Siren Whispers

Siren Song


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Lawless

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There is a feeling of lawlessness within her.

Tinder awaiting the strike of the match.

A riot of anticipation that begins with him.

Each day cuts her with sharp shivers along every inch of skin.

She is alert and aroused

every blink of her eyes refreshes the picture of him

every breath brings the taste

the scent of him

to her

ravaging her senses.

Images of them become a continuous loop of erotic film 

within her mind

as she replays

incessantly

hundreds of scenarios

each one causing her

to close her eyes

to still her breath

to control the rebelliousness of her body

as it becomes traitor to modesty

as the wanton within

begins to dance.

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Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced


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Sea Fever by John Masefield

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In anticipation of my imminent holiday, a sea themed poem by John Masefield

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I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face and a grey dawn breaking.

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I must go gown to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

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I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

(John Masefield, 1878-1967)

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Words by John Masefield

Voice by SirenSong1208


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Confession

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I give my confessions

to him.

In all honesty.

In complete acceptance.

Words spoken like an Act of Contrition

as I unveil my sins.

Sometimes singularly

and slowly

other times in tangled narratives

given in a rush of spleen

as I peel away the last vestiges of false image.

A veneer so sweet it made my teeth ache.

The insistence of honey over vinegar

made more palatable by convention.

The spicy, savory, and sometimes sour

oft disdained,

a whisky burn

not for the faint of heart.

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Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced.


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Ripe

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She is ripe,

for his hands

for his mouth.

She is the desirable fruit

he hungers for,

her scent intoxicating him

beckoning forth his touch.

Her essence is nectar to his mouth

and one that he will savor every bite of,

his senses alive to her taste

as it lays succulent upon his tongue

subduing the ravenous beast

within.

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Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced

 


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New ones

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They will go without me, to this place I grew to love. Rugged and wild, it spoke to my deep-seated need to be by the sea; to feel her power and her fury, watching her in awe from a distance.

My children will hike to the top of Bray Head and sit and marvel at the Irish Sea, knowing I am across the water looking back at them from my own perch. But I will miss that hike, through the woods, cool and dark but dappled with occasional sunlight. Eventually we’d make our way out into the open, looking down at the town and looking up to see the cross at the very top of the mountain. A place of pilgrimage.

These memories are vivid, stacked upon each other from each year we created them. A tradition. Each visit different and yet the same. The path was well-worn and my feet knew every inch of it. I never looked down to see where I was going, my eyes were far too busy looking around me to see if anything had changed; drinking in the view as if it were the last time. Two years ago it was. I knew it then and every moment was bittersweet. I devoured those days and I hold them close now. I might return, but not in the same way. This year I will not sit high atop that mountain with the sea hundreds of feet below me. Draped in blessed silence and reverence. White tipped waves rushing over the blue green like horses. I will not take the path along the cliff walk to Greystones, my heart swelling with every step as I am bracketed by the sea to my left and verdant hills alive with gorse on my right.

I will not make those memories this year. I will make new ones. My own.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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 Photographs taken by SirenSong1208

 

 


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Instincts

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From the start

every response has been distinctly different

from her past.

She has become unpredictable, even to herself.

Every action rooted in intuition,

she allows her instincts to drive her forward…

never second guessing,

never prevaricating,

shyly trusting what she feels.

Granting herself the freedom to go where she’s never gone before,

to know what she’s always hungered for;

this sweet surrender.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

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Photograph taken from Pinterest, unsourced.


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Piercing me

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My desire 

is as sharp as glass shards

piercing me

with longing.

With every jagged breath

I am cut anew.

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Copyright © SirenSong1208

All rights reserved

 Photograph taken from Tumblr, unsourced.