Parting With The Poet….
By Jim Rambo
She desired the poet
More than anyone she had wanted
In her life.
Her heart raced when he read aloud
To the group she had joined
Just months before…. for intellectual stimulation.
His deep voice boomed with lyrical rhyme
Covering all in a word mantel of wisdom.
He was uncharmed by bright skies and butterflies.
And she even quivered a bit as he read
While his long, silver- gray locks reflected the morning sun.
Was it love, lust or another form of poetic license? she mused.
In time she had her way with His Rhymeness.
Her adulation and repetition of his language of love, of blossoming bosoms and skin-tight jeans
Wove a seamless web around yet another victim of his own verse.
They togethered a year, two at most
And she discovered that the prize, her poet,
Was, within, a lesser gold than the promise of his lyrics.
So it became necessary that she,
The non-poet, the weaver of webs, the seeker of lasting love
Craft the final lines in their in their own verse, and so she did:
“Alas, my bard, I fear we must part
For your words of lust
Come not from your heart
But from paperback books
I found at Walmart!”
(Credit to Margie Keane for the closing lines.)