Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


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On The Rocks

This is where I find her,
Where rocks tip truth into sea.
Where this mind knows
Not to accept what it sees.

Pushing life to the edge of the storm,
I come to the ocean a lie.
Dreaming may mend an image of self
Where ego concedes with a sigh.

Where comes the gale.
Amidst thundering waves assailing jetty stones
Reality dies so she may arrive
Wistfully walking in squalls.

This is when I see her,
All white at dusk,
All movement in grace.
Eyes shining through slits, she twirls,
Hair flying in cyclones she whirls
Leaping stone to stone,
Her dress pirouettes
The illusion of limbs
Beckoning to me.

So this is why I come,
Whenever wind rises,
Rides fiercely dark waters,
dragging truth and uncertainty behind.

I come to the ocean to dance.

SSMatthews

image= The Sea Witch by Frank Frazetta

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Gossamer Whimsy

Once half-full
or conversely vacant
fearful of change yet admonishing stagnation
the glass rests paradoxically empty
silent as infinity or the space
between these ears
where nature
in despising a void
might seek to refill
with understanding more substantial
than gossamer wings
and whimsy.

SSMatthews 4/25/18


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Driftwood

A ceaseless current rolls its course as surface oscillations-
archetypes of the human mind, in endless fascination,
seek the swifter water where the elemental flows.

Barnacles bleached and drying cling to underlying form,
all my expectations wash like driftwood to the shore,
tossed to beach and dying in the aftermath of storm-

One more piece of flotsam set adrift from isle to isle,
powers unperturbed propel this raft of dreams I ride.

Overhead a field of blue, a blazing, sullen sky,
erases known horizons,
conjures islands through refraction,
life is liquid in reflection,
on a string of faceless landfalls spread
in giant strides apart.


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Remembering David — lagoonaticsite

I was still a young man in 1979 when Hurricane David swept his destruction across the Caribbean. Although less devastating to the state of Florida, arriving on the heels of an extremely wet previous tropical depression, one that left many areas already saturated, this deluge of fresh rain water pushed rapidly to their limits and beyond, many waterways […]

via Remembering David — lagoonaticsite


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Thief Saga – Jewel of Night part 1&2

Jewel of Night

Part 1

A spell is best cast upon those who believe,
that power through practice of magic achieves
superior craft when one’s talent is rare
to call from the shadows what things you might dare.

A firm non-believer may discount results,
never-the-less beware the occult.
Dabbling in darkness may offer a thrill,
but lurking within are things that can kill.

From velvet chambers she conjures a Name,
invading my night with her summoning game.
Called from my card play to heed her demand.
Does she think me novice and hers to command?

For here’s a magician awake in the night,
able to shine an experienced light
on some would-be sorceress testing her fate
by compelling a demon to dance for a date.

A trio of knaves I fold with a frown
placing a threesome of winners face down.
Gambling for coin requires no heart.
I make no excuses, just rise and depart.

The curse that I carry does grant me a boon.
To spells of control I am nearly immune.
When muttered at midnight amidst full array,
even a specter might fail to delay.

Some find me more than a shadowy spell.
Some even think me an agent of Hell.
Her witch-work is potent and tough to defend,
drawing me into a this contact with men.

The stench on the street is nearly to much.
Streets should be vacant of riff-raff and such.
As torches of pitch throw their intricate weaves
of shadows down alleys, the playground of thieves.

I spot the two bullies, clubs poised to transfer
cherished possessions from my hands to hers.
Did they think me easy, a target of sport?
My dagger by moonlight will swiftly retort.

Dull eyes from darkness leer red in the night.
Mistress of magic how deadly your plight?
Fool of a bully, come fill then your grave.
Torch-light I wrap and reflect from my blade.

This phantom is more than some ox at the block,
this fine cloaked pedestrian’s head you would knock.
A blur is my answer, your mate must now grieve.
Red eyes roll upward and blood stains my sleeve.

What vanity drove you to wear this grave face?
Your thug-mate retreats at full speed from this place.
Fleeing this figment of death’s steel caress
may save him some breath and sudden arrest.

I’ve no time for chasing a wet-legged fool.
The witch that awaits me by her gazing pool
will see by the shadows a-swirl that I come
and wonder if mayhap her deed is undone.

Part 2

Arcane reminders to visit by day
circle her threshold and would keep at bay
most any practitioner of ill intent.
By spoiling their purpose my message is sent.

Withering sigils, well-crafted in blue,
might stymie the best, but I weave and pass through.
Having shadows for allies provides me an edge
to slash through illusion when out on the ledge.

As final announcement alerting the lass,
the old oaken door cries aloud as I pass.
Faintly a glow from her corridor’s end,
warns me away from invading her den.

A pentagram smoldering crimson conforms
to a waxwork geometry set round her floor.
Surrounded by candles reflecting her gaze,
she stands in her witch-light miasma ablaze.

Feeling secure when ringed by designs,
an elegant mistress of dark paradigm.
The envy of monarchs is won by her stare.
The envy of ravens is won by her hair.

Black is her raiment, black as her frown.
a web-work of lace to suffice as a gown,
Youthful and supple, I study her form;
voluptuous assets with skin pale but warm.

My interest reveals her control near its ebb.
She lifts from a table a bowl brimming red.
“Hold witch!” My dagger tip tickles my palm,
“You got lucky once, be still and keep calm.”

Her mouth sags to open, her robe reveals all.
A practiced beguilement, a trick to forestall.
I should not indulge the shape of her thigh.
“You’ve brought us together, I want to know why!”

I send forth a thought. She winces in pain.
Feeling my power she utters a name.
“No one can help you, but he whom you face.
Last time I’m asking, the truth, every trace.”

“You have many secrets of vigor and youth,
while other men stumble about most uncouth.
Fables surround you and legend’s your name.
I crave to learn these, to be just the same.”

“So is it my talents you say that you need?
Lying is painful, might cause you to bleed.
Your story, I will with spells, rip from your mind.
You’ve kept me this long, yes, I have the time.”

“Onto the table witch! Off with that robe!
Look not so shocked when acting so bold.”
A light from my hands quells her every protest.
She did as I bid and I did the rest.

Her story she utters in mutters and moans.
My real adversary stands right of the throne.
I left her to dreaming amidst her designs.
Magic has uses, yeah, magic like mine.

Barefoot Poetry
SS Matthews


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Thief Saga – Jewel of Night pt. 1

Jewel of Night

the sea witch by frank frazetta
The Sea Witch by Frank Frazetta

A spell is best cast upon those who believe,
that power through practice of magick achieves
superior craft when one’s talent is rare
to call from the shadows what things you might dare.

A firm non-believer may discount result,
never-the-less beware the occult.
Dabbling in darkness may offer a thrill,
but lurking within are things that can kill.

From velvet chambers she conjures a Name,
invading my night with her summoning game.
Called from my card play to heed her demand.
Does she think me novice and hers to command?

For here’s a magician awake in the night,
able to shine an experienced light
on a would=be sorceress testing her fate.
by compelling a demon to dance for a date.

A trio of knaves I fold with a frown
placing the threesome of winners face down.
Gambling for coin requires no heart.
I give no excuses, just rise and depart.

Some find me more than a shadowy spell.
Some even think me an agent of Hell.
The curse that I carry does grant me this boon
To spells of control I am nearly immune.

Yet muttered at midnight amidst full array,
even a specter is urged to obey.
Her witch=work is potent and tough to defend,
leading me into this contact with men.

The stench on the street is nearly too much.
Streets should be vacant of riff-raff and such.
Torches of pitch throw their intricate weaves
of shadows down alleys, the playground of thieves.

I spot the two bullies, clubs poised to transfer
cherished possessions from my hands to hers.
Dull eyes from darkness leer red in the night.
Mistress of magick how deadly your plight?

Did they think me easy, a target of sport?
My dagger by moonlight will swiftly retort.
Fool of a bully, come fill then your grave.
Torch-light I wrap and reflect from my blade.

This phantom is more than some ox at the block,
this fine cloaked pedestrian’s head you would knock.
A blur is my answer, your mate must now grieve.
Red eyes roll upward and blood-stains my sleeve.

Your thug-mate retreats at full speed from this place.
What vanity drove you to wear this grave face?
Fleeing this figment of death’s steel caress
may save him some breath and sudden arrest.

I’ve no time for chasing a wet-legged fool.
The witch that awaits me by her gazing pool
will see by the shadows a-swirl that I come
and wonder if mayhap her deed is undone.

Arcane reminders to visit by day
circle her threshold and would keep at bay
most any practitioner of dark design.
I tingle a little, but cross it just fine.

Withering sigils, well-crafted in blue,
might stymie the best, but I weave and pass through.
Having shadows for allies does give me an edge
for shredding illusion when placed on the ledge.

Barefoot Poetry of
SSMatthews


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Prince Of Lies – continuing the thief saga

Prince of Lies

A wealthy young prince of the fabled Blue Realm,
Kept once a maiden as bright as his helm.
Seven fine rubies of rarest cut red
Adorned the tiara he placed on her head.

A gift she would wear amidst her wild mane
To strut for his ardor and further her fame.
A corset of silk and sculpted whale bone
Completed a wardrobe of feather and comb.

An actress of quality, known for her song,
Impassioned to please her he held her too long.
Playing the part of a princess divine
A mere mortal mistress playing for time.

The true bride of promise, a lady of court,
A hinterland noble away at her fort.
While planning the joining of his hand to hers,
Rumors of lust bred mistrust of Prince Cur.

Suspicions aroused by letters too few,
Caused her to seek an accomplice, who knew,
How to unmask a philanderer’s scheme,
Exposing a trysting without being seen.

“My Lady I’ll take on this task that you bid,
But mayhap the truth is a thing best left hid.
I will bring to you proof of the prince’s disgrace
Though my price is one night alone with your lace.”

The flush of her cheek I took as my doom,
Lit also her eyes with the glow of full moon.
A Lady of chastity when other eyes near,
Alone after sundown would show no such fear.

Though a portrait of beauty undressed in her cot,
The path of deception this time I like not.
I took from her payment that gladly she gave.
A thief may know ethics and yet be a knave.

A thief can’t afford to dwell in the past,
Regal blue towers sing trek’s end at last.
I skulk in the shadows, the night knows my craft,
Passionate whimpers through crevice on draft.

Entwined in their slumber, a pair of prize pups,
From her long hair, a lock I will cut.
I do this as warning, for I must concede
To love a small votive, this one chance, this plea.

I recoil in half-light to give one night’s grace,
Next time together, romance I’ll displace.
Dawn’s predilection for truth will reveal
A dalliance too many, this then is my deal.

Daylight is passing I wait the sun’s fall.
Shadow friends lengthen, chase light within halls.
Slipping through dim ways I come to their tryst,
An unwanted nightmare with tiara to wrist.

I thought they might warm to the sign of my heed.
But a thief such as I knows a bit about greed.
Asleep I will leave them in each other’s arms,
The loss of these jewels be the least of their harm.

Away from the palace I walk a dark land.
War does not suit me, I must form a plan.
This token would cost me some friends I would grieve,
But I am a thief with a trick up his sleeve.

Companions are many, true friends are few.
Parts of ourselves we’ve recovered anew.
These we embrace and protect when we can
For walking alone is the fate of each man.

I keep my black promise and deliver red news
To a raven-hair princess, in darkest of moods.
I bow as I exit her realm of chagrin
But tarry a time with her hand maid to mend.

When flickering torches grow faint in the night,
I shift in the shadows, avoiding the light.
I retake tiara and trinkets she’ll miss,
Then exit to leave her a wiser princess.

SS Matthews Barefoot Poetry