“The Mermaid and the Gaucho” by Mulv Jones
He was brought up to believe they were myths.
Subjects of tales sailors would tell,
but were brushed off…
the result of sea stroke or drink.
The landlubbers,
they could never believe in anything
they couldn’t see with their own two eyes.
They never understood the word faith.
But there was one;
a gaucho.
Not yet a man, but no longer a boy,
at an early age, he toyed,
with ideas of places and things
that the river and springs
of his small valley,
could never bring
him.
He spent his time on the peak.
From his perch,
he could peer out into the vast,
endless layers of rolling waves,
peeling off the sea.
When he felt inspired,
he would scale the loose rock and debris,
so his feet could kiss the moist sand.
Though he feared the rough waters,
it was here he did witness
the burning sun’s embers fall so gracefully
on her shimmering, slender torso.
Though just a spark,
it was enough to set
his arid, prairie heart ablaze.
When they caught eyes, the gaze;
it could have been days that passed
before her lips let out
the sweetest hint of laughter,
as she slipped back into the blue abyss.
This moment,
would forever alter the gaucho’s landscape.
As with the sailors,
his community could never believe
the tales his eyes would tell.
They told him the sea was dangerous,
only foolish men would venture in
to such treacherous depths.
The valley, with its springs and streams,
offered all the water one could ever desire,
plenty of aquatic relief.
Their words,
might as well have been of another tongue.
The gaucho,
he never spoke of where he would go,
yet landlubbers could only hope
he hadn’t fallen victim to the intoxicating tales that the sailors would tell.
They feared he would lose his life,
the same as the deviant seaman.
He preceded
to frequent the peak and sand.
Holsters empty, love drawn and at the ready,
the steady flow with which the waves rolled in became his closest friend.
Days would come and end,
and with her sails drawn,
she would ride in on the wind
past the break, and lay
on the same rock,
that shot the fateful arrow;
the arson in his chest still roaring.
Some nights,
he laid his head to rest on the battered shores,
waking to find his rock invariably draped in her.
Sweet, bird song laugher,
his chariot to and from slumber.
Their infatuation was drawn out,
until the season’s change,
bringing in days where the peaks,
would don cloaks of snow and ice.
You see,
fear is a funny thing.
With it brings intent or paralysis,
will these feelings pass,
or push our timid souls to the brink of fruition?
Those frozen days,
robbing him
of the sea breeze and sand pillow,
where sleep had never felt so resonate,
had him feeling some sort of way.
He would wait
on the cliff’s peaks,
until his cheeks turned pink
with the winter’s forsaken embrace,
thinking and seeking out her fueling gaze
to fan its kin flame now waining.
He pained and pined,
for the shinning and shimmering sight,
which forever changed,
how he viewed his numbered days…
but she did not come.
It felt as if she had been absent for an eternity.
When all seemed at a loss,
fate’s soft strings rang.
On a day where the outcry,
and the disdain,
from the landlubbers began
to seep into his lovelorn brain…
she came!
He wondered if
maybe his imagination had run astray,
but from his perch,
he swore he saw the waves part;
the sun tore through sheets of gray,
illuminating the same spot he so adored,
he so loved,
to see her silky, sultry, frame lain.
The amalgamate of fate and fear,
oozed from fluctuating limbs.
Her finger beckoned,
the peak and weary knees acquiesced,
floating,
past ice and snow to the sands.
They welcomed him like a rambler,
returning to his maternal lands.
Her gaze extended an invitation,
his arms and legs freely accepted,
with no hint of hesitation.
The water was past his knees,
before his fluttering feet,
had cognizance of their motion.
The Gaucho,
he had never learned to swim.
That could never stop him
from diving in
to the ocean blue
for a love he knew,
he knew,
more than anything he ever knew,
was true.
The aqueous transition felt so warm,
blanketed,
in their first coveted embrace,
as the two absconded into the uncharted bliss…
About Mulv Jones
He/Him/His
Mulv Jones (Christopher Peter Mulvany) was born in the great state of Colorado in the year 1987. Growing up in close proximity to the stunning Rocky Mountains forever shaped him, influencing not only his work, but how he chose to live his life. After graduating from the University of Colorado, Mulv Jones bounced around the workforce before deciding to take to the open road.
Mulv's writing consists mostly of poetry and fiction, but he also dabbles in songwriting, blogging, and ghostwriting online dating profiles. When the moment calls for it, he also welcomes the opportunity to write Harry Potter erotica or Star Wars fan fiction. When his hand isn't filled with a pen or a guitar, you can find him biking, snowboarding, or absconding in nature.