John Lars Zwerenz
I row my wooden skiff, approaching the brilliant shore,
On the sanguine sea, with rubies in the bow;
A troubadour, I leave the jewels within the prow.
(I hide my little boat in the grasses by the moor.)
I scuffle on the dales as a poetic patrician.
With an aureole about my head, I hold a silver spear.
Am I Virgil, Keats or the author of King Lear? -
None of these: I am of my own- a meta-physician.
A Carolingian invader, I have crossed the English Channel twice;
I have met my foe in battle, as the maddened Mongolian kills.
My lover awaits me in a flake white dress, with aristocratic frills.
Her tone and her aspects entrance as they entice.
I have voyaged over land and sea for her kiss of adamantine.
And I shall leave my sword behind me- for her pearly skin of wine.
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