Our Love [poetry]

We bedded with moss and leaf and sand
drenched in that evening’s rain;
a shimmering surf at our feet
where diamonds and poetry wept on ocean waves.

We stirred to passions rising in us,
caressing below an unwatched moon.

  • our
  • love
  • open
      no
      love
      closed
  • we
  • found
  • heaven
      in
      all
      disclosed

Your breath and sweat filled my senses
blossoming and mating with the heat;
like joyous roses in morning light,
they grew to swim in our ocean waves.

I consumed your fire and fed you mine—
even the trees shut their eyes.

Eleventh Hour Ebullience [poetry]

Late in the valley at a house with a ribbon on the door handle
She lies upstairs at the hall’s very end
Beating her pillow and lowing “you”

But it does not matter
He is more than her imagination
And she imagines the angels keep on him
Ride hard, cowgirl
Lead him with a dark all-over open-eye feature
Seen only in the moonlight of the mirror crying at the night

Aching
Eyes wide open
She knows well this feeling
Almost like dread
Anticipating the eleventh hour almost here

Sensations strengthen
Seconds crash like waves over her
Sweet surrender rocks her soul
Charging from its depth
Galloping over rivers unleashed

This tempestuous night sights him in her gaze
Trumpets sound
Around the bed
Unleashing her cries in the valley beyond the Sea

Human [poetry]

About being wrong:
Swallow it on down, you, deep down inside you.

I never implied that pride is never an embarrassing empty taste inside
We learn soon enough that the pain-lump we swallow can be rough
It shows on our faces, even while we try to hide the suffering we feel inside
Passions burn strong to find a purpose for deception

Don’t let your soul hollow for a reason to believe in the lies you have swallowed
Show your face well to all who are ashamed to look foolish
Remember to remember the bad end of a deal when you give every part of you that you can give
Belief and good intentions don’t always win you laughter, love and comfort

To never try again is to die of fear and fright
I give you warm space in the ice so you can grow
Swallow it up, you, deep warmth inside you
I give you again

It is only human to be wrong
Be human

Loving a Leanan Sidhe [fiction]

Sarah was 20 when she first met a Sidhe. Leanne O’Brian was new to the college campus. She was Irish and believed very much she was an actual descendant of a Leanan Sidhe (pronounced lan-awn she). She was beyond gothic-punk and World of Darkness games. She was real and beautiful and captivating, with long and flowing, silky black hair, creamy elfin face and skin, and a lithe and shapely body.

Leanne became Sarah’s roommate and fascinated Sarah with her Sidhe tales. Sarah knew little about the Leanan Sidhe, so she visited libraries and researched the creature who had captivated her interest 24/7. The Irish name Leanan Sidhe translates to “fairy, love of my soul,” which described Leanne perfectly. Sarah loved Leanne like a sister.

Irish folklore says Leanan Sidhe women are female empaths. Surely, Leanne felt Sarah’s love for her. Folklore also says the Sidhe are high status members of the fairy world because they look almost human. Utmost bedazzling women would be a better description.

On the religious platform, according to more folklore, all fairies are fallen angels of heaven and cursed by God, which was likely why Sarah’s friends scoffed when she told them about Leanne being a real fairy. Or it may have simply been that they did not believe in fairies. All the same, they warned Sarah to be careful. The Leanan Sidhe was, depending on whose books one drew from, a cousin to the vampire.

Sarah knew from her research that the Leanan Sidhe were vampiric. Instead of drinking blood, however, they are afflicted with the desire, and indeed the necessity to consume the living spirit of mortals. The Leanan Sidhe who tried to quit cold turkey, vanished, and was never seen or heard of again.

Sarah did not want Leanne to quit being what she was. With Leanne around, she became adept in art, music, and poetry. But Leanne barely seemed to notice her talents. She slept most of the time.

The day after Sarah’s twenty-first birthday, Leanne said goodbye. She was going home, back to Ireland to finish her studies.

Sarah ran to her, hugged her, and wept in their embrace. For a moment, two sharp teeth grazed the skin before Leanne kissed Sarah on a cheek. And then she got in the taxi and was gone.

That day, Sarah quit making art and music. Her daily poems are of the love she has for a certain Leanan Sidhe, nothing more.