The eligible for a female partner
Between the highly placed and a gardener;
Thirty years a massively supported age,
As one still doesn’t seem a sage,
Who wants to a union solemnize
And the honorable fun and sex officially recognize.
Maximally forty five years for any male to stop being bloody single,
His voice, strength or money to start arranging a marriage jingle.
Often of few worries, a lot of liberties exercising
And to a lifestyle of softer morals compromising;
No fathered babies to be humoring with toys,
A decided diversion of attention to other joys…
No infant to on its behalf bulging envelopes release,
No reckless nor fastidious wife to scold with ease.
A time and again experimentation with women
Of a life largely swayed by bad omen:
What he ‘d been snatching from ***********,
With the promiscuous posing in careless photography
The same practices this married counterparts had dropped behind
In pursuit of the mature lifestyle of the Non blind.
They dance.
They tantalize.
They titillate the upper reaches of my mind,
where marvelous and airy things assemble
just to mock my consciousness
as if to throw an acorn down and laugh
to see if I respond to just a minimum
of suffering—if I might justify
a proper bit of indignation when reflecting
on this curious act of God.
Why won't they go away?
The heavy clouds move in;
I must account for them
by bringing in the thurifer to solemnize
a creativity that even God
cares not to understand.
He merely breathes with me
the sweetness of this soft elusive art
made solely from the airy things
that I too often fail to bless,
but there they are,
cast from that swinging thurible,
acorns less tangible,
but in their burning passion there
to purify the air and just above mortality
to make it holy, dark and fair.
The sanctuary where ideas stay
lies hidden still behind the smoke
as if to say that mystery has empty hands,
no gift at all but for the airy things
that tantalize here in the sky
to make us wonder, flinging acorns,
hiding in the clouds, laughing, sobbing,
singing heartsongs at us
as we scribe the news
of all we are, and all we wish to be.
~
It is not how you look,
But how I see you,
With chaste heart and pure eyes,
I solemnize you,
My beloved,
I restraining my fervent blood,
To be recognize not,
I quietly awake,
But you bed yourself in my lines,
As in placid lakes,
Or wave-foam
Earth music
Seas fragrance
In you,
Nakedly clear,
And beautiful to me,
Whether it is your strong hands,
On my breast,
At a primal touch,
Or your ultra thick lips,
Like a musical instrument,
The essentials of your skin,
Color and redolence.
The deep landscape
And meekness of your eyes.
You steal my breathe in a verse,
And I keep writing to you my love.
Copyright©ElenaToledo2009
Pain, hurt, grief, emotional dissatisfaction
Tormenting in great detail my spirit being
Disappointments in distinct fashion
Immense heartache like never seen
Causative organism – a pretty disguised damsel
Deceptive thoughts made her look unique
Now her confessions piercing down my nostril
Deep regrets for entrusting my most cherished antique
Pieces of my heart scattered everywhere
Friends and loved ones showing colossal sympathy
Words of encouragement here and there
The ruthless “devil” displaying stinking apathy
Modest, true and faithful – one day I will find
So we can solemnize in holy matrimony
For now suicidal intent is running through my mind
I bear in my heart so much acrimony