In The Writhing Weaving

(Where The Day Turns To Evening)

What stings and bites

Are soon to roil in sweet tempest,

And many a thorn accompany the riling rose,

Blooming! In the coupling of their sex,

If, beneath Her woven wreath of hair,

(So fair, aloft, it seems soft as mist),

Her showy blossoms that were once costumed

Should be bared at the Sun's behest?

As pine-scented mementos,

And spores scored in golden streams,

Hem the vanishing visage of Her once, Sunlit dress,

It is safe to say, that nubile Night has taken Day,

And turned His heat,

Towards what ends will suit Her best;

For, indeed, if golden beams should ribbon and stream,

Before they fall from Her boughclad chest,

It can only mean she has laid all bare,

Exposing musculature so pure,

That praise must be raised to Her heavenly architect!

With Her waves so playing, in all the ways

As would awake within Her lover,

Many a tingling, intermingling delight!

Her Maidenly self bathed the shores and rocky shelves

In the essence that a Tidal Empress might excite;

And in the ebbing, tiding light,

Amidst the shrouding mists

(Where all was kissed by the winds that blew upon that night);

Indeed, a shiver wound through His limbs,

Biding him to heed his wild whims

As he felt far more than only

The winds' chill bite!

Levitating and lilting above the wavering swells,

The instrumental of the Minstrel came rising,

Comprised of poetry the Earth compelled!

As the Minstrel intoned His illuminations,

(Through the guise of sweet human inebriation,

That many Lovers, themselves, may know so well);

And so, a perennial release,

(As natural as the Sun rising from the East)

Was exhumed in human form,

In plumes of luminous light beheld,

As from His merry mouth absconding,

Came sunlit songs of love and longing,

That wreathed the air in their breathing spells;

Yes! In the writhing weaving,

Of such an intimate poem,

An evening of delights is heaving,

'neath the depths where the minstrels' leapt and dove!

For it is a roaming rousing,

Along the trails and tracks so wove,

In the music's sway, where the daughter plays,

In the joviality of Her fertile cove;

And beneath the writhing of tempest twists,

Throughout Her waters and tidal mists,

Her showy blossoms, that once were costumed,

Are now revealed with a tender kiss,

As such a swell of sensous bliss,

Comes to fruition in the midst!

Of storm knells swelling, and now felling,

The timber, that had been rendered,

As hard as diamond tips!

Amidst the flower bells

(Where such honey may drip and run free,

From a flower pistils' tips)

The bard and the buxom lady

Can be seen swirling throughout the mist;

And as the bushes sway with every swish

'neath their grappling, grasping, grabbing grips!

You may see them sway,

And sensously shave like a wavering quay,

The shore engraved in their tidal correspondence;

Indeed, inciting many a playful bite,

That might prise life from nectarian delights

And send juice a running from fruit so sunning,

In the now bared glare of their Beloveds' light;

They ascended the shoreline,

And swirled so sensously throughout the night,

Causing greenery, sprouting in their vicinity,

To glow gold and silver in ones' own sylvan sight;

And if they should be followed into the hollow,

Where the woods scribe in inken vines and writes;

Their story may be told in the glories

That amorously dances, mysteriously enhances,

And serves to resonate with what excites;

For their Lovers' Dance,

Is an act as olden as the most ancient of ritual rites,

Where the opposites and pairs, have ever shared,

In the mysteries of Life & Death,

And the shadows cast, 'midst all that's shining bright;

Ungarbed amidst those barbs,

(That would grow roses,

And rip and tear at clothes when,

One came face-to-face with their pair and opposite),

The Lovers spun such a yarn,

Woven and wrapped in those wild, worldly whips,

For their Lovers' Dance, in rhythmic trance,

Did tide to the tune of all worldly scales that tip,

Causing all Life to flow through pastoral scenes,

As well as where the woods are vined,

And in patches of briars, knit;

Yes, this tale,

(Like all worldly fruits) is woven

Around such a boundless, bottomless pit,

As seemingly unending,

As there are quips expending,

The humor of the Cosmos' divine wit;

For indeed, the Lovers' ebb and tide has never been,

Anything other or else than This,

(A most resplendant joke and quip)!

With such a punchline as would find,

All the Lords and Ladies,

Laid in the wooded glades,

Rendered as red as ripening rosy hips...

Where the opposites and pairs,

In a mutual pleasure, they did share,

Magicality and sexuality,

(Indeed, of a Cosmic contextuality)

Became as untamed as bounding steeds & mares;

And fire grew,

As if symbolize the yearning of the Lady fair:

Dancing upon Her waves so churning,

The Minstrels' fire was blazing, burning,

Across the expanse of Her shorelined lair;

And in his wrapping, weaving rays Her skin grew flush,

For Her shores now baking,

Were steaming as much, as they were gleaming,

In the throes of Love, the pair were making;

And indeed, the trees, seedladen, shaking,

Swished listlessly amidst the Earth's own quaking,

As the heat arose, and awning overhead, did glow,

In the midst of the Sun's own amorous awakening!

Having long since discarded their garments

That had adorned them in modest, mortal means,

Plumes of persnickety feathers, came untethered,

As they were plucked and passionately preened;

For yes, in their nakedness, the Lovers had forsaken such,

A cover of scratching, itching, stitches and seams!

Where berries red, and evergreen threads, were wed,

With the sensuality of the seasons' changing scenes,

Beginnings and ends, came to blend,

With penetrating precision,

And all was soon to come together, what had once seemed,

By virtue of distinction, riven;

For amidst the undressing,

There was the ensuing expressing,

Of piney plumes and their pollinated provisions!

As seeds were freed,

From husks now shelled,

To the tune of the sweet release sow given;

Behind closed eyes, there rose colors,

In an ecstatic wash of visions!

As the Lovers, vibing, were now diving,

Into the writhing world of bodily intuition;

Until, unbinding through such grinding

(As would split stone from polished prism),

Oscillations of orbital ecstasy

Exploded! Until unloaded,

Came the final, fateful climatic collision!

Joshua Fuller

2023-06-08T21:39:34.87