In the Wake...

[anirbas]

From foul evil slain
something good of it
may yet be reborn-
the birthing of a blithe
gifted spirit of the winds-
good following in the wake of bad

By the murderous hand of Perseus-
did not the drip, drip, drip
the spewing forth of Medusian blood
pouring into the seeking
mouth of the ground-
in the melding of liquid
copper, iron and earthy loam-
produce a skill gifted being
of character and honor
par excellence?

Never forget Pegasus,
sprang full grown and whole
from the ground
Suckled and nurtured
by Medusa's tainted
and spilled blood

From foul evil slain
something good of it
may be reborn
Some blithe gifted
spirit of the winds

May yet grow from ichor stained soil

Good following in the wake of bad

~Sabrina.

[anirbas]

~Minerva and Pegasus

Who knows why a goddess chooses
to do the things she does?
No less than with Minerva...

Happenchance, when she and Neptune
vied for possession of old King Cecrops
ancient town, though Minerva won the god decreed
contest with her simple olive, proclaimed
the most useful gift produced for humankind
by she or washed up Neptune...

Perhaps, though fair and square,
the god declared competition she'd won...
In reality, Minerva had coveted for her own,
the gift Neptune had presented, instead;
though lost the game with it, he had-
a beauteous quadropedic being,
Neptune had crafted and wrought,
with but a bang, of his triton,
upon the ground...

Possibly,
when she looked into the heavens,
that day and spied the winged equinic beauty
of Pegasus, Minerva was reminded of the first horse,
she'd laid eyes upon, when in competition,
for old King Cecrops ancient town.

Every bit as graceful,
as the being Neptune had caused to be...
But, better...A horse with wings!
A thouroughbred born from the blood
of the damned to race the skies,
like a good intention, born
from the last thought of evil...

Could be, she just felt challenged that day...
No one left alive, that could say...
All we know, is wise Minerva took to the skies,
and pursued Pegasus, til she caught
him, tamed him, and made him her own.

Once more, who knows why a goddess
chooses to do the things she does?
For after the dauntless task
of catching and gentling
a winged stallion,
she turned around
and bequeathed
the skilled beast
to the Muses...

Which, for poets,
was a good day...

As with but a kick from one
of his cloud dancing and skimming hooves,
Pegasus opened the Hippocrene fountain,
on Mt. Helicon, the home of the Muses!

And we all know, what a single,
potent sip, from the Hippocrene fountain,
can do for a poet, when gifted to him
or her, by a sympathetic Muse...

Break a mental dry spell,
devoid of inspirationing...
Cleave writer's block liquidically
into halves, bits and pieces...
With but a swig of this magical draught...

And, though I have no idea,
why a goddess does the things she does...
As a poet, I'm fond of Minerva; nay, honored,
thankful for the time she took to catch Pegasus...

For without Pegasus, the Hippocrene fountain,
might never have been opened...And instead
of poets, beloved mortal wards of Minerva's
Musian harem, we might all be considered
simply the ranting village idiots...


~Sabrina.

[anirbas]

~Condemnation

Ever do I thrist, ever do I hunger-
for that which I shall never procure.

Waist deep in a selectively receding flash flood;
upturned nose olafactorially tempted mercilessly
by a bounty of animated fruit with a mind of it's own.

Condemned for eternity, to mournfully hanker
for that which shall never be mine...
Once upon a time, back in the day,
I was known as King Tantallus;
but, in Hades, I'm now laughingly
addressed as the King of Pain.

Ever do I thrist, ever do I hunger-
for that which I shall never procure.

~Sabrina

[anirbas]

~Conversations with a Centaur

I sit here, behind a bush.
Pad and pen in hand,
on my tush.
Observing cute, little satyrs,
bounding and cavorting.
Concealed in my screen,
of leafy green secretivity.
What's that? I spy over there?
A being I thought never to see!
Mercy! Mercy me! Oh my stars!
My mind is sent,
reeling and spinning,
and back again!
As a proud Centaur male,
steps boldly-
Nay! Arrogantly!
from the forest, at the edge,
of this vertigreen bespelled glade.
My eyes wide,
flooded with his magnificence,
I think-
surely a finer speciman, such as he,
was never made!
What luck, the happenchance!
To be privy,
to this intimate, otherworldly glance!
Twenty hands high, he stood!
And that was from hoof to wither!
Brawny forearms and biceps,
crossed his lightly furred chest.
Shoulders so wide,
why, my vessicles fluttered inside!
Pitter patter, in a dither!
There's just something about
a male Centaurian!
Pierces the heart of a human woman.
A sharp, stiletto of fear,
for her bodily safety!
And sharper, still, longing...
Especially, when that
randy Centaur, is stepping out,
from his marely herd, solo.
Further than he aught!
He's the stallion!
He should know!
There, to protect and to serve!
Not meander along, a solitary stag.
His eyes on the horizon.
Thinking, for once,
of absolutely nothing, and no one.
To stumble into a bush!
Staring with green eyes,
surprisedly at him,
at his bumble!
A pad and a pen,
grasped in it's barky twigs...
Wait. No, that's hands!
Yikes! That's me!

Toweringly, he stands, over me!
Glaring down, menacingly!
As I look up, up, up!
Neck bending,then bent.
To visually encompass the
heigth and breadth of him!
Now, up close!
Inches,from me!
Plopped in a bush, on my tush.
My only weapon,
a pad of paper and a pen!
I do not flinch!
I dare not look away!
I stare right back, up at him.
A drop of sweat,falling
from the tip of my upturned nose.
To drip.
On my upper lip.
The quivering heat, rising
from my agitated, helpless body.
Strengthens the scent
of my perfume.
And vanilla musk wafts
about and above me.
Drat! Now he will know I am scared!
If I can smell it,
I know, beastly he, can doubly sniff it!
Will he, sensing my fear and confusion,
wrap me on the noggin?
With those Percheron sized hooves?
Giving me a concussion, with a contusion?
In that hushed moment,
in the glen.
Even the satyrs have
laid aside their gamboling.
To stare, at this magnificent creature!
Waiting expectantly,
to see what the Centaur's
next move will be!
I am helpless!
As my mind gins,
racing to free my ass!
Or is it, free my mind,
and my ass will follow?
Somebody help me,
in this emerald hollow!
Drat! What have I yet,
and now, gotten myself into?
Allowing my intellectual curiousity,
to lead me, willy-nilly.
As my rear dragged along
in the vanguard of my thoughts.
Watching a pair of rare, satyrs.
This, now to be my end?
Hauled from a bush
by his long fingered, grasping hands!
Held by my shoulders, powerfully.
A rag doll, held at arms length.
My toes pointing vainly,
to reach terra firma, again.
As we stare at one another.
I, in fright. Stilled, in horror.
He, first, curiously, inspectively.
Then, seductively, introspectively...
Hey, I've seen that look before!
That gleam in the eye, that says:
"I'm going to grab you!
Squeeze the breath out of you
just enough to stun you!
Then, throw you over my broad back.
Off with you, gallop!
And you will be, my willing victim.
Though you will still have
the power of choice!

To stay the ride of the course,
over which I drag you.
Or let go.
And fall beneath my flailing hooves!"
I still cannot move.
But that leering shine in his eyes,
has brought forth my voice.
"Let me get this straight.
My choices, are death or rape?
Whoa, hoss! Now, just hang on, a dratted minute!
Let's think about this.
Can we talk a second?
Is this really what you want, to do to me?
Rip and tear, or stomp me to death?
For any logical mind can see
with the likes and size of you,
I would be out of my league.
And so would you!
Were you to force me into,
a grapple and a topple!
How's about, you set me down?
And I will share with you, instead,
what's left of my cranberry snapple?
And some wittily, lively conversation?
Isn't that what your really looking for?
Intellectual intercourse?
And that way, neither of us,
would be none the worse.
Especially me!
Throughout our happenchance
meeting's discourse.
Then, you could go back to
being what you do best.
A literal, horse's ass!
And when I finally regain my senses,
and stumble out of here,
back to my world.
In appreciation,
of you magnanimous gesture.
Sparing me, in this glade,
the brunt of your callow,
physical frustrations and yearnings,
for something different...
About you, a poem I will pen!
Maybe, an epic, even!

-Sabrina

[anirbas]

~The Arrowed Roe

Once upon a time,
neither yours nor mine-
a fleet, silvern hooved roe
sprinted and danced,
on her delicate,
spindly legs;
through and
around an
elfshot
glade
of emerald
grasses.

The little roe,
jigged, jived and jumped,
about in the sunlit clearing
of the grassy meadow. Skirting
the shadows cast by the various
trees ringing the magical glen.
A meadow oft visited,
by the strangest of beings,
of which this tiny speciman,
was the least complicated of.

For this being had but only
two things on her mind-
to dance, dance, dance-
and to eat all the succulent
blades of tender grass shoots
and summer berries, she could find.

Not a scary, titanic beast this one...
Not a crafty wood sprite, fair fain fey faery;
nor a fantasizing dreamer, of a quill gripping,
gullible humanoid female, looking for a story,
or an inspiration, to hang a thread
of a thought upon...

Just a quadropedic ballet dancer,
executing hops, plies, skips and glisandes;
across the secret, vert grassed, magically
tree shouldered and ringed glade.
Her dark, almond shaped eyes,
shining with the glee of
living, breathing and dance!
Dance! Dancing on the tips,
of her filigreed silvern hooves!
Sometimes, tapping them together,
with a click, click, click.

The fast, silent sound, of an arrow,
fitted to a well made bowstring
of twisted gut and sinew,
reached her ears,
but a moment
to late...
And no matter how
fast the roe could dance
and run, she couldn't escape,
the sound that followed...
The one that halted her dead
in her tracks in a graceful
mid-jump, meant to take her
out of danger...
Slith! Went a sound that
sliced through her cranium,
like a hot knife through butter.
Thwock! Went the sound that followed it!
Leaving the little roe, shot, struck and stuck;
a clean, straight through the head kill;
slammed high up on the trunk of the
deadliest tree in this fold
of the mountain...Or the
vicinity, for that matter.
What luck had this dear little roe!
What bad luck that is! To be shot,
not in the heart, by a valentinic,
cherub's plaything, from which,
she might have recovered,
with just a scratch...

But to be shot, through
the head, by the well made and
feathered, chironic arrow of a
Centaurean soldier and warrior.
In that moment, no longer a
glade dancer and prancer-
just meat on the plate, dinner.
Not even dessert...

What double dratted, vile dark luck,
must follow this poor, doomed doe-child!
To be missed by an appolloyonic device
of entertainment...And hit by a chironic
device of blind fulfillment of gastronomic
delights and needs...
She might have outdanced the first,
simply out of the league of such toys...
But there was no outdancing the latter arrow.
It was a fatal shot...Slammed and delivered,
without compunction or mercy on the deliverer's
part. Slith! That sound that filled the
roe's delicate cranium, with a hole;
shot clean through with daylight.
Whizzing her, against her will,
to-Thwock! Find herself nailed
to a tree to dance one last
horridly slow, macabre
dance, before she
took her last
breath;
in this her,
cherished and favored glade.

Imagine, the feeling of her indignity!
Struck in the brainpan, tagged to the
most merciless tree in the glen-a
mesquite tree...Now, reaching for
her, with it's hide rending,
scratching and tearing
talons...What ironic
luck! To be snared and
trapped through the mazard
with deadly macerating hazard;
impaled through her imagination,
by a flaming chironic arrow,
of all things! Caught in an
arboreal nightmare, in the
arms of a flesh eating tree!

Her blood spewing and spilling,
from myriad, deep thorn gashed
rips in her flesh; even as her
last thoughts, spewed out the
hole she hadn't needed extra,
in her happy to dance, little head.
Awaiting the final indignity,
the huntsman, could level
against her...the slashing
of the slim column of
her throat, as the
Centaur drank
her blood,
in orgiastic,
killing field,
delight...

And then she woke up...
Once upon a time...
And being the dragonfly
she was, she simply lifted
into the azure sky, on an
updraft of wind, and flitted
away, until she disappeared
on the far horizon, with
a glitter and a glimmer
of gossamer wings...
Never to be seen,
in this neck
of the woods
again; in
any way,
shape,
or fashion;
as anything...
a doe-child of a roe...
or a wannabe dragon
of a dragon fly...

The End...


-Sabrina.

[anirbas]

~Sprite

In the creek,
where sometimes,
I go for nature walks.
Providing it is the right time,
of year of course,
no snakes about,
to stick out their snout,
and bite me!
You would never guess,
what I have seen,
slipping about my garden,
later than others might,
in the middle of the night.
Maybe that is why,
I was gifted with the chance,
to see her,
when the creek ran high,
and a bloatedly round moon,
rode the black sky,
no one else was up,
and she never suspected,
upon her ritual,
of rebirthed delight,
there was a spy.
I stood in the shadows,
beneathe the humongously
spread crown,
of a Catalpa tree,
inhaling the scent,
of blooming four o'clocks,
fanning out from it's huge trunk.
I doubt she saw me,
or I dare say,
I would not have seen her...
as she wriggled then rose,
from the mud created by the rain,
and the rising waters,
of the swollen creekbed.
There beneathe the weeping willow,
on the far side of the bank.
Her skin was olive,
her eyes glimmered jade,
in the shimmering silvern beams,
of the bright moonlight.
Her hair fell to her knees,
in a shade of vertigreen,
streaked with wide bands
of platinum.
Her calves and arms,
were covered in creekbed mud,
her tresses hid her other charms.
As she raised her hands,
to the sky,
as I had just been doing myself,
before her, I did spy,
moving, from the corner,
of my disbelieving eye-
I noticed, she was webfingered,
and silver nailed.
I guess the better to swim with,
as were her feet,
as webbed as her hands,
which I saw,
as she dove into
foaming dark water,
and disappeared,
from my wondering sight.
Just a creek sprite,
I had born witness,
to the birth of,
in the middle
of the star shot night.

~Sabrina
7/2004

Disclaimer: I not certifiable, yet. LOL I didn't really see
a sprite, per se...I had a what if I saw moment...
Ms. Sprite, is a figment of my imagination...
And now, yours, too...LOL...

[anirbas]

*just some of my old mythologically based poeming*

~she might have heard...

the song electricing
from apollo's pouting lips
she might have heard
if he hadn't been shouting
the word
me!me!me!me!me!
over and over and over!

her sensuality
might have been awakened
by his godly fingertips.
had he but asked!
instead he demanded
to touch what was not his!

now she wears a roughened silver shroud.
and laughs within all the rings of herself.
as she listens with merriment
to apollo crying aloud.
bemoaning still
not getting what he wanted
when he wanted it.
after preying upon her
like a vicious hunter.
instead of a prospective lover...

the irony was,
she'd always been his.
for the asking, but not the taking...

Sabrina.
1/21/2004

[soulfir3]

don't know how i missed this one, but WOW!!! super writing. Ill be back with a more coherant response.. as soon as the caffeine kicks in . x Soul

[anirbas]

hello, sweets...you didn't miss anything...i just threw this last poem in several hours ago...
it's not been in here long...thanks millions...i think i had to much coffee today...*t-he*
can't sleep now...soooooooooooooo, what else is new? LOL x's backatcha! Nir.

[anirbas]

~*Fairytales, per se...*~

Once upon a time, neither yours nor mine;
a tired Titan wandered down
from the olympianic
heights of a mountain.
Possibly suffering
a debilitating case of ennui;
or just plain and simple boredom;
aimlessly, the Titan meandered,
tho' not lost; trekking
without fear of hazard
to his griseled,
demi-god's mazard.

This Titan was out looking
for a change of pace; a shift in the terrain;
elusive peace of blithering mind; or maybe,
a cool, invigorating drink of crystal
clear water; to be slurped by the cupped
handfuls, from the valley spring,
below the craggy jaw,
of the mountain tall,
he'd vacated in his vacuity.
A glimmering silvern thread of a spring;
bubbling, giggling and skipping
it's liquidic way around,
the edge of the magic shot glen;
over smoothly skinned,
platinum, pewter and silver stones.

Having achieved the locus
of his titanically sharp focus,
the demi-god slaked his mighty thirst.

Not aware, once you dring the water,
from a magic shot spring,
you start to soon thereafter,
see things...

This fantasitical glade and aqueous rivulet,
being somewhat, of a Hippocrene Fountain...

The Titan sat upon an ebony boulder;
to catch his breath; mayhap even ponder
the intricacies of the cosmos;
or the blooming sickness of being human.
Who knows? Only him, for certain...

Howsomever, the magical liquid
he'd just ingested, started
kicking in. Two stepping
through his bloodstream,
like a Shania Twain song;
as he perched his arse,
on his rockhewn throne.

Zounds! The Titan started seeing things!
Surmising he was not alone; as originally believed.
Drat! No rest for the wicked or the weary demi-god;
he may even have mused to his titanic self,
spying these otherworld things...
Finding his chosen solitude
beseiged and surrounded,
by a plethora of strange
and wonderfully bedecked beings;
of all likenesses, manner and mein...

Seeing and hearing things, I might add!
Pastel skinned, hymn humming angels,
soaring on the wing, betwixt and between
the dome of the heavens,
and the lip of the horizon;
above the tree circled and crowned meadow.

Witches, wizards and dragons
of every shape and hue;
strolled laconically
around the gladed clearing.

Dark and Light elven folk
milled and mulled about.
The nascent variety
clinging to the blessedly
shadowed scrub beneath,
the thickly leafed trees.

Vespidic fairies,
as dual natured as they were
diminutive and luminescent;
flitted, flattered and fluttered;
here, there, everywhere;
in arcs and orbs
of buttery, shimmery smears.

Soul soothing water nymphs
with never a contrary word flowing
from their blue tinged mouths;
froliced in small schools,
in the rippling, shallow pools;
of the singing, chuckling, gurgling
spring's banks and inclined edges.
And on top of all these, Titan mind boggling, splendiferous oddities; what was that?
Adding to the susurus of verbal cacophony?

Blithering, composure wrecking, irate,
arguementative, tree hugging wood sprites!
Hiphopping about the meadow
in the gargantuan impressions,
other gigantic Titans'
big feet had made
at some point,
in the distant past;
the present Titan,
now saw...
Mayhap, even Atlas?
He idly wondered...

These impudent, olive toned sprites,
though last but not least,
on this list of oddities;
got on the aqueously drugged,
Titan's last nerve;
with unswerving verve!
All that racket they made!

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Whatever
was a solitary, exhausted giant
to think of this raucously merry,
polyglot cast and crew?
Their Never Never Land
carriage and demeanor?
All that random and rampant,
loving, sharing, and nurturing;
singing, poeming, prosing and posing?
I ask you, what was he,
this Titan, to think?
These role playing beings,
needed random and rampant therapy?

An honest native, might have
warned the Titan,
if he'd deigned to ask...

Thinking boisterously,
is an overated commodity,
when wandering by design
or haphazardly-
in the twilight zone;
the country of the walking dead;
or an alternate universe
in Never Never Land.

Surrounded, swarmed and besieged by beings,
heretofore, serious minded Titans,
had only imagined existed,
in Greek fables and myths;
or gloriously dark,
Grimm's fairytales.

Where up is down is up is down is up.
Angels fly arse over teakettle,
transmutating to demons.
Witches, angels in disguise, in unholy guise.
Wizards with broken wands,
creating magic anyway.
Weaving spells with the written word, all of them.

But who is what, which is who?

The honest native of wonderland,
would tell him-
those who seem to need therapy the most,
need it the least. Those who seem to need
therapy the least, need it the most...

No one, is what they seem,
in the Land of magic and fairytales.
Except maybe, just maybe,
the punch drunk, Titan...

[anirbas]

bumping this for easier access not for noticement...LOL...

[wistfuldragon]

Too bad dear heart but notice it I did...and once again I am left in awe of your writing...so flipping beautiful

[anirbas]

thanks for the noticement and comments, Mish! all this time on my hands, I'm pulling up and getting close to hand, pieces I might wish to put in the next three books I'm brainstorming
on...One, all dark genre stuff...Another, all romance...Thirdly, one with nothing but my poetical
epicals and/or fantasy pieces in it...Plus, pieces for another book of mixed offerings...
Well, that makes four I actually want to get ready for...of course, we are talking
about self-publishment...nothing spectacular...

[wistfuldragon]

It is amazing dear one...simply amazing that you are doing it...putting it out there so that the rest of the world will know the beauty and awe that we your close ones have known for years...
Much love always...admiration as well always

[anirbas]

well, I'm working on it...putting it out there...
thank you for love and admiration,
but, know this, it is felt in return...