A monument to itself;
submerged in sand.
Your eyes are as green as sweet summer grass,
And they sparkle and shine with charm and with sass.
Your hair is as golden as sunlight in June,
And shimmers like flame at both midnight and noon.
Your hands are as soft as a butterfly’s wing,
Your fingers look fine adorned with my ring.
I love you my dearest from your hair to shoelaces,
You are the ideal of all womanly graces.
I love your bright smile and your sweet ruby lips,
The curve of your waist and the flare of your hips.
I love the music in your giggle and the dance in your laugher.
You’re a flame in my heart. You’re the one I lust after.
My darling you’re perfection from your head to your ankle,
But you’ve one little flaw and it really does rankle.
The one part of you that is truly not sweet,
Is that jam ‘tween your toes and the smell of your feet!
Note: When I first read the prompt (smell), I was completely brain dead. I read it every day and came up with nothing. Then suddenly, Thursday night while suffering a horrid headache, my brain — independent of my will — began crafting verse. Unfortunately I am the “she” of the smelly feet (though I promise I wash them daily) and the poem is something a lover could have written to me. I kid you not, one winter as I was prying off my snow boots at my (now ex-) father-in-law’s door, he said, “If your feet stink, we’re putting you out on the back porch!”
One advocates change.
The other stands on its laurels.
One wants total renovation.
The other is content with the status quo.
One wants to maintain.
The other wants to destroy and rebuild.
Each seeks total control.
Debate, their first-born child,
Compromise, their next-born,
Hope, spontaneously aborts.
Triumph, withers in the womb,
You wander into
And out of
I wonder why I let you.
You leave on a wild whim,
And roam where you will
And do what you wish
With whomever you please.
I search for you, witless,
Scouring back alleys
And city streets
To no avail.
Then you weave your way home,
Weak and wretched,
And crawl into my bed.
Debauchery wafts from you.
You gaze at me with golden eyes
Knowing your wiles
Will win me over.
You nudge my hand,
Butt your head against my chin
I welcome you home.
We carved our names upon this tree
The day that we were wed.
The tree still lives and thrives and grows,
But your love for me is dead.
How many other names are here,
A testament to pain?
How many other wounded hearts
Afraid to love again?
Every day young lovers come
Their pledges here they sign,
Let’s hope their hearts are truer, dear,
Than your heart was for mine.
flower of death
scent of heaven
and angel’s breath
upon my chest
as here I lie
at peace at last
while mourners cry
soon to rest
beneath the earth
where I’ll assist
Spring’s new birth