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Robert Sprinkle Poem
Don't think I'm anybody special, now:
I'm just an old friend standing at your door.
They said your house was here, and being poor
Of treasure, tired and footsore, I asked how
You might be: Do you smile much, or frown more
Than erstwhile lover's memory allow.
They said you look away with heavy brow,
As though a happy thought that came before
Flew far on promise of a swift return.
But still you wait, chin resolute in hand,
For word of him who by your door now stands.
I hesitate -- I pull the latch to learn
If tears of sadness or of joy I raise --
Or may be blended in lovers' embrace.
Copyright © Robert Sprinkle | Year Posted 2016
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Details |
Robert Sprinkle Poem
Life without passion? I'll have none of that!
Tempest, bend the tree and break the bough!
For me the tripping heartbeat, sweating brow,
Your eyes to mine menacing as a cat!
The midnight tenor sax cries out the long
Ago sweet song that urged your passion on,
Long cool lady's fingers, nails of crimson,
Locked loose behind your neck. Could this be wrong?
For others, the calm center, typhoon's eye.
For me, the hurricane, the swirling storm.
The thunderstriking anvils rising on warm air!
My lows be low, my highs be high!
Give me pleasure's pain 'til I would break,
If joy, unmitigated, be its wake!
Copyright © Robert Sprinkle | Year Posted 2016
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