To My Beloved Inspiration Poem by John Whitfield

To My Beloved Inspiration



Beacon light
syllable sea
casting beams
hearts and coffin nails
through cyber space
touching few
seeking you

So the rhymer tries to be
coy writer
sycophants sucking up his words
like darkness
swallowing shadows.

love hearts splatter crimson ooze
caroming off idle bodies
stuck in their own miserable existence.

Random thoughts like scattered seeds
radiate aimlessly, echo back,
reverberating, “I love you, dear poet
not for who you are but what you write...”

I do not seek bouquets
of roses, dandelions, pansies,
just two lips to say,
“I love you just for who you are – not what you write.”

Nor will my petals wither in the night
nor stem break in the gusting winds
nor nectar leak onto those unsuspecting hands
whose fingers pluck me from your grasp.

I am not common property
bartered in the agora
nor treasured trove
possessed by one alone
nor am I safe from scrutiny
nor scathing critics’ barbs –

but I am, like Mona Lisa
wanly smiling,
free to be the love of one –
and I can – and do –
love my inspiration, – you –
the core of my creation,
without whom would I not exist.

I have touched no others as I have you
nor do I care about the lea of floral acres
overwhelming verdure universe
when I have just the blossom
whose sacred fragrance fills my essence
with the will to live, to breathe,
to write for none other reader in the world.

What do I love of you?

Not eyes nor lips, nor ears
that hear my silent words

nor locks of hair
not limbs
nor hands and feet –
perhaps the soul
that sees me as I am
no matter what the outer shell presents.

Though you may love another man
and rightly so,
do not abandon what you love of me
for we are both eternal
long past long life or certain death
and love of each what we both do:

Reach out our feelings as they emerge
like butterflies from their cocoons
to fly untethered free
not be possessed
but loved for what they in their essence are
too close or way too far.

My words like breath are unrehearsed
as Cyrano for his delighted love.

Yet, I have loved ago in ancient years
without the force, without the pleasant tears
that well because I feel – yes, really FEEL
your abstract essence coursing through
the gallery of my mind
where pictures of you race
blindly through all the kaleidoscope of possibilities
just as the Bronze Man whom she thought she loved
(the SHE of everyone and HE of her IDOLATRY)
became the shattered reality of what he really was
and left her disillusioned and dissatisfied.

Impale me with your fangs
and drain me of all inspiration
to fly as words into your very heart
for I shall treasure you
wherever, and forever, who you really are.

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John Whitfield

John Whitfield

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