| If if please you, good ladies and lords, press the heavenward arrow in the upper right hand of this garish illumination for to allay its intrusion upon your fine sensibilities! ~> |
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| Rosamunde del Shore | |||||||||||||||||||
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| Abondance: Diversion, Escape, Spirited | |||||||||||||||||||
| Persona Poems Songs Tales Manifest of the Court of Open Love | |||||||||||||||||||
| Diversion Whence, love, in me, dost thou infer demand? Thou offerest little, and stakes thee naught, Yet sweetest aye to me are gifts unsought, Borne in the largesse of an empty hand. See, on me I wear no confining band, No snare he plac'd whereby thou may'st be caught... And if thy goads and barbs have shown me aught, The liberty is mine that thou hast spurn'd. I own I've prov'd myself at dalliance, And tasted of frivolity and sport. So if a sharpen'd conscience pricketh thee Some tender spot in our brief alliance, Look how thou prize thyself, pay thyself court: Thy worth I know is more than sport to me. Escape (a response to a poem entitled "Today's Dance," by W. Killen, which in turn responds to "Partnering" in my Deferrance sequence) Whose briars are real, and who hath wildly leapt Into the thick and thicket of 'em, hey? And who would flee fescue, the bright hard day... Who into twilight nebulous hath crept? Did I plead pity for one tear I've wept? Or have these taunts been proferred to sway Me from my own spirited destrier, Entangl'd in knight's cloak, taken and kept? My sword I yielded freely, to take up Truths stripp'd of all contention or vain wit, No longer being content merely to spar Or guide these aimless prances by stirrup. Bareback Godiva, spurning her lord's bit, Surrender'd to the risk, to seek her star. Spirited Once more hast thou bolted, noble steed! No barding needed I to get thee up, Nor any blinders, baffles, nor a crop Thy valiant blood to quicken, did I need. Why am I not well-mounted then, indeed, Astride thee and away at full gallop? Thou fightest free, thou fleest, and I stop; For though I pant with lust, I shy at greed. Thou art away. The fingers of my hands Are empty of thy mane, but idle not, Employ'd in solace, healing to assay, I stroke and smooth and soothe the frayed strands Of thoroughbreds from daunger all distraught. Betimes so would I tend thee, did thou stay. Rosamunde del Shore A.S.XXXIII |
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