Modern Romanticism

Poem #1

A Marvelous Waiting Game

Of eye and iris, combined,
I combed the earth, to then find, those pair,
Dipped in honeydew, and nectar alike,
Stark against pallid skin, and reddened cheeks,
As thy making, were by God’s artisans.

Your eyes, and the cries, you emit,
By the graces, of angels,
By the disgrace, of my fallen empire,
By the dismay, to my withered pride,
You are still, the only love.

A beauty, with bleakness, to tress,
And red, to lips,
A beauty with eyes, that fall in the idleness, of waking,
A beauty with no equal, unmatched, by makers, of newness,
For the eyes, that I behold, are a waiting game.

I look upon them, with a face, so stern,
I look, with the entrancement,
The enticement, the amiable nature, of my mind,
To be pleasant, in sight of a one,
The nurtured one, the rose, in the garden.

You have never been, the disappointment,
And, I never faulted you, for any failure.

A beauty, with eyes that wait, as I wait,
For a death, that would make our love, finally resting.

Poem #2

The Dismay of Thy Gleaming Back

Upon a day, when the moon, rose to stay,
And look upon us, with fervent fervor,
I saw behind, that dress, that covered thou,
A white back, that gleamed, beneath the silver.

A tempting look, in your eye,
You had a back, that gleamed, beneath the silver,
With a coat of sheen, that grew to bloom
In the radiance, of an early afternoon.

The dress, that covered thou,
Is of lace, embroidered, in a streaming silk,
Each strand, is weaved to perfection,
To shield, a body for God.

Would you, open your mouth,
To receive, a tongue?
A tongue to lash, your swollen cheeks?
You are marvelous, when you would grieve.

You are as mighty, as all beauty
When thwarted, by sensuality.
It is because, I am
The blessing, of a simple fruit,
And the admirer, of resplendence.

A beauty, that you are,
With a sheen, to a back,
All white against, the dress, that is black,
And a face, that shows, rosy cheeks, alack,
For thou, hast turned from me!

A back, a back, and a back,
Your face, not ever known.

Poem #3

A Lover’s Wine and Nectar

Death divides, my purpose,
Love had made, it wine,
Your lilies, when worn, on crown, so high,
Drew to knew, the nectar, from, the sigh.
As when God, bent his knee,
Your loving God, had bent, his knee.
And I gave a ring, to thy finger,
So that thou, would accompany me.

You are not devilish, on my barren lands,
You, with your ivory face, and porcelain cheeks,
A heart of ruby, though wrapped, in thorns.

A quake hurls, my empathy across,
A child pules, to the breast, and its emptiness.
I gave my platter, for the servant, to witness,
A mighty feast, on thy lips, of cherry.

Your beauty, and your fossilized form,
Were many, in the hues and shades,
I still allowed, a treat to be consumed,
Of perked lips, and even raven tress.

Lovely, when thou, would accompany me,
On the serpentine roadway, to my dwelling,
For thy frailty, is next to loathing,
At the pity, and scorn, of my promise.