|
WOMAN, A POEM
My lover is a poem
with spirit, flesh, and bones.
Her body comes in iambs,
her mind in pleasing tones.
She moves about in stanzas.
Brought forth she was from lines.
Her heart was set to meter.
Her curves were made with rhymes.
She speaks with theme and style
of things and dreams sublime.
Her thoughts compose the soul
which roused this verse of mine.
My lover is a woman
of beauty, thought, and art.
A truly living poem,
she walks and talks the part.
FATE
I think I lost my Love today.
She told me that she has to go.
Where? O, where? she could not say.
It is a place she does not know.
Away she pushed my loving hand.
She said that I am not The One.
But, why? she could not understand.
She holds a faith that We are done.
I begged her to consider this:
"There is no destined Path, my dear;
your Life is what you Make with it."
She listened, yes, but did she hear?
In near despair I stated this:
"There is no destined Love, my dear;
your Bond is what you Keep with it."
She listened, yes, but did she hear?
I think I lost my Love to Fate.
She longs for His fantastic Hand.
How? How could I have lost my Mate
to some fictitious Thing's command?
11 SEPTEMBER 2001
Los Angeles, CA
With sixty ticks 'til six o'clock,
let's stay in bed before we part.
I love you, dear. Do you love me?
Don't ask me that. Now let me be.
With forty ticks 'til six o'clock,
let's talk in bed before we part.
I value—no, I worship you.
Don't tell me that. What's wrong with you?
With thirty ticks 'til six o'clock,
let's kiss in bed before we part.
You please me, dear. Do I please you?
Don't touch me there. What's wrong with you?
My body craves your loving acts.
My mind recalls your words of love.
What's wrong? you coldly ask of me.
I still love you, who once loved me.
Now ten and five until the hour,
before you leave for work know this:
My love was nothing more than lust.
Forget your love. There is no us.
These poems have been selected from Mister Swig's collection titled Bemused,
which is available for purchase in the Pamphlets section.
|
