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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A Thief Saga Poem – Tower Entrapment

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Morning’s eye watches yon tower of church,
setting warm rays on her high window perch.
Imprisoned by prayers and secrets well kept,
she stares through the noon-day with many tears wept.

A fantasy eve of mid-summer, restrained,
to languish within, to stark halls constrained.
Fire-haired princess of youth captivate,
dreaming of saviors which come not too late.

I watch from seclusion, confusion of trees,
a mottled illusion caught up by the breeze
which carry the hillside’s flowers and herbs
in scented commotion combining with hers.

I wait for the sun to fall overhead
and fold back the down of her west crimson bed,
Awaken companions I’ve need to fulfill
The task undertaken? A quest up yon hill.

A fair purse of gold he will pay for her hand
if taken from tower into his rich land.
He’ll bind her to keeping a-right his great hall.
He has yet to learn cells consist of four walls.

A handmaid, or mistress, a slave, or a wife!
What could be worse than abandoned by life?
Would I still be a man if completely alone,
or track like a beast on the land that I roam?

Into the landscape I blend with a yawn,
blending with meadow and moat and beyond
into a graveyard with draperies drawn,
commanding the shadows to rush me along.

Weaving a mixture of dim light and dark
disguising my movement, no flicker, no spark,
suggesting my presence, revealing intent,
I slide with the shadows betraying no hint.

A spiraling stairway of lichen on block,
leading me upward and into her loft.
Alone on divan and in sultry repose
half-covered in satin the color of rose.

A twitch of red lips, faint flutter of lids,
a gossamer gown, ample curves scarcely hid,
shift my soft values to velvet from gold,
I cannot be trusted, or so I am told.

Unwrapped in moonbeams across portal’s sill
I take this woman from need into thrill.
Twined in her hair is a trace of old dust,
I’m wound in the clutch of a lush succubus.

Her power is on me, my will she would drain,
but I am a power by night and I gain,
with strenuous effort control of my lust,
turning the mood to silence and rust.

Fetal on flagstones, a demon unveiled,
a tool of the Dark Prince I’ve hammered and nailed.
This sumptuous chamber, a cage she’ll not leave,
Lightfinger’s shadow-play game she must grieve.

For dawn is a nemesis I must abate.
Will she remember, perhaps she will hate,
the sneak-thief who fled with her power in haste,
the thief in the night whose shadow she traced?

I ignite a lone candle to burn for my sins.
I’ve a passion for candles and will sin again.
Forgiveness is one thing myself, I must find
I’ll not find it here in this prison divine.

This vault of salvation has lock I can’t pick.
Abode of the humble in which I don’t fit.
A church should be sacred to creatures of light,
not subject to monsters who walk in the night

SS Matthews Barefoot Poetry


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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


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Remembering Emeraude

Her scent came upon me unaware,
on a wind from a place called high school.
Memories I’d forgotten I’d had,
returned, and man, were we cool.

Mike and I were brothers then
though we bore no blood relation.
The Rock-and-Roll we shouted out
was the language of our nation.

Hendrix wove a purple haze
into a national anthem.
Janice dragged her ball and chain
our hearts, or pieces of them.

Afternoons were roughly spent
in playing dirt lot football.
Until the day that girl appeared
and caused my heart to tumble.

Her eyes were sending kisses
on a teasing summer breeze.
Her scented smile was Emeraude,
and stole the breath from me.

Mike and games fell back a step,
for she had some books to carry.
I wiped my hands against my shirt,
she said “Hello. I’m Mary”.

I walked her to her house that day
and many more to follow.
Her parents didn’t seem to mind
this poor, but handsome fellow.

Each moment we beheld, we grasped
and wrung it dry of passion.
Sometimes, still, I hear her voice
return in dreamlike fashion.

Though clouds compile as darkener years
and gather now as pain,
I long to feel those fire tears
we spent in love,
in lust
and lost
one school day in the rain.

SS Matthews 2001


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Tails in the Wood

Many forms have I assumed, before this form you see:
a bird, a stone, a wolf, a bone, which one will you perceive?
Awhile I wandered, furred and fanged, through Birch and Ashe and Oak,
until a maiden’s scent I took, and to her scent I spoke.

Ebon hair, midnight eyes, breasts as pale as dawn,
bathing sky-clad in a stream, and bathing quite alone.
There, a hanging hooded robe, adorning yonder tree,
Padded paws creep out of sight and creep most carefully

Nails imprint the mossy bed, silence my surest tool,
between my teeth I take her robe, I adore the taste of wool!
A churl? I chew! Saliva slews, her flesh I’ve yet to savor,
a ray ignites her navel’s nape, perhaps I’ll press her favor.

What’s this? A hunter’s scent is smeared by softly blowing breeze.
Into the light of day he steps. In shadows thick, I freeze.
A bow of Yew, a grey goose shaft, he’d surely spend with skill.
If I should draw his eye my way, my intent he’d surely still.

But Venus draws his gaze to hers by rising from her pool,
revealing all her charms to him, whilst I must play the fool.
Alas, the dapple takes me in, for I must skulk away,
but a new red robe she’ll have to stitch, and bathe some other day.

SS Matthews


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Faire Wood

Emerald wood where I wander,
silence this self‘s need to ponder-
a heart grown stale and not above
collapsing from this toil of love.

No more do dream of maidens fair,
their scented oils, their braided hair,
their girlish games of kiss and peek,
a winsome bore, a wine too weak.

With charms displayed through evening’s mist,
a wood nymph robed in shifting wisps
of vapors spun into a gown,
emerges from the trees’ surround.

Beneath the gaze of rising moon,
in twilight tones she hums a tune,
seducing with her glance and gait
desire for a wildwood mate.

Her lithesome limbs and secret bough,
enfold me in her glamour’s glow.
Lips a-thirst for strange encampment
drink from leaves in vines’ enchantment.

Our dance begins in naked dusk.
Machines of men may rot to rust.
I breath her scent and hold it fast,
then beg the night to ever-last.

SS Matthews