Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews

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A Thief Saga Poem – Tower Entrapment


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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The Fangs in Heaven’s Jaw

The malignant smile of a pitiless sun is mirth this land must bear.
Where pilgrim clouds brave searing skies in drafts of tortured air.

Painted desert’s spirit sky beheld the mighty thaw.
Bared fangs of bone and fire stone as teeth in heaven’s jaw.

Ancient rift in humble earth, a canyon carved in rage.
Ten thousand years of glacial tears birthed cactus, sand and sage.

Nighthawks sweep that crimson dusk, in ‘swoop’s they rend the wings
Of fragile prey that end the way the desert sunset sings.

Salvation flees this jagged gate each eve at day’s death knell.
At vision’s edge, haunts stalk the ledge above Tartarus where I dwell.

On Watchtower Rock a sentinel waits, notes weep from a reed in his hands;
Descend to the bed of a river long dead a-wash in drifts of sand.

I tarry a moment to offer a prayer to send this sad spirit home;
Whose echoes invade the silence I crave, my demons I must face alone.

Hallucination, spectral musician,
Wandering shade from the past depart!
Abide no more in sorrow,
Staunch your flow with Yarrow,
Fade, forget tomorrow,
It’s just one more beat of the heart.

Rest you ghost in slumber far beyond this headstone ridge.
An ever-expanding skin of stars beckons you, o’er that bridge.

Let me tend this dusty tomb where I shun the strife of life.
Sleep where angels heal old wounds and visit no more my night.

SS Matthews