Bard Work
The Way of Kinship
This collection of poetry was compiled from a reading of my work presented at the Spruce Creek Gallery near Wintergreen Ski Resort in
Nelson County, Virginia in 2002. Because demand for a copy of the work was high, I prepared and printed professionally a good-sized
run of the books. There are still some signed copies available direct from the author.

Send a check for $10 to:

Valarie Massie Watersun
PO Box 307
Los Fresnos, TX  78566

This price includes postage and handling. Be sure and include a complete mailing address and allow four weeks for delivery.
More Bardic Work
Dragonmother of Dreams

Dragons furl and Dragons soar
around and about
and over and over.

Knuckled wings of leather stretch
across air and unmatched scenery
weaving a canopy of lore.

Mibanda watches, mouth asmile.
Love pulses from wizened ebon eyes
for Dragons she adores.

Her favored pet, a much-loved one,
is tiny Pirs with wings crystal
-- he of the piping roar.

They've lived a life of adventure
these courageous two
for all this time before.

But now age has faded them
unto a well-worn gloss.
Heroic days live no more.

And yet the memories linger
smolder old fires within,
making them hunger for wars.

Old they may be
but extinguished -- never!
There must be something more.

Then along the hillside, all
blond curls with fuzzy gaze alight,
strolls a small child.

His dimpled hands clasp together,
his round head jerks this way and that
keeping the circling Dragons in sight.

So wrapped in Dragondream is he,
Mibanda sits unnoticed at first
then he snares her with his eyes.

Oh, says he, are you Mibanda?
Dragonmother so brave and strong?
You are, you are, I must be right.

Who else could call the Dragons
to dance about her head
in perfect peace, with nary a fight?

Mibanda smiles wider
and the Dragons scream with glee.
Yes, she replies, yes, you are right,

I am Dragonmother Mibanda.
Come, sit...sit here beside me,
I can't see your face so high.

So he moves a little closer,
beneath the Dragons aloft and
settles down with contented sighs.

Shall I tell you a story?
asks she with a wise grin,
Perhaps a short lie?

One palm cups her chin
and she begins to talk
far into the night.

The child sits enraptured,
Dragonmaster in the making,
eyes agleam with mist from Dragonlight.

And, as gray dawn smudges the sky,
Mibanda's tales fade out.
The boy-child stirs, starts in fright.

Mibanda soothes as Dragons sing
their joy in a future assured.
They wheel and frolic in the sky

For a seed has been planted
a Dragonmaster's been sown,
and someday when he's higher
someday when he's grown,

he'll take his love of Dragons
and the words of Mibanda so wise
to seek out new adventures,
and with a new Dragon of his own,
become a hero in his own right.

Mibanda watches the child away
tears moisten cheeks of old stone.

Aged she may be
and not quite as strong
but yet it's only a start.

Life doesn't end with inaction,
or age, or disease, or shunning,
or the death of one part.

Mibanda begins the cycle again
and her Dragons see this truth
as they cry and circle and dart.

She's only made the transition
from Mibanda, maker of legends
to Mibanda, inspirer of hearts.




The Man of the Cloth

They say she ran
off with a man
of the law.

Wonder if I know him
Small world
smaller town

though truthfully
there’s more lawyers
here
than any one town could need

She left behind
a man of the cloth
a passel of children
half-grown

I wonder about
how it happened
The man of cloth
used to use his cloth

to sort his seeds for
next years bumper crop
of a weed not legal
but green tender nevertheless

She used to help him
in between growing children
and foodcrops
and memories

once serving a term
in Washington DC
the cute little page
met and feted all
kinds of politicians

Yet
I bet she had to climb on
the man of the cloth
coaxing his stupor
to erection
just so she could
frustrate and believe

it was certain democratic
mavens that split her
open and juicy with their
pant and tussle

The man of the law
might know a
think or two more
than her old
man of the cloth

and the money's about the same

but I'll be watching
to see how long it is
before she has to climb on him





(C) 2007 Valarie Watersun
All rights reserved. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted
text without permission in writing from Valarie Watersun.
Permission to download this file for personal use only is allowed.
Easter 2000

Your hands against me—
the music of
fluttering birds
arcing in ballet
a crescendo
and release
Sense of your
body tightening
as swelling buds
bloom into color
moist petals amniotic
beneath coaxing fingers
The final first cry
of birthing
sounds and grows
and birds from
Escher flowers fly
on petal wings
of orchid



Sweet With Queen

Honey nectar
flowing fast
heated
by sly eyes
blazing night's fire

Desert winds
fail to parch
a well unending
and sweet -
sweet with Queen

Hot passion scalds
Eagerly she searches;
Sapphic student seeking
archaeology's truth

A small cave - Wisdom
to explain the heat
A truth to satisfy
all that seeker seeks

Honey nectar
shows the way
guides with the heat
of a hundred fires

And when the fiery
source reveals,
truth is wrapped amid
heaving thighs of love

Sapphic student
steps through a veil
and finds solace in
good passion's wail
and sees the truth
of ancient wisdom
all heat is found
in a woman's Queendom



And the Beer Spilled

Your gaze spoke to me
reached and shook me
from across the room.
I knew it was you.
Yes, you were the one.

And when we came together
the earth spoke deep.
It was the eyes
held hard and fast
yearning, burning silent voice.

I was there and you were there
same place same time
Arms wrapped, pulled close
Kisses rampant and hot.
And the beer spilled on the floor.



What Should Be

Images trouble Sara.
Hot moist lips pressed
to her curving neck

Heavy wet thighs
snuggled horizontally
alongside her own

Reality troubles Sara.
Cold bedrooms
sterile, void of life
and love

The awesome chores of day
and the careful milk wiped
from tiny, expressive faces
are no match for the promise
found in rapturous, writhing sleekness
and whispered confidences in the night


When She Did

Often I remember
the little girl of me
wearing warnings in her hair
rules and regulations
in each fold of her dress.

Little girls don't,
a plain and simple truth
but if they do
when they do
the loss is priceless

I think about
when I did
about each time I did
and the loss encountered there
priceless - mourned

That fearful little girl of me
who did what she did
when she did
already tasting the offense
a bitter juice upon her tongue

older now with eyes sharpened
by the acrid spit of loss
I can watch the little girl
and see what she did
when she did
was as natural as walking
a toddler's tentative step
toward inexorable death
priceless - mourned

And the little girl of me
who did what she did
when she did
wasn't the bad girl who shouldn't
but the little girl who did
and that's what will matter
knocking at death's final door.




(C) 2007  Valarie Watersun
All rights reserved. It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any
part of this copyrighted text without permission in writing from Valarie Watersun. Permission to download
this file for personal use only is allowed.