Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews


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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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Thief Saga Epic Fantasy Poetry

Douglas Fairbanks
Image; Douglas Fairbanks – Thief of Bagdad

Thief

Win first her faith and her favor.
Prowl stealthily opulent chambers,
the deepening blue of her pleasure.
Eyes of night see not this thief.

Clutch tightly the stone her breasts adorned.
Make off with her Majesty’s treasure.
Win first her trust and sapphire lust.
How priceless, the jewels of this labor!

Untangle her silken limbs’ embrace.
Relinquish her softness, her satin.
Slip from her bed, yes tears will be shed,
but her curses in anger, forgotten.

I am a creature seduced by his trade,
a slave to a thousand desires.
But I’m first in her eyes, achieved by disguise,
where knave and knight both might aspire.

Republished from May 2014
and now

Lightfinger Returns

Dreaming of Knights, their banners a-breeze,
on winter white stallions, such sweet lust you breathe.
On satin down filled you sigh in your sleep.
Of gossamer nightdress, I should pause to peek.

But jewels are the riches I seek in the night.
Lightfinger of Shadow they call me by right.
I hunt in the flicker of torches burnt low,
an unnoticed shadow play lost on your wall.

Your jewel box lies open, a rare gift of haste,
though locks are but trifles to one with my tastes.
Gems of fine luster I transfer with ease
and here at the bottom a single gold key.

An intrigue, a secret, I will ferret out,
if treasures are hid, I will leave her, no doubt
with virtue and chastity both assailed,
while gemstones, tiaras and coins I redact.

Behind her bedchamber, a fine tapestry
of white Knights on horseback with lances on greens.
A joust to test true-ness of Knights chivalry,
but here there’s a door and lock near unseen.

This glittering key slides easily set,
a man of my talents affords no regrets.
A twist and a tug, I pull it aside,
a dreaming King’s harem within doth reside.

Women of races familiar and fair,
many exotics with jewels in their hair,
translucent attire on plush pillow piles
one with gray eyes not asleep and she smiles.

A maelstrom of maidens assailing my mind,
I’d lighten their braids had I enough time.
But my will is captured, this maid with light eyes
beckons me forward, to sample her lies.

Soft subtle embrace, a trap of bare limbs,
hips made of moonlight, and dew-fall and sin.
A thief should know better, a thief should be fast,
enwrapped in its power, a thief makes it last.

In away outer chamber, a shuffling of boots,
my soft gray eyed maiden and guards in cahoots.
But shadows are long when the candle is low,
I mix with the shadows, but stand out aglow.

Cleaver entrapment, a foxfire snare.
here in the darkness my image a-glare.
Quickly surrounded by several armed guards,
faced with no exit in a room with no bars.

In walks the princess who bows to my maid,
a ruse in proportion to talents was laid.
I look into gray eyes discerning her state,
yes, she’s the princess, deciding my fate.

I walk where I will and serve no regret,
I’ve made my mistakes, but none fatal yet.
I have the power, an awareness to change
the bog of belief for unfettered range.

Looks are deceiving when shadows are friends
Dungeons have windows, and shadows ride wind.
I bow once to gray eyes and give her a wink,
I’m held not by captors but chains of soft link.

SS Matthews


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Thief

Douglas Fairbanks
Image; Douglas Fairbanks – Thief of Bagdad

Thief

Win first her faith and her favor.
Prowl stealthily opulent chambers,
the deepening blue of her pleasure.
Eyes of night see not this thief.

Clutch tightly the stone her breasts adorned.
Make off with her Majesty’s treasure.
Win first her trust and sapphire lust.
How priceless, the jewels of this labor!

Untangle her silken limbs’ embrace.
Relinquish her softness, her satin.
Slip from her bed, yes tears will be shed,
but her curses in anger, forgotten.

I am a creature seduced by his trade,
a slave to a thousand desires.
But I’m first in her eyes, achieved by disguise,
where knave and knight both might aspire.

SS Matthews