Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Tag: romance

a dish of orts

just some little bits that came into my mind today…

tiny fingers tangle pressing
spark my soul, so tracing lines.
the warm, soft press of her glad face
speaks a silent choice to mine.

As the house burns
Friendships deepen,
and sad hearts gladly reconcile.
In ash, love bares it’s soul intention
and bravely dares to smile.

Be with me, my
little writer
wrestle angels, daybreak waits.
Kiss a promise
whisper fervent
lure the fool who needs no bait.

All your works

Hands and hearts go about each day… shaping things.

A hand may push a friend away, breaking the strongest line.

A heart may imagine him not a friend, and tell itself a lie.

A hand may tug another’s hand, press it with an oath.

A heart may pull them closer yet, til there is bliss for both.

…a sweet treat, or delicious, solid, wise and lovely words. I love each thing you shape.

from a crooked man…

No, my dear, I would not change thee,
though you mock me just to spite.
No, my heart is not unseeing
it views each wrinkle, however slight.

Yes, the jagged sometimes tears me,
rips my blissful heart a hole.
Yes, the light may show you tired,
eyes so dark, I hardly know.

No my dear, I would not change thee,
though all your pretty features fail.
No, this love will stand unflinching,
until we pass beyond the veil.

Yes, our tempers may arouse us,
locked in strife like men of old.
Even then my heart will love you,
as our sword-like tongues cut cold.

Maybe there is petty love,
Maybe we can be.
Maybe I am far too starstruck.
Maybe you are bent as me…

Maybe I already know it. 

Yes, my eyes would glance away from
all those crooked, sinful ways.
No they will not soon forget them,
they do not escape my gaze.

Yes, my soul is just as evil,
lurking in the shadows grey.
No, my dear, I would not change thee,
I love your all, for all my days.


Eyes so bright, the lids above them
Offer a guarding shade.
So men are not struck blind,
Or ruin themselves in some mad pledge.

Lips so ideal, paint never did shine so enticing;
Draw me constant, drifting forward.
They speak and I am encircled by their movement.
They smile and I am drowned.

She does embrace me, subtly fit…
This delightful woman from Adam’s rib,
And so she wraps and guards 
Each hidden word and passion of my heart.

Mine own Eve, a help and love,
For mine own soul designed,
As mine own tale described,
To mine own fate entwined.


So they spun, the stars their backdrop… dizzyingly twisting in the frantic motion of moons and grand distances of fleeing galaxies. 

The slightest breath of air from their parted lips, the smallest whisper, would add its’ thrust to the insane waltz. Yet as it the motion increased, the impulse to cry out in pure delight grew until it was unstoppable. Thus impelled, the exclamations came long and clear and passionate in their expression. So these pulses of air made each spin more ecstatic than the last. 

At first there was the urge to wonder, to try to spy some landmark or guiding star to ascertain their course. To find some level, to measure the tempo and where each should lead or follow was briefly sought. 

But in that ocean of stars, that blanket of warm dark, there is no up. There is no down. No level, no gauge… there is only the dance,… only Freedom,… only adoration,… and the constant light in your lover’s eyes. Stars may burn out and be born again, but that will remain.

Aren’t all of us children?

Little feet in bright blue shoes, race to find a tiny hand tracing patterned leaves. Mumbled words, and offkey tunes, grace the garden until there breaks a joyful scream. They find delights in every rock, in every swirl of snail. In happiness the moments crawl, like glades beyond the veil. A curious finger pokes a waiting nose and peals of laughter sound. Making snowless angels they tell their tales in motions on the ground. 

Lace and cotton, by grass-stained denim, the pair are mirth and phantasia. Golden tress and dark black locks, their inclined heads mingle like day meets night. He babbles and she nods, and then a moment later the roles are reversed like some trick puppet, but the wonder never leaves their eyes. And in the dusk, when time to part, he clumsily kisses a tiny flower and she claps as she spies the first star in the east.

She is faster… just see her dart. The boy runs smiling and wide-eyed shows his adoration. When all is spent, in gasps collapse… her kiss finds flushing cheek. A hug, a gentle whisper and those tiny hands so softly woven, can never forget the weave. Playmates, confidants, protectors, and in time, so much more. 

So they may see us in this darkened world. 

I still only want to run and find your hand.

I know you wrote the script…

“Anything different, more intimate, more violent and passionate, did not touch my wildest dreams…”

I think I’ve dreamed of you. I think your feet have walked that inner world at all times and though I never saw your face, I think you were there.

I think you whispered to me in my dreams of castles, of angels, of the perfect playground. I think your eyes inspired the adventures in oceans deep, that I swam and dived then as I do now… encompassed about by beauty. I think your hair, like gold, did adorn every sword hilt, did purchase my fare across arabian deserts and wintery wastes. I think your lips’ lovely curve was there in each cunning arch, each bridge from which I fed ducks and swans. I think they kissed me in the fair times, and spoke courage to me in the night terrors. I think your laughter made me fly.

I know I’ve dreamed of you. 

Of such intimacy, of such passion and violent love, I would have to agree. I never saw it. Can a blind man dream of color before his eyes are restored? You are my rainbow maiden, and I need not look beyond you for a pot of gold, that would be far too literal.

A single kiss, a joyful laugh and a sparkling eye would fill me to overflowing for all of time. Any more and the world will be overcome by our happiness.

Strong Drink…

I was not ready for it.  

I have many times sipped rich, dark wine that flows from your candied lips. The sweetness… the slight tinge on my tongue, so strong in it’s potency… the warming dizzyness that would fill my head. 

I was not ready for it.

Our faces pressed so close together, and as I began to speak soft words the sip became a slow trickle that could no longer be absorbed so easily. Your breathing quickened with mine, and I heard a tiny whimper… so beautiful. The trickle became a draught, constant and unrelenting. All my strength left me and my only thought was to cry out to my darling angel. Then, three words, and my world began to shake. The draught became a torrent and washed over me filling my room and my house, washing out into the streets. “Oh my darling!” I will never forget it. 

The passion, the depth, the quiet warmth, and the sense that somewhere in you a propane flame burns scorching hot. Endearment after endearment followed, each one tossing me about like driftwood. All I could do was cry out to you, darling. All I could think is that I never wished you to stop. All I could tell was that I was drowning so completely. All I could say was, “I love you.” In each breath I said, “I love you.” In the quiet, “I love you.” In the tears… “I love you.” In the night, in my dreams, “I love you.”

I was not ready for it.

But who would be?

Carnival Times

I feel so content. It seems all my life I’ve spent searching, trying to find something beyond modern fascinations. It seems I’ve run from distraction to distraction hoping that, in all the glitter, I would find gold. 

One day walking among funhouse waltzes and clusters of sparking lights that only make your eyes grow dark, I found a room. In that room, from every surface, corner and outcrop hung a million gossammer threads. I explored, and as I did my body brushed hundreds of these strings. Each one told a story. 

Some were vulgar and base, and could not be woven into any life as something useful, but were small entertainments. I spied the creators; fat, bulbous spiders that would pounce on the string if it was touched and leave a thorny kiss with an empty feeling and nakedness. I learned to avoid these. Others were not so bad, plain homespun thread… they were honest but rarely true, they spoke never listening and so they never said much at all. There was a type that rose even higher, I delighted in these and wove them into my coat. They spoke of heroes, subtle beauties, and worlds that every soul must travel in the quest to truely change. I felt my strength increase with these clothes. Though I did not notice, I had grown.

My fingers reached up into a small corner higher than I had before and found a single thread. Images flashed before my eyes… a black horse, a host sleeping beneath a cold moon, a small beautiful girl, a skeletal dance. I gasped and pulled the thread closer, wrapped and wove it into the fabric near my heart. I sat there for a time, finding many threads about it almost as dear. I felt a sharp tug and I found that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light. I turned to see tiny fingers resting on the thread, just a short distance from my heart.

I sat and watched those fingers for so long. Somehow through those threads each tiny motion of her hands was sent to me. I finally spoke. Just a few words about how lovely the story was… she sat in silence for a while, but then responded that she loved the old man who had crafted this and another who had placed her hand upon it. All the while I watched those beautiful, white fingers. I saw her begin to weave it so close to her heart with such care.

As she did I began to see the tapestry of her gown, draping her tiny figure, and all the threads that made it. And each tiny weaving stroke pulled at my heart till I found myself face to face with her, looking into the brightest, truest blue eyes I had ever seen. What she saw in the dark, I was just beginning to see. So we sat for so long, looking into each other’s eyes, each devoted to seeking something more than glitter. When her tiny fingers touched my hand, I knew I had found it. 

So we sit, and we whisper mysteries. We walk and we weave our own tale, which we cannot even touch without weeping. All the sparkling lights have faded, and the music replaced by a gentler, nobler song, and we travel together toward each new dawn.

When Speaking of Love…

A very simple part of the english language. Wow! Ah. Eh? Hmmm… My goodness! Really? Definitely. Err… Stop! 

Everyone uses them. Sometimes they are the best and worst expression for things that we encounter in this world. Take, “Ouch!” for example. When an adult smashes his hand in the door, it hardly seems adequate to describe the whole, overflowing feeling that is exploding in that person’s mind. This is why some become so vulgar in their exclamations. For a little child with a scratched knee, however, it seems almost perfect. Or when a child hugs his mother with that overwhelming love, the “mmmmmmm” sound that he makes when he grips her tightly is enough to bring tears to any good mother’s eyes. 

I wish to take a class.

Teach me, oh sage, treat me like a fool (I already feel one) but make me wise. Take this tongue and teach me to speak, if it is about nothing but this one thing… just this one.

How do you express this? What exclamation is sufficient? OH!? There is none. There is none. Yet each sentence, when I talk about my desire for this beautiful girl, I search for one. It is not a search that I despise, but will it ever be fruitful? I do not wish to blaspheme, I do not wish to be vulgar. Instead I wish to take this heaving of stomach, this thunder of heart, this fire that flows thru every part of me and make it fill the air above me. I feel certain then that it would echo in the mountains. 

Hmmm… no teachers? I will write instead then. I will write in verse and in prose and in song what cannot be said in a single word, and though I fail a million times, still I will write. 

Or maybe I will see if my lips know what my mind does not.

Bewitching girl, I have always spoken well enough. How is it that you leave me speechless?