| Bard Work |
| The Way of Kinship This collection of poetry was compiled from a reading of my work presented at the Spruce Creek Gallery near Wintergreen Ski Resort in Nelson County, Virginia in 2002. Because demand for a copy of the work was high, I prepared and printed professionally a good-sized run of the books. There are still some signed copies available direct from the author. Send a check for $10 to: Valarie Massie Watersun PO Box 307 Los Fresnos, TX 78566 This price includes postage and handling. Be sure and include a complete mailing address and allow four weeks for delivery. |
| More Bardic Work |
| Dragonmother of Dreams Dragons furl and Dragons soar around and about and over and over. Knuckled wings of leather stretch across air and unmatched scenery weaving a canopy of lore. Mibanda watches, mouth asmile. Love pulses from wizened ebon eyes for Dragons she adores. Her favored pet, a much-loved one, is tiny Pirs with wings crystal -- he of the piping roar. They've lived a life of adventure these courageous two for all this time before. But now age has faded them unto a well-worn gloss. Heroic days live no more. And yet the memories linger smolder old fires within, making them hunger for wars. Old they may be but extinguished -- never! There must be something more. Then along the hillside, all blond curls with fuzzy gaze alight, strolls a small child. His dimpled hands clasp together, his round head jerks this way and that keeping the circling Dragons in sight. So wrapped in Dragondream is he, Mibanda sits unnoticed at first then he snares her with his eyes. Oh, says he, are you Mibanda? Dragonmother so brave and strong? You are, you are, I must be right. Who else could call the Dragons to dance about her head in perfect peace, with nary a fight? Mibanda smiles wider and the Dragons scream with glee. Yes, she replies, yes, you are right, I am Dragonmother Mibanda. Come, sit...sit here beside me, I can't see your face so high. So he moves a little closer, beneath the Dragons aloft and settles down with contented sighs. Shall I tell you a story? asks she with a wise grin, Perhaps a short lie? One palm cups her chin and she begins to talk far into the night. The child sits enraptured, Dragonmaster in the making, eyes agleam with mist from Dragonlight. And, as gray dawn smudges the sky, Mibanda's tales fade out. The boy-child stirs, starts in fright. Mibanda soothes as Dragons sing their joy in a future assured. They wheel and frolic in the sky For a seed has been planted a Dragonmaster's been sown, and someday when he's higher someday when he's grown, he'll take his love of Dragons and the words of Mibanda so wise to seek out new adventures, and with a new Dragon of his own, become a hero in his own right. Mibanda watches the child away tears moisten cheeks of old stone. Aged she may be and not quite as strong but yet it's only a start. Life doesn't end with inaction, or age, or disease, or shunning, or the death of one part. Mibanda begins the cycle again and her Dragons see this truth as they cry and circle and dart. She's only made the transition from Mibanda, maker of legends to Mibanda, inspirer of hearts. The Man of the Cloth They say she ran off with a man of the law. Wonder if I know him Small world smaller town though truthfully there’s more lawyers here than any one town could need She left behind a man of the cloth a passel of children half-grown I wonder about how it happened The man of cloth used to use his cloth to sort his seeds for next years bumper crop of a weed not legal but green tender nevertheless She used to help him in between growing children and foodcrops and memories once serving a term in Washington DC the cute little page met and feted all kinds of politicians Yet I bet she had to climb on the man of the cloth coaxing his stupor to erection just so she could frustrate and believe it was certain democratic mavens that split her open and juicy with their pant and tussle The man of the law might know a think or two more than her old man of the cloth and the money's about the same but I'll be watching to see how long it is before she has to climb on him (C) 2007 Valarie Watersun All rights reserved. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from Valarie Watersun. Permission to download this file for personal use only is allowed. |
| Easter 2000 Your hands against me— the music of fluttering birds arcing in ballet a crescendo and release Sense of your body tightening as swelling buds bloom into color moist petals amniotic beneath coaxing fingers The final first cry of birthing sounds and grows and birds from Escher flowers fly on petal wings of orchid Sweet With Queen Honey nectar flowing fast heated by sly eyes blazing night's fire Desert winds fail to parch a well unending and sweet - sweet with Queen Hot passion scalds Eagerly she searches; Sapphic student seeking archaeology's truth A small cave - Wisdom to explain the heat A truth to satisfy all that seeker seeks Honey nectar shows the way guides with the heat of a hundred fires And when the fiery source reveals, truth is wrapped amid heaving thighs of love Sapphic student steps through a veil and finds solace in good passion's wail and sees the truth of ancient wisdom all heat is found in a woman's Queendom And the Beer Spilled Your gaze spoke to me reached and shook me from across the room. I knew it was you. Yes, you were the one. And when we came together the earth spoke deep. It was the eyes held hard and fast yearning, burning silent voice. I was there and you were there same place same time Arms wrapped, pulled close Kisses rampant and hot. And the beer spilled on the floor. What Should Be Images trouble Sara. Hot moist lips pressed to her curving neck Heavy wet thighs snuggled horizontally alongside her own Reality troubles Sara. Cold bedrooms sterile, void of life and love The awesome chores of day and the careful milk wiped from tiny, expressive faces are no match for the promise found in rapturous, writhing sleekness and whispered confidences in the night When She Did Often I remember the little girl of me wearing warnings in her hair rules and regulations in each fold of her dress. Little girls don't, a plain and simple truth but if they do when they do the loss is priceless I think about when I did about each time I did and the loss encountered there priceless - mourned That fearful little girl of me who did what she did when she did already tasting the offense a bitter juice upon her tongue older now with eyes sharpened by the acrid spit of loss I can watch the little girl and see what she did when she did was as natural as walking a toddler's tentative step toward inexorable death priceless - mourned And the little girl of me who did what she did when she did wasn't the bad girl who shouldn't but the little girl who did and that's what will matter knocking at death's final door. (C) 2007 Valarie Watersun All rights reserved. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from Valarie Watersun. Permission to download this file for personal use only is allowed. |
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