The Birth of Venus

As written a year ago in a café in Florence.

Upon a seashell she appears
Resplendent in her nudity;
On the seashore she’s waited years
Demurely in the Uffizi.

Today I met her, still undressed,
As thousands gazed upon her form;
Her birthday clothes her Sunday best,
Let’s hope the sunshine keeps her warm.

I wonder if she’ll ever go
Clothes shopping with her lady friends;
If she does, I wish that she’ll know
When form begins and fashion ends.

So good luck Venus when it’s time
For you to step off your seashell;
You’re clearly still right in your prime
From all the world, we wish you well.

[Image source: Sandro Botticelli – La nascita di Venere – Google Art Project – edited” by Sandro Botticelli – Adjusted levels from File:Sandro Botticelli – La nascita di Venere – Google Art Project.jpg, originally from Google Art Project. Compression Photoshop level 9.. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons]

Becoming Less Verbal

You turned to me in desperation
So I spun you a tale of my past;
My old quartet my inspiration
For events now reframed and recast.

A great big fish you hoped to hook
But your eyes couldn’t see the whole truth;
The perpetrator you mistook,
My performance, affected uncouth.

With Dean you were a man obsessed
So my story convinced, I’m now free;
Let every last detail attest-
You are simply not smarter than me.

You missed your shot like other men
Now you’ll never hear from me again.

Stages: III

I am a sword
A chord
A chalked up blackboard
Of pointedness, minor in scale;
On your words beached
Sunbleached
My life essence leeched
A lunatic class I can’t fail.

The Compleat Westeros Bastards

There once was a sellsword named Sand
The quickest in all of the land;
She disabled her foes
With her very first blows,
They weren’t half as good with one hand.

~

There was a young squire named Stone,
A craven who had no backbone;
When told he must fight,
He tried to take flight,
So out of the Moon Door was thrown.

~

There was a keen sparrow named Rivers
Whose militant faith gave him shivers;
He butchered and swore
Defending the poor,
He prayed that the Gods would forgive us.

~

There was a handmaiden named Hill
Whose Lordship she wanted to kill;
She waited for rain,
Then poppied his brain
And stabbed his eyes out with a quill.

~

There was once a mad bastard named Pyke
Who when raiding decided to strike;
He wanted more gold,
Demanded tenfold,
So his head went on top of a spike.

~

There once was a woman called Flowers
Who possessed supernatural powers;
Although she grew stronger,
The Maesters refused her,
So blew up the Citadel towers.

~

There was an old Goldcloak named Waters,
Survivor of multiple slaughters;
He lived through wildfires
And Aerys’ pyres
But died at the hands of his daughters.

~

There was a skilled hedge knight called Storm
Who fought for a blue uniform;
When confronting the Maid,
Her full beauty displayed,
Was senseless and couldn’t perform.

~

There was a young bastard named Snow
Who thought he could fly like a Crow
He jumped from the Wall,
The ground broke his fall,
The Wildlings enjoyed his short show.

Westeros Bastards: Sand

There once was a sellsword named Sand
The quickest in all of the land;
She disabled her foes
With her very first blows,
They weren’t half as good with one hand.