Thursday, September 07, 2006

Risk Kay

I hope this doesn't offend anyone,
but it seems appopriate for a campside fire.

Before I joined these blogs I was on another site
where postings became fairly pornographic.
I suggested that it was possible to write erotic stories
without any four letter words or descriptions
of hidden parts. Many challenged me --
seeing no difference between 'erotic' and 'porn'.

This was the result ....

papa
..........................................................................
HAND DRUM

The light mist breathed in and out of the trees as if controlled by a dragon in the ravine. It was profound enough to transform brush and logs into shifting forms. Monsters? Elves? Lost lovers? For each friend bunched around the fire ring, the effect was different. Memories became defused with imagination and wine. A silent owl drifting above might have found the scene humorous. To those within there was an element of fear, or at least self-doubt. Out with the bad air -- in with the good. Time seemed controlled by the pulse of the coals. Passion was imminent. The drumbeat began.


Chunk
Chanunck
Skrip Thop
Chunk


Other drums, large and small joined in. Some were divine in artistic embrace. Others carefully selected sticks. One an animal skull. Somewhere echoed the simple sound of hands clapped alternately on knees and chest. It had begun.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna - chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

No one led – no on followed – heart and fire called the tune.
One hand soft – one held silent – no one dance except in heart.

The twelve ring-bound players prayed with their fingers and chance touching of swaying shoulders; so close were they huddled against the back chill and grasp of the forest. Each sat on a folded blanket or cloak, legs extend – one folded – lotus – kneeling. Position was no more dictated than rhythm; except by cramp of spirit. Shannok was guided into a relaxed lotus by the size of the drum in his lap -- resembling more an upturned squat kettle than a dumbai. He had to clutch the rough cedar edges between his knees for support. Everyone was energetically engaged in magically syncopated spontaneity. Each was detached in individual visioning. A hand touched his thigh.

The feather caress was light enough not to cause alarm -- more like amazement, as it was not possible for either elbow partner to have a free hand. His committed contribution to the now repeating rhythm allowed for nothing more than a furtive glance to each side. On his left, swaying Noktorus seemed to have vanished into his beard -- closed eyes no more than dimples. On his right, slender Dalana had allowed her golden tresses to fall around her face. The mysterious hand reached within the strangely unbuttoned flap on his baggy trousers. The drum easily hid the surging response of his neglected pride. Knowing fingers released memories and yearning as well as sigh. He closed his own eyes. He had never pulsed so readily and strong.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna - chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

The fingers knew their own rhythm -- his shifting and grasping thighs an ancient call. Together they blended then surpassed the drumbeat -- drumbeat song. He again glanced to each side, trying to disguise his trembling breath. No clue – only swaying passion matching the other nine -- no ten -- unknowing drummers. The embers pulsed in time with drumbeat and forest breath. Red/gold agony -- black retreat into past and eternity.

A log tumbled from its precarious perch in a shower of sparks. The waning fire roared high in cracking response and disguising flare as if driven by the passion of the twelve. Two knew differently. Two shared a prayer beyond hope -- future -- and dream. The drumbeat was now that of earth song and faint moonlight. The hand withdrew.

Twelve swaying drummers. One smiled a secret kiss. One shuddered in ecstasy and puzzled churning mind.

Leaping spirit -- secret love -- speak to me!

The stars twinkled slightly as the eternally drifting owl swallowed the secret of the night.

“Who – who,” it called.

5 Comments:

At 6:08 AM, Blogger Traveller said...

delicious!

 
At 12:53 PM, Blogger Lorijayne said...

My goodness... is it getting warm in here?

L.
Fanning herself

 
At 8:08 PM, Blogger Gail Kavanagh said...

Cold shower needed. Must go out and find myself a waterfall.

 
At 4:28 PM, Blogger Lois said...

Now this campfire is certainly not one that the Boy Scouts or Girl Guides might be at...but might wish it so with their hormones racing in teenage years.
And to think that in Victoria Australia there is a move to close all nude bathing beaches ,perhaps we need your hand drum Faucon to mark the beat of protest.....
Lois (Muse of the Sea)
10.9.06

 
At 5:57 AM, Blogger Heather Blakey said...

love the risk taking faucon. But Enchanteur will be after you if you distract everyone with such risk kay pieces. :-) Me! I just love them.

 

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