Bella Donna

With scarcely a ripple she emerges from the river
and pauses on its muddy banks
looking back in envy at the moon on the water
wishing she could slow dance so close forever. 
She weaves her wedding skirt of Spanish moss 
and with magnolias laced into her hair
she goes searching for her bridegroom
no shy maiden this
she is a huntress not the prey
and the favored knight of revelry
once chosen 
will beg to follow her
to dine at her table and be fed with her own cool, white hands
no hunger unfulfilled.
The moonlight follows grinning as 
the damp night pulses with the stamp of feet and washboard rhythms
beads and eyes glittering
 she drifts before him
inviting and playfully leading 
and in dry mouthed wanting he trails after her
“Welcome home cher..” she whispers 
and the moon gives extra light
to their first dance and first kiss 
swaying among the silent houses standing sentinel
 in the city of the dead
and her nightshade scent envelopes him
soothes and stirs him
and the moon gazes down fondly…
Much later she slips from his arms
 and saunters through the gates
with a last loving look and a blown kiss
and he waits there eternally faithful
bound to her as tightly 
as the entwined jasmine vines. 
She returns to the dank of the river
waltzing a little on its muddy banks
still reflecting the dancing moon
and the cypress trees rustle in a soft wind
as she sinks back 
 into the water…



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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