the course She served, swerved in ocean swells,

And flowering mountains of mushroom spores;

And such music! Of course

The Minstrel had not the fortitude to ignore,

For the Rhythm from where She had been borne and riven,

Roused him from where

He'd otherwise lay, and wile the day away,

Playing music 'neath the Stonehenge Tors;

And indeed, if She had not risen and fled,

(Hoping He would rise with expedient haste)

The Minstrel might have spent all day wondering if her skin,
Was as soft and lustrous as her gown of lace,

(Amongst other things that might soon take place)

But a cunning tactic, it worked like magic,

As the Minstrel rose, and soon gave chase

(Hoping that if he should catch her, she would tell him,

Where his hand would best be placed!)

Yes! Lest He become absorbed in His own imaginings,

And lose sight of his Beloveds' glowing grace,

The Minstrel bade his own hearts' wish,

And deptly delved into the lush landscape;

Feeling such sensations

As might make sway the meadows

And churn opalescent flora from roadside wastes,

The Minstrel sought The Maiden,

And so, shone upon the glades when,

Her laugh seemed to flower from a gnarled tree face!

All the fantasies of the ages,

Seemed to be, in mirth, miraculously made!

(As his light illuminated the windswept reaches,

As well as cast their shade),

For as His Solar sheen, merged pristine,

With the waters where the Maiden wades;

The Solar Father, saw no other than the Mother

In all the loam and earthly grades;

And where intonations the ancients groaned,

Had shifted sand and gave rise to rocky thrones,

She had dove into the secret cove,

With the waves in Her wake a roving,

Between the islands fringed in those old stones,

And at the behest of such ancient musings,

Now a call She did, Herself, intone,

Rippling throughout the Earth, as though, She did birth,

A golem rumbling from 'neath the loam;

Coming to be, perceived by He,

The Sun, the bearer of the sacred seed!

She did unfurl the very world,

As She sang the songs of the World Tree,

And deed by deed, the shores did bleed,

Such sap as would run in feeds,

Through the canals and the channels,

Carved in her concavity;

Mother Nature, the barest beauty clad in naked nether,

Unravelled her garb as all the changing weather,

As She shifted from sensuous to sublime,

(And from formidable to fine)

Beyond the ability of mortals to calculate or measure;

And turned cloven coves into troves,

Which one may rove in search of sublime treasures,

Sensously scented like the pine & the pitch,

Like nymphs who live to give such pleasure!

Joshua Fuller

2023-06-08T21:38:56.45