A Naked Diarist

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_4_Sunrise.mid

white ledge to soften her edges,
untouched for more than a decade,
a naked diarist, she lights white candles
even in the daytime, she is sexually
intense against the white background,

what unimaginable white forces move
her, most will never know, she is like a
rare albino postage stamp you want to
lick, never sealing her white seepage,

Dear Diary~~~White GardeniaAugust 14, 2006

I've learned the random vicissitudes
of fate today, the fates, weavers,
Clothos, the spinner,
Lachesis, the measurer,
Atripos, the cutter of life's white thread,

I share an idealization of women as
attainable beings and worship women
with a devotion that seeks physical
gratification...I want to make her into
white cloth and roll on her, fuck all
spiritual and magical knowledge that
belongs to her.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Dust In The Wind: The Weighing Of The Feather Against The Heart Of Truth

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http://www.authorsden.com/adstorage/
29292/DustInTheWind.mid

the weighing of the feather against
the heart of truth lies in the saxifrage
flowers, arcane and ancient, papyrus
fragments of what is truth evolves into
powder through the filaments of time,

the immortal kiss of preening desire,
blown away as dust in the wind, the
nightingale of Oxyrhynchus leaves a
trace, a bookmark feather,

excavating rubbish mounds, kicking
up layers of soil with my boots, the
flow of papyrus soon becomes a torrent
in unequalled archive of an ancient
world mixed with earth, blown away
as lust...blown away as dust in the wind.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater,
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Looking For My Muse Bolero

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a nomad muse, she separates
a poetic moment from the
rest of mundane life,
I hold the muse in my mind,
of when she first appealed to me,

I am so thirsty, where is my
muse Bolero, the one not so
serene, but made of the colors
of The Dream, the one restlessly
back and forth at the easel,
the one who splashes paint the
color of dusty desire across my
canvass, under a gnarled pistachio
tree,

I open her folio of faux dreams of
aqua and terra-cotta, what is my
muse Bolero willing to trade for it,
I have pussy willows and green tea
in thimble cups,

{she paints with one hair...}

The Dream is nurturing the painter
and the poet, where is my muse Bolero,
the one who paints with a single hair,
the one who traces my pubic hair with
a brush with just one hair that makes
her immortal in a studio garden of iris
and sky of gold-leaf, frescoes here and
there, where is my muse Bolero...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater
http://home.earthlink.net/~sagesweetwater/

Scarborough Fair

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Your wings wrote in
scripture what your
future would hold,

you were the angel
child looking through
the creative soul of the
window,

will the people be
friend or foe,

herbs of parsley,
rosemary and
thyme,

angel girl child
come in from out
of the water so cold.

You are now a beautiful
woman living between
salt water and passionate
tide,

the one in whom I
confide,

you invented the
wisdom reaped from
the renaissance
sickle,

show me how to let
the dried heather
trickle from your fist
spreading the harvest
of our importance on
my breasts, let us go to
*Scarborough Fair once,

Your wings wrote in
scripture what your
future would hold,

A true love sage you
were told.


*Scarborough Fair---my analogy
for a "place" you will never forget my love~

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Respectful Silence

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adstorage/29292/
bjorn_lynne-no_survivors_.mid

Outside a tarp, you sit
rubbing your hair with
ghee. Fill a basin with
water and buttermilk.

I watch you take off
your blouse, pour the
mixture though your hair.

Squat over the basin to
wash beneath your skirt.
I'm told where to place
my fold-up cot, near the
women in purple turbans,
matching veils.

Unclothed now, except for
veil, you pull your cot
to mine, your scintillating
silver ornaments with flames.
Nakki clips the goats, winds
the hair into skeins.

Urgency in this tribe to watch,
you who they call Ratti Ben
(Sister of Blood). To see Ratti Ben
pleasure me, the female shepherds
pull out tiny glass vials of snuff to
'clean' their eyes. They rub it into
their eyes, causing them to water
copiously, the pain they go through
to watch two women.

The female shepherds on their knees
surrounding us, climbing each other
as it gets beyond risque against a black
backdrop of stars. The bonds between
the shepherds and Ratti Ben strengthened
like calcium laid down in a bone.

How comforting to pass through ritual
with the support of a group. The stars
swing past midnight.

"Take the goats and leave us."
Her passion for me fleeting, but
most tender of gestures, the same
lust across cultures. She left me
sore in the bones I didn't know I
had.

It is difficult affection which
separates us at the veil. It was
with a woman of India that I can
hear an echo from our common past.

She extracted something from me,
everything I had to leave. A moment
that touched the shadow of something
passionate, an articulate scream.
Gestural language is universal, so slowly,
we come ... We come to understand one
another.

Respectful silence.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Making Your Paper: Nights In White Satin

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Letters never meaning
to send, I make your
marbled paper, ebru,
Turkish word for cloud,

Marbled paper, 'security paper'
to prevent illicit change in your
passionate text 16th century,
you my love, are the art of marbling,
a decorative insert, Album Amicorum,
Prague, bookbinding material,

Marbling, depositing colors upon
your watery surface made thick
through starchy, gum tragacanth,
I mix ox gall, making your paper,

Letters never meaning to send
causing the marbled white satin
to expand into thin films that keeps
us from commingling with one
another,

Making your paper, I finish your
pattern with my finger after which
a sheet of paper is laid on you to
absorb the Turkish pattern hatip-ebrusu,
flower pattern named after Mehmet Efendi,
marbler and preacher hatip in the
Aya Sophia mosque,

I bring half of the sheet down over you
and you are subjected to pressure as I
brush you with eggwhites and polish
your white satin to give it a washed
appearance ... do you know how much
I adore passionate calligraphy?

Making your paper: Nights in White Satin ...
Letters never meaning to send ...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Rock Me Amadeus

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powdered wigs and
gilded carriages,
Mozart in Salzburg,

denim and silver
d-lash cargo rings,
your arrival, a pinnacle
of symphony, instruction
in organ, clavier, violin,
play me blindfolded,
hands free, concert from
6 to 12, contrapuntal,
in balance, shockingly
voluptuous, I feel the
center of your work,
comes deep, understanding
buffed in opera, ah, that piece,

famous legend will assert
the meeting of two composers, us,
Rock Me Amadeus, give the world
something to talk about, the
orchestra reaches quite the unusual
coda of the last movement, yet
another plausible, as Mozart whispered
to Ferdinand Ries while listening to
Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 24,
"We'll never think of anything like that!"

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Harping Again: The Rise Of Boyne Water

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http://www.authorsden.com/
adstorage/29292/theboyne.mid

using all fingers except
her pinky, too short to
effectively pluck,

the copper strings,
perpendicular to
soundboard, requiring
use of her hands, except
when she is playing me
concert harp, she pushes
my pedal with her feet,
the rise of Boyne water,

encouraging expressive
gestures, elbows parallel
to the ground, fluid wrists,
left arm resting on soundboard,
placing passionate emphasis on
special fingerings, on the wire
strung clarsach, a thumb under,
making a circle with thumb and
second finger, rolling the string,
releasing me...ah my tone articulation...
the rise of Boyne water,

I sigh, fingering her on Irish coinage
from the Middle Ages and the current
Irish euro,

I taste her on Guinness as a corporate
logo, she is Ireland's most famous drink,
harping again...

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Play Me

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adstorage/29292/playme.mid

*She was morning
And I was night time
I one day woke up
To find her lying
Beside my bed
I softly said
"Come take me."
*Neil Diamond~~

renewing the moments
of peace, Diamond knew
we were looking for it,

a waterfall so intense,
play me, standing
together midstream,
it is here standing that
I have heard the most
evocative sounds,

beads on waterlilies,
petals wide ,

we shower as ancient
Sumeria, supreme
expression of our
creativity, the sexual
ethos inspires erotic text,
"the opening lotus bud
perfumed like the lily that
has newly burst."

a religious-erotic discourse,
the Sumerian tableaux,
far more important than
carnal pleasure,

standing beneath our
waterfall, we are refined,
practised, and developed
to a level of sophistication
that we become a basis for
philosophical and religious
thought, play me...

*You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me.
*Neil Diamond~~

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

Cherokee Nation

Music
http://www.authorsden.com/
adstorage/29292/indian_reservation
_...dallasbugman.mid

raspberry bushes on the path
tear, bleed, and sweat.

fabled woman, animals never
fail her scent,

owl watches her from the
tree top,

on her way to the woman
with baskets and brooms,

Cherokee Nation sees the
rainbow flaming in the
clouds, their daugher is
on fire, there is little that
men can do her,

deflecting the advances,
the vocal dismay, she
continues on, stopping
to cut grass to soften
the controversy,

her pace is more than
that of a sauntering
buffalo in heat,

her lust is held in a
jute bag, buffeted by
political winds, inspired
by Wilma Mankiller,
the first woman Chief
of her Nation,

"I know why you have
come," says the woman
with baskets and brooms,

Cherokee Nation sees the
rainbow flaming in the
clouds, their daughers
are on fire,
there is little that men
can do them.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Tiffany Renaissance

dimarust.mid

stunning, opalescent
blue of a Tiffany work,
the light playing
upon your piece,

illuminating you from
the soul, cause and
wonder for me to sit and
think,

amber prismatic streaks
through your hair,
angelic vision of art,

mystical fourth dimension,
life-size depiction of a
church window in medieval
times, we are joined by
lead cames, or rods soldered
together as a vast prayer
in glass, the glorious union of
sunlight reflecting color,

your memory stays with me on
the door of the shower stall
influenced by your graceful lines,

and today's wine you pour into
a crystal goblet etched with
flamingo feathers while we talk
about Louis Comfort Tiffany's
versatility and what drove him
to nature and expressing nature
in his glasswork achieving special
effects by working color and texture,

and I too admire your art nouveau
style, stunning, opalescent blue of
a Tiffany work, the light playing
upon your piece, cause and wonder
for me to sit and think if you were
cut to fit a pattern ...

Copyright 2006, Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Losing My Religion: Beds Are Burning

Music
http://www.authorsden.com/
adstorage/29292/195.mid

Totally sexual altar,
she guards my cargo
from bandits,

My God, that's me in
the corner, that's me
in the spotlight,
losing my religion.

You lie naked,
scattered on the
mattress, exhausted
from wandering through
my spotlight of fame.

You hear the echoes of
my ancient city where
caravans of veiled women
paused to trade with me,
each one of them guarding
my precious cargo of books,
beads, and feathers, from
bandits, on to the next
watering hole of women.

Stopping to drink from
their wells, gathering
sexuality for the journey,
they're all waiting for me,
beckoning me like a distant
star, even the pretty camel
driver of two millenia ago.

I am so thirsty for it,
lots of it, what a relief
to have seen you on the
red sandstone ledge,
waving to me after paying
your toll.

My God, that's me in
the corner, that's me in
the spotlight, losing my
religion, with you ancient
Petra, with fluent fingers.

My God, that's me in
the corner, that's me
in the spotlight, losing
my religion, reorganized
into cooperative venture.

When I'm thirsty, out of
water, you're a good place
to know.

My God, that's me in
the corner, that's me
in the spotlight, losing my
religion, lying naked on the
mattress, cord attached to
your canteen, lowering it in
to your hole, filling my mouth
to the brim before I strike out
across the flint-strewn sand.
Come with me and my camel
driver from two millenia ago,
on to the next watering hole
of women.

My God, that's me in
the corner, that's me
in the spotlight, losing
my religion ...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater

Lesbian Stonemasons of Peru

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adstorage/29292/grenslvs.mid

I will always be a wandering soul, condor in higher flight, I will. The finest storyteller I am, I tell you this story. The finest Lesbian stonemasons in Peru build retaining walls of limestone granite, and diorite. They lay each other in uniform rectangles and regular courses, like bricks, cutting a slight bevel along each's edges. Even the most plain Lesbian stonemason escapes monotony.

~A Lesbian stonemason can produce half a ton a day, from the same materials her ancestors used, silt, sand, and water, to make bricks for their Lesbian city. Take this as a sexual metaphor. Fitting two stone Lesbians together is tedious---a matter of trial and error---to achieve a tight fit.

Lesbian stonemasons will be remembered for their strength and character, achieving degrees of skill and beauty and through many centuries, we have shaped one another, transporting each over rough terrain, fitting each with seamless perfection, retaining our power to amaze!

~The panpipes contribute to Lesbian stonemasons language. Ancient corn beer smells like apple cider. I witnessed your birth, condor and I hear the sandpaper hooves of the llamas packing drinking vessels and bronze prybars, tools of the Peruvian Lesbian stonemasons. Come with me, ancient Petra, to the next watering hole of women, as I strike out across the flint-strewn sand, and let me hear your voice made from the wing bones of a condor.

I find your image
woven into ancient
fabrics,

your voice, a panpipe
made from the wing bones
of a condor.

In hat and poncho,
you herd llamas along
a wind-eroded ledge.
I am a brickmaker,
a lesbian woman,
a desperado, building
a brick gateway to the sun,
stylized with motifs of the
condor and dice.

The condor and I are one,
lofty birds, wide-wing
seekers of higher places.

The dice and I are sexual
gamblers,

We roll for you, are your
numbers coming up?

When you drive your
llama herd by my
masonwork, I see your
nipples protruding through
your white satin blouse,
your poncho over your
shoulders, you're so hot.

I give you a dipper of
cool water and trace my
finger across your parched
lips, you say your name is
Greensleeves. I make a pair
of brick dice for you,
stamp the dots with my nipples
in the wet mud, imprinting me
to take with you.

You wash my nipples with the
brush dipped in water after I
stamp each numerical sequence,
so that I may stamp the next
sequence flawlessy ... one, two,
three, four, five .... six.

When the brick dice dry,
you, Greensleeves can rest
your nipples in the dot
indentations and we become
as one.

I find your image woven
into ancient fabric, your
voice, a panpipe made
from the wing bones of a
condor.

Renaissance.


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater

http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
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