Failure
Is and irritating word
It shouldn’t be spoken
Shouldn’t be heard
Failure
is everywhere
It’s what I think about
As I sit in this chair
A dream crumbling
To dust in my hand
Loss of an ideal
That seemed so grand
Failure
Does it show on my face?
Only time can move me
From this place.
More than ever now I want you with me.
Each day lays waste the day that came before.
Remembering the home that your heart gives me
Restores the peace that, lost, torments me more.
Yet we must be apart this day of joy,
Close in spirit, far apart in flesh,
Happy in a hope time can’t destroy
Replenished by a sorrow ever fresh.
In us there is a glory from afar
So precious no brief moment of despair
That rises up can match that eastern star,
Miracle it is our gift to share.
As all our joy is cause for all our pain,
So when I’m home all will be joy again.
Copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
It’s the one year anniversary of the day Rhi enriched our lives by starting her blog.
He grinned in triumph. “No more talking.” Pressing a quick kiss to her lips Anleeh sat up, “I will say that you look quite delectable like this lover, you body well marked.” He skimmed his finger over the fading teeth marks on her shoulder, then glided it down over her breast where several small marks like tiny bruises, decorated the soft white mounds.
“I suspect that my back is well decorated.” Anleh turned so that she could get a view of his back, when he turned to face her once more her wide eyes told him all he needed to know about the marks her nails had left.
Settling his hand against the closest breast he began to casually toy with her nipple, flicking, pinching and plucking at it, his manner studied unconcern. When her eyes fluttered closed at small sounds of delight and desire escaped her lips he could not help but thank the Goddess at his good fortune at having been graced with such a willing and passionate woman.
“Spread you legs, wider, bend your knees. Now I want you to reach down and open the lips of your sex. Wider. Pinch the lips in your fingers and hold yourself open, expose yourself to me.”
Siara did as he ordered, opening herself, lifting her hips in desperate hope that he would touch her, pleasure her. Each orgasm gave her only made her crave the subsequently, each new act begging for the next.
“Lovely. Your sex I lovely, it is too bad I will have to punish it.”
Siara squeaked in alarm, watching wide eyed as he rose and headed for the door.
“I will return in just a moment lover, don’t move.”
Siara swallowed hard, try as she might her emotions continued to roll through her, arousal chasing fear, subsuming desire, all beyond her logical control. Anleeh returned, shivering, and Siara realized he must have gone outside. This was confirmed by the fact that in one hand he held two snowballs, in the other a long cylindar of snow, tapered at one end.
The cylindar Anleeh set on the floor, a safe distance from the fire. The snowballs he brought with him, settling himself cross-legged on the furs beside her, her spread body before him like an offering.
Taking up on of the snowballs he pinched off a small piece and pressed it to her lips. The cold was lovely and welcomed on lips that were dry from too many kisses and warm from arousal. Slowly the snow melted, water trickling down the sides of her face, forging paths along her neck before disappearing into her scattered hair.
He pinched off a second piece, murmuring “Open,” and slipped it into her mouth. Siara drank down the cold of the melting snow, always aware of how her fingers held her sex open.
Again he pinched off a piece of snow, but this he placed on her sternum, between her breasts, the trail of water running up to her neck and off to each side, slipping below the swell of each breast.
When his fingers once more approached her body, a bit of winter trapped between his fingertips, Siara knew where it was going, even before he laid it against her nipple. She gasped and jerked, the sensation so strong it was painful, her teeth clenching as he held the snow firmly against her nipple. Her flesh ruched up, tight and red, but still he held it on there, freezing the tight bud. Her single whimper turned into a repeated sound, and unending plea for him to stop, and one that he would not obey.
Still he tormented her, his eyes switching between her abused breast and her pleading face. When the last of the snow was finally gone, and that breast was wet, Siara realized that her ordeal was only half over, as the next finger full of snow was placed on the unabused nipple.
Again she whimpered and shivered through the painful cold, her fingers trembling where she still held open the lips of her sex.
“The cold is painful isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“But you are aroused by it aren’t you? Aroused by the strength of the sensation, aroused so that while you might whimper, begging me to stop, your sex fills with moisture. Your body doesn’t know the difference between the strong pleasure and strong pain, the line is a thin one, and in Den we like to walk it.”
Anleeh lapped at the first nipple while the last of the snow melted on the other.
When he gently bit her, Siara saw stars.
“Siara, lover… do you know where I will place snow next?”
Her hair thrashed about her head when she shook it, denying what he was saying, both desiring and dreading what would come next.
Anleeh stretched back for the long cylinder of snow.
“There are tricks to working with snow. One of which is that if you form a shape out of snow, then dip it in water and set it back outside, the item will form a hard layer of ice, which will help it to hold it’s shape.” Anleeh rubbed the thing in his hand over her belly and it was smooth and oh so cold. “Can you feel how hard and smooth I made this?”
When she nodded Anleeh held it up, “Lover, have you figured out exactly what I am going to do with this?” Siara frowned in puzzlement. She’d expected him to press finger-fulls of snow against the insides of her sex as he had to her nipples, but his questions forced her to revaluate.
There must be a reason he’d chosen that particular shape to create. Why it almost looked like a long smooth…
Siara’s eyes went wide.
“I see you have figured it out, smart girl.”
Frantic now she thrashed her head against the fur, denying what he implied he would do, but still her fingers held her sex open and the moisture between her legs flowed freely.
“Yes, lover, I am going to fuck you with this. I will take his hard cold thing and put it inside you, and I will not take it out. I will fuck you with it, but I will leave it in you until it has melted away, who knows how long that will be.”
Anleeh pressed the tip into her belly button and then dragged it down to the top of her patch of curls.
“Are you ready?”
She shook her head no.
“Good.”
He dragged the tip through her dark curls and then down over her clit, her hips arching high in reaction. She jerked and twitched as he inched it lower, the cold tappered tip parting the inner petals of her sex to find the weeping entrance to her body.
He carefully rotated the tip in the pooled moisture and then, with a single hard thrust, sank the frigid phallus into her.
Siara screamed, her fingers loosing there grip on her sex, her hips arching up off the fur, her body resting only on her shoulders and heels. Anleeh caught her hips, forcing them back down. Grasping the protruding end he pulled it out, until only the tip rested inside her. Siara gasped for breath, her mouth open.
Cold so strong it burned was seeping into her belly and back from the inside. It felt as though he had lit up her body with the cold white light of the winter sun. Just as she caught her breath Anleeh shoved the phallus back inside, the heel of his hand against the base preventing her body from pushing it out. He shifted to lie more fully between her legs, eyes on her sex, his heavy lidded gaze and pink lips indicating that he was aroused by what he did to her.
This time when he pulled it out he leaned in and licked at her clit, the warmth of his tongue like fire on her chilled flesh.
Again and again he fucked her with the crude cold dildo, his tongue working her clit, sometimes venturing lower to lick along the edges of the snowy thing. Each time he pulled it out her body clenched, water slipping from her body to slide down between the cheeks of her ass and into the fur below.
Soon the dildo grew slender, only the very end, which never made its way inside, maintained the original thickness. Anleeh pulled the dildo out one last time and broke off the thick end, “Now it doesn’t come out until it runs out of you as water.”
With that he shoved the slender column of ice fully within her and pinched the inner lips of her sex closed.
Even as she reeled from this new sensation his tongue settled once more one her clit, broad flat strokes alternating with darting stabs from the pointed tip of his tongue.
Like the silent blizzard they had come through, her orgasm began to build and rage with her, a whirling force of nature. When it came, breaking over her body, her beast snarling from deep with her, Siara wrapped her legs tight over his shoulders, her thighs holding his face captive between her legs.
As the orgasm subsided, and Siara fell back, utterly replete, Anleeh surged up, his sudden movement startling. With one hard stroke he was in her, his own eyes going wide with shock upon entering her chilled body.
Once, twice, thrice, the thrust into her, his cock forcing the melted snow to run out of her sex. Pulling out he spilled his seed against her belly and rolled to the side, his gasping breath matching hers.
Slowly Siara turned her head, waiting until Anleeh did that same so their eyes met.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
The Awakening of Dermuid [Diarmuid]
By Austin Clarke (From “The Vengeance of Finn.”)
In the sleepy forest where the bluebells Smouldered dimly through the night, Dermuid saw the leaves like glad green waters At daybreak flowing into light, And exultant from his love upspringing Strode with the sun upon the height.
Glittering on the hilltops
He saw the sunlit rain
Drift as around the spindle
A silver-threaded skein,
And the brown mist whitely breaking
Where arrowy torrents reached the plain.
A maddened moon
Leapt in his heart and whirled the crimson tide Of his blood until it sang aloud of battle Where the querns of dark death grind, Till it sang and scorned in pride Love—the froth-pale blossom of the boglands That flutters on the waves of the wandering wind.Flower-quiet in the rush-strewn sheiling At the dawntime Grainne lay, While beneath the birch-topped roof the sunlight Groped upon its way And stooped above her sleeping white body With a wasp-yellow ray.
The hot breath of the day awoke her,
And wearied of its heat
She wandered out by the noisy elms
On the cool mossy peat,
Where the shadowed leaves like pecking linnets Nodded around her feet.
She leaned and saw in the pale-grey waters, By twisted hazel boughs, Her lips like heavy drooping poppies In a rich redness drowse, Then swallow—lightly touched the ripples Until her wet lips were Burning as ripened rowan berries Through the white winter air.Lazily she lingered
Gazing so,
As the slender osiers
Where the waters flow,
As green twings of sally
Swaying to and fro.
Sleepy moths fluttered
In her dark eyes,
And her lips grew quieter
Than lullabies.
Swaying with the reedgrass
Over the stream
Lazily she lingered
Cradling a dream.
It’s all I have to bring today
by Emily Dickinson
It’s all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
More Poetry Monday:
Today we have something a little different. I want to know what you think the poem below is about. Is it about love, shame, beauty, loneliness, none of the above? (Don’t cheat and wiki it.)
For more Monday Poetry link back to Rhi
The Planter’s Daughter by Austin Clarke
When night stirred at sea
And the fire brought a crowd in,
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went -
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly,
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
I’ve got Irish on the brain so here’s my favorite poem by an Irishman:
by James Joyce
Dear heart, why will you use me so?
Dear eyes that gently me upbraid,
Still are you beautiful — but O,
How is your beauty raimented!
Through the clear mirror of your eyes,
Through the soft cry of kiss to kiss,
Desolate winds assail with cries
The shadowy garden where love is.
And soon shall love dissolved be
When over us the wild winds blow–
But you, dear love, too dear to me,
Alas! why will you use me so?
Here’s another of my favorite poems. I’ve always wanted to write stories based on my favorite uber romantic poems. This, The Lady of Shallot, and a few others. As I toy with the idea I’ve been re-reading the poems.
I’ve included pics as a semi-lame photo representation of the story.
***
Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gipsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
