Walt Ostrander

(1/23/89 / Milwaukee, WI)


It was called red; it was
Vehement softenings upon such
Strands of life did Her terms of endearment
Fall, slicing silently the quiet beauty
Falling loosely about the dress
Of sweet Delilah

They came upon the crippling fancy,
Dressed in coats of opaque iron.
“They are upon us, ” She cried.
And she cried,
Oh sweet Delilah.

She held within her softened hands
(Which no oils could distil)
His russet locks, no longer alive
As they were, as he lay sleeping
On her lap;
On sweet Delilah.

His muscles surged with love,
As they blinded him
With coal-tipped knives
And he grasped the hand
Of sweet Delilah.

The rippling canonization
Tore at sweet Delilah,
His hair was long
As it too refused to be bound.
To anything,
But sweet Delilah.

“A piece of silver for each of them, ”
Her fingers playing a lovely song
Over the locks now hidden
In the folds of her dress.
And he wept for her,
As he bled violent tears;
For sweet Delilah.

Columns fell, as the tale goes.
Columns fell stone on stone,
And temples became ruin
As the crimson hero raged and wept
For sweet Delilah.

And to the shores of Ithaca
Did Delilah’s silver go.
Ensnared like so many cockles
In the dress
Of dear Penelope
As she lay covered
In Neptune’s foamy veil.
And she cried quite loudly,
For sweet Delilah.

Submitted: Thursday, March 01, 2007
Edited: Tuesday, January 25, 2011
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