Andrew David Dalby
Ode to Venus
In the glint of your clear crystal eyes,
I am witness to the birth of deep desire,
For they shine with an unfettered resonance.
And in the glisten of your tender parted lips,
So sensual and bountiful with honeyed sips;
My soul rests, with heavy permanence.
For you raise me upon pealed parted wings,
Only To set me down, with shuddered swirls,
Of iced cyclones where thudding shattered air explodes.
To then caress me, with such sighs, so sweet sublime,
Yet with a knowing smile of roasted plum delight;
You cleave my sin heavy, bloated, crimson soul in two.
With my nerves ridden raw by heated thoughts,
I long to feel the touch of your tender hands,
So I can rest, with dreams free from barbed-wire;
Then gladly dwell upon your trembling, sacred lands.
Oh how I loathe that shy, inner, well paged self,
Who guards, with shards, the reality of who I am...
For, it's with gentle relish that I recall,
Your coy smile upon that heated summer night.
And how gladly we wrapped ourselves so small,
Yet ever gladder, so still, so tender not so very slight.
Here… we wrestled, for a moment… lost amid a thrall;
Then hidden we lost ourselves once more, in such delight.
And I recall shaded fragrant cinnamon threads;
That arose, full upon that glowing golden dawn, .
While you slowly choose to allow my hands, drawn,
To the rest upon your tender-scented, well-dressed nest;
That, with my slender keys I gladly then unlocked,
To then digest your heady sacred dampness…
I see myself slowly begin to rise… redefined…
Tender, yet eager, to reach within your sanctum;
Where ever sated souls do very seldom rest,
Yet still manage to find contentment's castle.
And I, a mere commander to your glorious Cleopatra;
Feel near enthroned by your vibrant laughter.
For in your gentle caress, heaven is revealed;
And in your kiss I know how the dove is freed.
For your love is high above my weighted shield
That has been splintered by your ruddy joyful sigh…
And… as rippled waves, from within you are released;
They free this soul from chains that binds, and blind…
But now as we meet on these aged steady streets,
Our eyes slowly wrestle yet never seem to nestle;
And our words wanly fall from our now, near silent lips.
Yet… there rests -perhaps- the hint of a ready hope...
Could -possibly- just as easily… be broke?
Andrew David Dalby's Other Poems
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