Portia Galactica VI

the same honey bee who had been my eyes
as Marie-Aimée was to François Huber

hit my heart with impact far greater
than the Lullin cavity on Venus

© Heath Muchena, 2015

The Conflicted Life of Cocky Humble ii

Setting: Humble Studios
Personae: Cocky Humble, a sculptor; Sonia, his longtime lover

‘I just feel that marriage spoils an artist…’ he answered her, with much hesitation, for fear she’d take the remark out of context or misunderstand his intent.

‘Sounds like the same sort of self-serving bullsh*t a George Romney (the painter) would’ve said! And we both know he did go on to leave his wife, only to return to her some forty years later desperate for her tender loving care’, she responded.

‘Still she waited, pardoned his estrangement and even loved him till his last breath. And to think that is not a parable… surely there can be no other love comparable. That’s the mark of a noble woman. Probably the last of her kind’, he continued.

‘You’re out of your mind if you think for a moment I’d ever do such a thing. If you want to leave then by all means, go find your muse – your Emma Hart, but you better not come back here thinking I’d play nurse… for you might meet your end sooner than the morning next.

© Heath Muchena, 2015

The Plea for a Midwinter Marriage

There they stood. It was the moment of truth so as he should – he got down on one knee and expressed to her, by the same words Thomas Hood used when he said to his wife, ‘I never was anything, dearest, till I knew you; and I have been a better, happier, and more prosperous man ever since.’

There was a slight pause, and then he continued, this time in his own words, ‘You’re my everything, princess, and I love you. Be my wife, for the greater good… and I promise with my life you shall be my one and only interest, and I’ll try my very best to be as your prince.

© Heath Muchena, 2015

Cedar Loft ii

It was early Sunday morning. He was greeted by her seraphic smile and the faint tunes of Florence + the Machine’s big, blue, beautiful record coming in from the passageway, which she had on repeat since the previous night.

She had nothing on except his shirt which she left unbuttoned and a pair of girltrunks. How adorable her form, he thought, looking at her – postured upright on the stool before her easel, paint brush in hand. ‘I’m almost done with the portrait’, she spoke softly with a sort of sounding silence. For a brief moment he continued to watch her finishing up the Christina Rossetti painting.

How refined a mind and beautiful a body, he thought – not of the painting but her. How bright her spirit and air. He continued to glare… absorbing her grace. Then he spoke gently trying not to distract her, ‘I’ll get started on brunch. Croissants cool? Much as I love to wake and bake, you know I’m no good with quiche!’

‘Come here!’, she responded. ‘If I do, there’ll be no getting me to go’, he replied. ‘Just come close’, she answered with ostensive head motion. ‘Okay, you asked for it’ he joked, moving towards her. ‘I want you to title it’ she said, looking at him with clear cloud colour eyes. He looked into them then at the portrait, ‘Lyric of Love’ he whispered, without giving it a second thought.

She pulled his chin towards her face with one hand and kissed his lips passionately. ‘Lyric of Love’ she repeated, looking at the work with humble satisfaction. ‘Okay, now go on papi, you have brunch to prepare. Oh, and yes – anything is fine with me, long as you make it with love. You can pluck some cherry toms and basil leaves in the garden, and enjoy your morning bake while you at it. And don’t worry, I’ll work on your bone later, puppy!’ she teased.

© Heath Muchena, 2015