An Ode to Writers of Love Poems
Struck with the fancy to write an ode,
To at last unburden my heart's heavy load,
I ready myself where I stand,
Prepared for the muse to guide my hand.
With trembling ambition I grasp my pen,
Poised to puncture the hearts of men,
But though I wait, to my surprise,
The words of the muse to not arise.
'O Muse,' I cry, 'O, Cupid! O, Bacchus!'
'O, gods, why do you descent to mock us?'
But no answer echoes from heavens above
And alone I am left to gloat over love.
My page lies empty, my heart beats full,
Yet I cannot respond to love's sweet pull.
Silenced and impotent, I let fall my pen.
Retired, the intent, to bring romance to men.
[3-29-07]
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The Bed
The bed we share is mute, impaired.
A love unspoken, and yet declared.
Two voices breathe, harmonics unrefined
While legs and arms seamlessly intertwined.
The sheen of his skin, the season, transcends
And worries of every kind amends.
Yet the eyes remain foreign, foggy, faint,
The brow undisturbed by unvoiced complaint.
I wonder not what thought intrudes,
As men have no thoughts when love concludes.
Memories of lips and flesh untold,
I think of what this bed does hold.
But idle wandering of mind aside,
The minutes ebb like a waning tide.
I think to speak, to sing, rejoice,
But lo, I find, I've lost my voice.
[9-8-06]
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Ballad of Captain Bullettooth
Arr, I be a fucken pirate
An' I sail th' seven seas.
In ev'ry foreign anchorage,
A sailor waits fer me.
A feather in me hat, have I,
An' golden be me smile.
I pillage and I plunder
Carousin' all th' while.
From friggin' in th' riggin'
Ta walkin' th' pirate's plank,
I've made me way thru' nary a day
I wasn't climbin' rank.
I be a salty dog, they say,
But th' half they hardly know.
I've sailed me ship thru' ev'ry bay
An' never had ta row.
They call me Captain Bullettooth,
A charmed life have I lead,
Swingin' from th' mizzen mast
An' fillin' men with dread.
An' tho' I be no Sally Brown
I'm not without me vice.
I've rum enough ta go around
If yer willin' ta pay th' price.
If nights yer cabin boys be missin'
An' mornin' finds 'em slow,
It's Bullettooth that they've been kissin'
In th' berth below.
An' if this poxy page survive me,
Rest me pickled soul,
Then let its ev'ry verse be sung
Ov'r th' ol' punch-bowl.
[11-22-06]
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