Sta.sh
Were you not still my hunger's rarest food
And water ever to my wildest thirst!
Oh… To suckle your sweet nectar once again,
To let drip the delight of your honey-dew
And taste upon my palette your fragrant fruit!
So deprived am I, when cleansed of you,
That I am left in a state of constant craving-
Gnawing the crust of lust, so crude!
Lean have I grown in your absence,
Skin and bones beneath burden of truth:
This tastelessness might yet be removed,
Were you not still my hunger's rarest food!
Oh… To lap at love's liquor once more,
To sip the bitter-berried juice from your vine,
And turn my sibilant tongue from the sour
Of those other ill-fermented wines!
For my cracked lips chafe at the taste
Of any delight but yours, their first!
And thus my throat remains parched for days,
A Sahara that has long awaited your rains-
For you are my vinyard, my well-spring, my curse
And water ever to my wildest thirst!
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Sometimes poetry just needs to be taken for what it is. This has a saucy feel to it, like the things written, period pieces to be snickered at in drawing rooms and not mentioned by anyone else at all... which is such a shame, I think. But it does feel as if from that period, and in either case, you have done really well.
k
person who'll probably enjoy the
Superman tanka i don't dare post -
"why the man of steel"
[subtitle - counting entendres]
Lois is blabbing,
"Clark doesn't rise up hardly,
but Superman does".
members of that mile high club
joining with no entry fee
i've decided it's to dumb to
actually post, Kate. i send
it to you then shall delete it.
lol, that was my first reaction.
Hahahaha I remember a time when you denounced fixed verse.
*evil laugh*