I could not write a poem,
More than I could make a golem,
I do not have the power,
To even describe a flower,
I’ve been rotten at verse,
Since I was born first,
I can’t make a rhyme,
With all the world and time,
My vocabulary is restricted,
My vision constricted,
Eloquence eludes me,
“Incompetent” concludes me,
I try to find inside me,
Words that would please thee,
Instead there are toys,
And things and worlds made for boys,
Nothing that I could show,
A woman so she should know,
That I am not just an empty vessel,
A whistling kettle,
Or a dirty ladle,
A plain thing by any label,
Or a stray dog,
Or a passing fog,
But I am myself,
Who cannot rhyme or much else,
But who is trying his best,
To live up to the test,
Of contradicting myself,
And before I say anything else,
I plead that though illiterate,
I am not inadequate,
To be your friend,
To the end,
My words are not doves,
But I can love,
Like a moth does fire,
Like a bard his lyre,
Like a warrior his blade,
A man a maid,
So sample this simple taste,
Slowly, without haste,
And then decide and see,
If my love pleases thee.
Copyright 2008 George Saracen
|
via Email
