The Greatest

Tags

beauty, Fear, lord byron, love, Poem, Poetry, truth

“She walks in beauty,”
so said the poet-Lord.
Yet, beauty thus beheld
is painted by external eyes,
and with those lashes,
hopes and lies.

“She walks in truth,”
replied philosophy.
Ideals of truth oft lead
to broken paths of pain
and loneliness.
She is guaranteed to stumble
on the blocks of reality.

“She walks in fear,”
so said the villainous.
Fear in pain and darkness call,
following sorrowing to evil’s fall.

“I walk in love,” said she.
“Love guides most truthfully
past fears that would beset
life’s stroll through joyousness.
And if the love I share should fumble,
I throw that love to others double.
My love will cast
the perfect beauty
to a pavement queen
of homeliness.”

“Fear my love,
it is my truth
and beauty.”

The Un-collector

Tags

beauty, candle, creation, insignia, love, Poem, Poetry, writing

She had been shelved
all these nine years.
He carefully brought her down,
dusted her off, this poem.
She lay on his desk,
naked before the poet
and his quill.

His words ran down
the length of her.
Her long legs,
her breasts,
the nape of her neck,
the dark eyes,
flowing hair.
A beauty exposed,
yet harbored
in the haven
of his pacific gaze.

Beautiful, said he,
but not yet perfect.
he lay her face down
and began to massage
his words into flesh
with his hands, his mouth,
from the tender feet,
up the legs,
a kiss at the small of her back.
Kneading,
working
his life into her.

He stands her up,
staring at his art,
his love,
still-life.

Just one more thing, Love,
he says, it only hurts
for a moment.
He takes his quill to pierce his lip,
dribbling blood into the crimson of a candle,
then pours the wax where lips would be.

While the wax burns his lips,
he embraces her,
tightly,

for the kiss,

the deep kiss that congeals her lips,
and softens her form
into breathing,
into life.

She, the living poem, opens her eyes.
“You are free, my love.”

She returns that embrace
in a way that speaks

goodness,
perfection,
thankfulness,

and goodbye

as she slips from his arms
and skips through the door
as a child.

He smiles, watching her go,
then turns back to the shelves.

“So many poems,”
he thinks,
joyous.

( posted for DversePoets – open link night )

Le Rendez-vous

Tags

art, beauty, France, museum, Paris, passion, Poem, Poetry, Prostitution, truth

Le Rendez-vous

(written for DversePoets)
(my French is rusty, so I had google help translate, translation below)

Un rendez-vous au musée du Louvre
avec la Belle Madame.
Elle cherche pour la vérité
de la passion et de la beauté.

Elle ne les trouverez pas
parmi les personnes
ou entre les galeries.

Cette vérité se reveille les soir.

Elle se glisse dans les rues
et sur les briques ancienne
et imprègne l’air
comme un bon vin
ou le fromage vieilli.

Elle saute aux Champs-Elysées
et danse entre les jambes
d’une centainne de femmes.

Ici, les couleurs sont en fleurs.
Ici, la passion chevauche la vérité
tous les soir
jusqu’à ce que le soleil
apporte la maîtresse sévère
of morning. 

Translation:

A rendezvous

A rendezvous at the Louvre
with The Beautiful Woman.
She searches for the truth
of passion and of beauty.

She will not find these things
among the people
or in the galleries.

This truth awakens at night.

It glides in the streets,
over the old bricks,
and permeates the air
like a good wine
or an aged cheese.

It skips to the Champs-Elysée
and dances between the legs
of a hundred women.

Here, the colors are in bloom.
Here, passion rides truth
every night
until the sun
brings the harsh mistress
of morning. (play on words with mourning)

Comments welcome!