and now, some poetry
Inspired by 
Mel's comment, and boy am I nervous about posting. I haven't written poetry in well over a year, possibly even two, and that poem was written after a long, long drought. Funny, this used to be my main mode of written expression. Now it feels like trying to remember a foreign language.
Anyway, behind a cut to spare both the flist and my nerves.
Incarnadine
Red is her color.
Hood or roses,
it doesn't matter.
Red for her compassionate heart;
poor papa
poor grandmother
red for her blood.
Cakes and cordial for granny, my dear
don't spill a drop.
She goes into the wood.
She will save granny and papa both
from the beast.
Where are you going, my dear
with your red hood
your red roses
your red heart
your red blood?
You must be cordial to the beast, my dear
else he'll spill every drop.
Grandmother told her never talk to strangers
Papa said show no man favor,
but papa brought her a rose from the beast's garden
and grandmother lives in the wood.
She does what she must
sweet words, sweet kisses,
and an axe.
How big you are, my love!
With your black eyes
black hair
white nails
white teeth.
Your size brings me to tears, my love
do you see how they drop?
The beast mops them up with rose petals
The wolf licks them up,
licks her face and her breast and her thigh
and she draws up her skirts.
She does what she wants
dark words, dark kisses,
and an axe.
Please me with your size, my love
or I'll see that it drops.
She is in the wood.
She will have wolf and beast both
for her prize.
Red is her color.
Hood or roses,
it doesn't matter.
Red for her passionate heart;
blind wolf
blind beast
red for her blood.
What of my pleasure, my dear?
What of my hunger?
What of my tears and blood and heart?
Are you not pleased, my love?
Are you not full?
Are your tears and your blood and your heart not
red for me?
I'm told it's my color.
END
Mel's comment, and boy am I nervous about posting. I haven't written poetry in well over a year, possibly even two, and that poem was written after a long, long drought. Funny, this used to be my main mode of written expression. Now it feels like trying to remember a foreign language.
Anyway, behind a cut to spare both the flist and my nerves.
Incarnadine
Red is her color.
Hood or roses,
it doesn't matter.
Red for her compassionate heart;
poor papa
poor grandmother
red for her blood.
Cakes and cordial for granny, my dear
don't spill a drop.
She goes into the wood.
She will save granny and papa both
from the beast.
Where are you going, my dear
with your red hood
your red roses
your red heart
your red blood?
You must be cordial to the beast, my dear
else he'll spill every drop.
Grandmother told her never talk to strangers
Papa said show no man favor,
but papa brought her a rose from the beast's garden
and grandmother lives in the wood.
She does what she must
sweet words, sweet kisses,
and an axe.
How big you are, my love!
With your black eyes
black hair
white nails
white teeth.
Your size brings me to tears, my love
do you see how they drop?
The beast mops them up with rose petals
The wolf licks them up,
licks her face and her breast and her thigh
and she draws up her skirts.
She does what she wants
dark words, dark kisses,
and an axe.
Please me with your size, my love
or I'll see that it drops.
She is in the wood.
She will have wolf and beast both
for her prize.
Red is her color.
Hood or roses,
it doesn't matter.
Red for her passionate heart;
blind wolf
blind beast
red for her blood.
What of my pleasure, my dear?
What of my hunger?
What of my tears and blood and heart?
Are you not pleased, my love?
Are you not full?
Are your tears and your blood and your heart not
red for me?
I'm told it's my color.
END