The erotic is a girl’s voice pleasing,
Although many a man seizing
On a word
Has oft times misheard.
The erotic is a girl standing closer than she need
Which does a man’s desire feed,
And seem
Rhymes with dream.
The erotic is a peach
Seemingly out of reach.
A ripe fruit dangling,
His feelings entangling
The erotic is a state of mind
And you may find
That the seeming hot
Is not.
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
I long for
A knock
At my door
And for
Passion to unlock
In loss of shoe and sock,
But please, let it not
Be as before,
A girl, half there, longing for
The door,
And me
Wishing that she
Where more . . .
I kiss
And partake
In bliss,
Then wake
To my greying head
And an empty bed.
A short black dress
You wore.
Making it easy for
My hands to explore
Your unstockinged legs.
Yes I confess
That I remember the dress
So black and tight,
And the hot
Night, though not
To my shame,
Your name
The skin
On my feet
Has toughened with age.
Is it a sin
To think on the soft skin
Of the feet
Of young women
With whom I engage?
It can not be so
For to write a rhyme
Is no crime
And a girl’s feet are a fine
Sight at night,
With their legs bare
To the caressing air.
Although, having removed the stiletto
Shoe, I know
That girls have tough skin too.
As I listened to jaz
I felt a pang
As a young woman sang,
For I thought on the last time
I heard the jaz
In this place, with you,
So wrote a rhyme
As it was all I could do.
He spoke about a guy
Who tried to woo
A lady of 22.
And I,
Overheard every word
And wondered what it had to do
With him.
I don’t know,
Is it a sin
For a guy of 52
Or so,
To woo
A girl of 22?
I think
That if a guy
Of 52,
Wishes to buy
A drink
For a lady of 22
That it is nothing to do
With me or you.
“A fool and his money are soon parted”
The moralist will say. But, if that be true
And a man is brokenhearted,
I come back to
my original question, what has that to do
With me or you?
‘Tis a truth
Profound
That eternal youth
Can not be found
By middle-aged men who pursue
Girls of 20,
(But there are plenty
Who do).
The run
May be fun
And rings
And other such things
May a man buy
More than a look
From a young girl’s eye,
Which is sometimes mistook
By the old
For love.
Nothing comes after
Her brittle laughter
Save for more
Of the same, but the fool will not be told
The truth,
That with all his gold
He can not purchase eternal youth,
Though some already this fact
Know
But act
As though
It where not so
And continue to buy
Forced laughter
After each joke
On which they both, secretly, choke.
You left me alone
At the top of the street,
And I went home
While your feet,
Encased in shoes
You did not choose
To lose
Took you back
Down your own track.
Or perhaps I lack
The ability to understand
Your hug and hand.
Now I wait
And ponder on sense
And the present,
Or the past tense.
Is it too late?
A pointless question to state
Perhaps.
To collapse
Into meloncholy
Is folly.
I have a choice
To be morose
Or falsely jolly.
‘Tis better to use my voice
And ask than to drown
My frown
In a glass
Over a lass
Who may
Not think of me that way.
Lover or friend?
‘Tis better to know, than to pretend.
