The Sacrifice: part III of the ballit

All quiet in gentle slumber lies she, dream wrap’t, serene;
Gossamer veil shyly caressing breast and nipple;
As her very breath brings sweet disorder,
To hair now coyly playful, woken from its rest.

She sleeps on heedless, so it seems, but then,
Heedless of her mood, demanding nipples wake,
As to touch of silk; hardening they rise and breasts,
Gently swell in harmony with a murmured sigh.

She stirs, her movement wakes the night,
Where bardic lover drifts in reverie;
Conjuring softest melodies to wake the soul
Of those who long to hear his magic lay.

On strands of starlight glow he travels,
Seeking, ever seeking, that which desire,
Tells him awaits, where night’s velvet folds
Meet dream-conjured shore.

And there she lies, where phosphorescent sea,
Meets white crystal sand, and gently, gently
Lap the wavelets; where all is quiet, save for
The whispered longing of her heart.

Sly now, the bard motions with his fingers,
Plucking magic’s tune from scented air;
Notes of purest light around her ankles bind her;
Her breathing quickens, lips part in silent sigh.

And still with magic would he bind her,
Calves, thighs, the notes more urgent now;
The melody ensnares her sleeping senses,
And rapture now begins her siren song.

Like butterflies, the bardic fingers fly and flicker,
Swift at first, now slow, a stately minuet,
He conjures, around her navel dancing,
The light fantastic, as hips unbidden move.

And now, now the music quickens, fingers
Drawing rhythm from breast and belly;
The adored one stirs, lips parting,
As the wavelets of her dreams begin to rise.

More urgent now, they lap the shoreline,
Rising and falling with the tune,
Cadence, chorus, cadence, rising, falling,
Fingers soft as moonlight pluck at her soul.

Emboldened, bardic fingers pluck bravely now,
On Ishtar’s yielding hill a merry tune he plays;
Stroking, teasing, rhythm ever faster,
Waves louder now, rising to the moon.

With gentle strokes her cunny thus he teases,
To tempt the Goddess from her curtained bower;
He smiles, she moans, the Goddess quickens,
Yearning for touch of finger, for lover’s breath.

And now he draws aside the curtain, the Goddess,
Swollen now with longing, begs for his tongue,
Or any sort of worship – legs strive to part,
But bardic bonds bind fast, the sea rises.

Then, then, sweet rapture as fingertips,
Hard and smooth from tunes upon the strings,
Of lyre and lover pluck and stroke,
The Goddess from her sanctuary to entice.

The waves now sound a paean of triumph,
Victory in sight for bardic skill;
But look, the starlit bonds are broken,
Legs part, hips rise, breath quickens.

Breakers now, where once wavelets lapped,
Breath harsher as the bardic draws,
His swollen baton softly o’er her eyelids,
As fingers hold the swollen Goddess in their thrall.

And then, then, the sleeper wakes, thrusting
Hard with hands at lover’s chest;
She mounts him biting, kissing, moaning,
The Goddess must be appeased.

Crashing waves now would smother,
The sounds of her ecstatic release;
Her muted scream as bardic lover offers,
The sacrifice to Ishtar’s handmaiden.

Wet now her cunny, soft again her breasts;
The bard moans, and smiles; lips part,
As in supplication he offers a tender kiss,To Ishtar in her sacred bower.

The Dream: part II of the ballit

In soft of night, he wakes; gently roused from slumber
By visons which, like scented mist rise, and curl,
Like hair that is by lover’s touch caressed.

The magician bard stirs in velvet dark, naked, smiling;
His eyes part the curtain, star-pierced, the sky,
Becomes a pathway for his thoughts.

His thoughts soft whispers then become; yet unheard
Except by she, who languid in the scented night
Waits for that she knows is yet to be revealed

The playful one – this bard who keeps an ancient truth –
Stirs in his bed and with breath as gentle and as sharp
Her languid breast he teases into wakening

And though in truth so far from him, she feels his touch;
Nipples rise in union with his playful lust,
And then her toes his magic seeks.

Soft, soft, she feels him, stroking fingers drawing sounds
From within her very being; her heart begins to sing,
The paean of women through the ages

Soft at first, and faint, the murmured cadence, but then,
His fingers quicken, take melody from calf and thigh,
Her cunny, in all its scented beauty, sighs

And there in her sacred bower, the little Goddess stirs,
Lily-like she rises, peeking coyly from within,
Wicked fingers cease, he whispers…”Soon”

Lay the first

A cotton shift interrupts a bard and so is brought to life, a ballit of the oldest kind.

And what pleasure does the balmy air of autumn bring,
When breezes soft caress the thoughts and sing,
Sing low of nights of scented air,
And touch of lover’s hand?

Look yonder, over there
A vision walks, dream-floated
Into view, her cotton shift can scarce conceal –
From he with eyes to see – a want, a need, scarce real.

Yet there the bardic soul (he who sits and watches from the shade),
While deft fingers lift the lay his wish has made,
From strings stretched scarce as taut,
As the vision’s wistful thought.

Who knows, who sees, who feels,
Who smells in cotton’s grip the flower,
That longs to bloom to please those with soul to view,
And wilt when spent as lilies in the night, its vigour to renew.

Ah, see, at last she turns her head, perhaps she’s heard in song,
The promise of the bardic soul to make her strong
Yet soft, soft, soft as swelling breast,
That moves beneath her shift.

Look, near to him she draws,
In purest light her hair is bathed,
Though playful breasts would show their scant regard
For any but the music plucked from heart and soul of heedless bard.

‘Kind sir,’ says she, and sits demurely nigh, the shift tucked below
The fabric stretching, taunting those without the soul to know
For innocent, so innocent it seemed
For those without a song.

‘Kind sir,” she says again,
‘You play so well. You lift me up on air
‘Of longing, yet it seems that you, sir, live on dreams. If not,
‘What strengths have you? Or are love and longing something you’ve forgot?’

In a past life?

We once swam together, you and I;
In some viscous, tropic sea, aglow
With phosphorescence; corals spread
In vivid chaos, like rumpled bedding
Beneath our naked bodies.

I felt your legs brush mine; soft
As the touch of lapping wavelets and so
I stroked your stomach, watching
As your wriggled, magic sea-thing
Beckoning me to follow as you swam to shore

Where, caressed by wavelets, you took me
Into your being, rising and falling with the sea
And as you came, you cried in joy, to feel
The wavelets lap us, claiming what we’d given…

The moon smiled and earth turned once more.