The Poetry of Rebecca Mosley VanCamp

Of Me (as I dust my boudoir)

Somehow, you knew she'd have elves on her shelves
and babies kneeling in prayer.
Her preference for whimsy reflects in the words
she's just begun learning to share.

The Wedding Waltz

I was sleeping the night the moon made her dance.
She'd been left to the poet's care.
They tell me her partner was Neptune,
making a union of mist and air.
The firmament hummed a static trill
to the couple's bill and coo.
And bolts of light from their clashing feet
near split the sky into.
What was seen by some, as fire or storm,
was in truth, the wedding waltz.
And all celestials were celebrants,
so late in reverie lost.
The moon never tired on that magical night,
while seraphs made joyous song.
Tho she spun to the twirl of her lover's hand
til it was nearly dawn.
The gown that billowed around her waist
was likened to a glimmering wave,
swelling up in a raging sea,
as sequins were flung like spray.
On and on they danced in the dark
from Jupiter to Mars.
Until all the sparks were loosed from their strands
and heaven was filled with stars.
If privy to witness what bards relate,
to fact, I could swear they've kept.
But I, like an infant with thumb in slack lips,
through it all so pleasantly slept.

Brianna Rose

(from her gramma)

A Geddes pose,
A tender rose,
Brianna in
the Jenny Lind.
Granted wish,
petaled kiss,
Nectar’s grin
on daisy’s chin.
Newly born
o’ sunny morn,
Babe trussed up
in buttercup.
Yellow pollen
of lily fallen
‘round the heart,
breath to start.
Silken cloth
spun tiny moth
Clings to trim
our mossy limb.
Refreshing sip
on purple slip,
drop of dew
with eyes of blue.
Arms entwine
a sweet pea vine,
Dimpled each
The sun to reach.
Nature rent
Her lemon scent
O’er to spill
The daffodil.
Gi’,en to mold,
To have and hold,
Precious look
from picture book.
The little Rose
in sweet repose,
Brianna in
the Jenny Lind.

Your love heals my wounds and keeps hidden my scars.
You have bound me snug, yet not strangling in an ever-winding
circling of my soul.
As if your sureness were a thin strip of gauze,bleached pure and wound round
the flayed forearm of a broken soldier.

Like the length of sterile cloth, you need no adhesive to stay,
The sheer unending patience, with which you wrap me, frail and frightened,
brings realization of loving security.

And were you to remove my bandage, pull free the loosened strand of
your devotion,
I would surely spin, dizzy and crazed, from you mummifying regard.
Pirouetting in a pitiful ballet of nothingness.

When the last imprint of you dressing faded, and I lay raw and bleeding at
your feet.
I would cry for mercy.
And if you turned away your tenderness, there I would die.

Self Reproach

So like the mother bird is she
who mouth to mouth fed her young.
Chirping and flitting, preening with joy
when new life had begun.
No worm to fat, no ribbon too long
she fed and feathered her nest.
The tending was the food that filled
the hunger 'neath her breast.
For summer long she watched and saw
no reason to compare.
But now the scene of guttural truth
stains her face with tears of despair.
For she must push her babe away
she lives in his drugged hell.
Because she knows that if he stays
neither of them can be well.
Has the mother bird been told of "tough love"
or for herself does she nudge?
The callous witch sits atop a far limb
while her fledgling lies in the mud.

Fancies

If you've a notion, take my hand,
away we'll steal past calling tasks.
Across the purple, clovered field,
to a hushed rise beyond the stile.

Should you need rest, I'll take you there,
to make a bed in wind blown grain.
And when the breeze has blown you free,
I'll show you all my fancy dreams.

'Twas on this knoll that I once stood
and fancied that I was a dove.
With arms held loft, I arched my chest
so gusty gales could lift me up.

In yonder glen, that echoes well,
I've raised my voice to notes so pure!
And fancied that when they were heard,
a crowd would bow and bring bouquets.

And Oh! the fancies in the woods,
where trillium and ferns are thick.
I've set my bow with merry men,
and fairies showed my how to spin.

Behind that row of dense wild rose,
a long and winding track of rails,
is where a boy once kissed my lips.
I fancied he would be my prince.

We'd set our feet down carefully
upon the rusty iron trapeze.
And travel, with our hands enclasped,
to fancy places they would lead.

The brook is warm, it's water clear.
It holds a pretty, fancy face.
The ripples paint a softened chin,
and stretch to lithe, a thickened limb.

When word were harsh, or work too long,
along the dusty lane I'd race.
And when I'd reached the empty fields,
I'd let my fancies do their will.

Now would you fancy such a place,
where we could live so perfectly,
and all our wishes could come true?
Then come with me! I'll take you there.

Nimue

Nimue! fair Nimue,
You stole the sorcerer's power away.
A speckled owl with jealous claw
did hide you here, to feast you bare
of sweetened flesh and puerile breath,
that withered dreams may be refreshed.

Drifting hair formed a silken frond
to frame you face in a magic pond.
You wove the strands with milky hands.
And touched the tips of pinkened lips
to eat of bream and lily stems.
No lovelier nymph could there have been.

Then you, by chance, the fowl did see.
And, oh! How he did covet thee.
The waning Seer, so plagued by years,
and smitten hence by vision's glimpse,
could wish not less, than to possess
your beauty and you youthfulness.

He summoned an enchanted night
to aid a vile and sinful flight.
Thru limpid mask his talons clasped,
your gentle wake in hidden lake.
The flew apace, with avian grace
to lift you to this wicked place.

'Midst shrouded caves he bid you dwell
to cast an earthen deviate's spell.
E'en tho perceived, the fated deed
his doom thus set, did school you yet,
and plied your tongue to cantus sung
whilst, round ye all the secrets hung.

The spoke he, o'er your count'nance fair,
a veil of false and vap'rous air.
So to engage, thy pretty age,
but fickle mist did clever twist
to bind his heart, there to impart
upon your sense his deviled art.

The mysteries were gifted thee
from ancient charm on bended knee.
Ye drank too well, 'til round ye fell
shards of light, then his plight
was stricken for, he saw you bore
the starry mantel Merlin wore.

Now Lo! The good Enchanter lies enchanted.
Nubile mist befalls Mystic.
Yea, feeble sorcerer drained by youthful fountains' source.

The nymph now toys with new found orbs.
Not knowing full the power absorbed,
she sips the herbs, and speaks the words.
And dallies long, with unsafe song,
to sate therein, her every whim.
But Merlin! She thinks naught of him.

Tho by her charms the Sage was caught,
by craft, his freedom will be wrought!
The wind does shift with chants she lifts,
to stir the pot of witch's plots.
With each refrain she breaks a chain.
He'll soon be loosed to walk again.

Beware Ye now, Oh Nimue,
as round the druid stones you play.
Tho maidens true, be sought by few.
To render thus, in dreams you're thrust.
So purloined eyes see dark owls fly.
With this dread mirror you will vie.

For tho thee still be comely sight,
'tis prophecy that wields its' spite.
To right the deed did sow the seed,
to clot thy dreams, with bloody screams,
and does devise to show thine eyes
scenery of thine own demise.

In forest deep, you'll see thy form.
Surrounded by the sprites in mourn.
They'll pluck thine eyes and bid thee rise,
but tears will spill, for you are still.
From musty bed, they lift your head
to place a wreath, and whisper "dead?".

Alas, must damsel be so damned?
Could tricks be shown for trickery played?
A truth, the hateful mirror does keep! Now is she dead? Or does she sleep?

Thy innocence ye now bewail
and set about, thy limbs aflail,
to rid the spoils of treach'rous toils:
A wizard's trove, that ye now loathe.
From all deceit you've grown effete.
You quake in fear. What end he'll mete?

And would that wizard be here now,
low at his gnarled feet you'd bow.
You'd use your wiles, and winsome smile,
so not to fraud, but give him laud!
And plead he take, for lover's sake,
you swiftly to your tranquil lake.

In prismed crystal, cold as ice,
a wraith kept by his own device.
His frigid brow does view thee now,
the conjured path belies his wrath;
Contrite remain, lest he show disdain!
For see ye! Merlin comes again!

© Rebecca Mosley VanCamp 1999

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