I. Herself

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;
A ****** beauty more acceptable
Than the wild rose-tree’s arch that crowns the fell;
To be an essence more environing
Than wine’s drained juice; a music ravishing
More than the passionate pulse of Philomel; -
To be all this ’neath one soft *****’s swell
That is the flower of life:—how strange a thing!

How strange a thing to be what Man can know
But as a sacred secret! Heaven’s own screen
Hides her soul’s purest depth and loveliest glow;
Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,—
The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green
That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.


II. Her Love

She loves him; for her infinite soul is Love,
And he her lodestar. Passion in her is
A glass facing his fire, where the bright bliss
Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet move
That glass, a stranger’s amorous flame to prove,
And it shall turn, by instant contraries,
Ice to the moon; while her pure fire to his
For whom it burns, clings close i’ the heart’s alcove.

Lo! they are one. With wifely breast to breast
And circling arms, she welcomes all command
Of love,—her soul to answering ardours fann’d:
Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to rest,
Ah! who shall say she deems not loveliest
The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand?


III. Her Heaven

If to grow old in Heaven is to grow young,
(As the Seer saw and said,) then blest were he
With youth forevermore, whose heaven should be
True Woman, she whom these weak notes have sung.
Here and hereafter,—choir-strains of her tongue,—
Sky-spaces of her eyes,—sweet signs that flee
About her soul’s immediate sanctuary,—
Were Paradise all uttermost worlds among.

The sunrise blooms and withers on the hill
Like any hillflower; and the noblest troth
Dies here to dust. Yet shall Heaven’s promise clothe
Even yet those lovers who have cherished still
This test for love:—in every kiss sealed fast
To feel the first kiss and forebode the last.

I have fallen into the snare of love; whether or not I wish it, I must love; and strugglingly, whether or not my heart desires to taste it, I have to go through it. I have tried, certainly, with beads of weird sweat, to crawl along its muddy channel; a muddy channel adorned only with tears and grievousness, but still I have failed to pass it. I have failed to pass my heart onto it, my poor little heart; and relieve it with comfort love might just ever have.

How I once desired to call thee, hath now ceremoniously gone; my stomach flips and churns itself like a whirling streak of poor butter being invaded by endless chains of ***** charms. My heart is plain, bleak, and can only whisper to me the pain it feels; my heart has beats still, but neither air nor breath. Its air has been radiantly tossed away; and superseded by a chance of madness it had always averted--at least before the very incident took place. It is now, thus, pale and has no shimmer nor glitter on its surface; its tale is as bare as a thin wintry raspberry branch might be. Ah, Immortal, my Friday morning; my Saturday evening; my Sunday afternoon. Immortal; with his faded grey hat strolling comfortably alongside a smiling me; our love was growing mutually on a warm Saturday morning. I told thereof, some minuscule bits of anecdote-like poetry; and his laugh afterwards warmed up all the butterflies that had hitherto laid down lazily around the grounds on their coloured stomachs. Immortal with his arduous bag hoisted onto his sturdy shoulders; and greeted me softly, with a rough morning voice; as he padded down the stairs--smelling like honey and trees and a flying bumblebee. Immortal with his love settling onto his voice; his shaky lips as he uttered a verse he remembered from a novel he had (unsuccessfully) tried to read. Immortal with his reddish lips, and innocent brownish glances--as he walked down the stairs. Immortal with my love encircling every swing of his steps; Immortal with my little heart within him. Immortal my dearest darling; his treasures were always brown--at least twice a week, and the smell of his perfumed blossom-like shampoo clinging all too gently onto the way down his white neck, and waist.

Immortal in his black garments in last year's cold weather; and with a witty smile so meaningful that he was once like a candle to my darkened heart. Immortal and his bored face that always entertained my heart; and his anxiety about immaculate workloads that made everything but funnier than they already were. Ah, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my very own Immortal. Though thou might be Immortal no more, in thy mind; thou really art still my Immortal in every sense; and I can still but feel thy presence even from a very far distance. Immortal, thou art my blood; my jugular veins, and the definition of my very heartbeat! Immortal, how I am a fool to have confessed this; thou might remember me no more; but for thou knoweth--thou art my prince still, of whom I feel the humblest streak of pride; and for whom I shall still wipe my showering tears. Ah, Immortal! One day I had just emerged from my room with a jug of warm water, and a flavour of strange poetry in my literary mind; and my Immortal greeted me with a stamp of melancholy smile as he always does when he retreats from work. He looked tired but not submissive; he had a rain of spirit still--for the remaining ingress and egress of the raucous Monday evening. I was, indeed, explosively exhausted from my head all the way to my feet--and a lurid chat with him slowly melted my stern visage and restored its gleams. Ah, Immortal; my lover, my shiny petal; the missing wing of my eastern soul; my European moon. He is from Sofia; as how its chaotic--yet elaborative auras always danced around his face. The charms of Sofia were even better scented in his breath; he was always prophetic about the skies and the red-skinned suns of the summer. He thoughtfully suggested that I write of 'em; he breathed his relief and exhaustion only into my hands, how he trusted me and depended himself on me like a selfish little lad! On other occasions laughed with a pair of red cheeks--is aromatic and handsome my lover, indeed he is! My poor, poor lover; for the world hath now defined its triumph over him; and thus its terrifically evil proses his very regions. Ah, my darling, if only still-I could save, save, and save thee! Ah, 'em--doth thou, by any chance, hold any remembrance of 'em still? Our blessed, blessed offspring--and they but shall be nurtured and overjoyed and delightfully pampered, as the very special fruits of our love. The love that both of our souls enjoy; the love that our sides agree on. Your fatherliness is in our son; and just as how I am, our daughter shall enlighten our home with her poems; ah, dear, dear little giggles t'at would be ours, and verily ours only! Ah, Immortal, if only thou but knew--how panoramic my wifely love would be!

Immortal, my darling; my purplish sun; my picturesque sky; my starlet dream. Even the oceans across our splendid earth are not vacant, and innocent, as thy eyes; thy words are like a calming river whose odour once shrieked gently onto my ears. Every breath thou maketh is my poem; and thus in every single poem, or verse I write--there dwells a vast bulk of thy charms. Thou art alive still--in my lungs; in my humorous soul; thou art the eve to my nights; the leaf to my mornings. Even the only leaf that shall stay firm when autumn finally arrives. But unfortunately shall it arrives with dire terms; for shall it have revenge--due to its savagely desperate needs for reclaiming its once lost freedom. Ah, its freedom, that was consumed away by the compounded fires of the summer. Then, still there shall be no-one to replace thee, even about the adequate hills and valleys outside; I could find thee not this jubilant afternoon. Oh, how unceremonious! And how malicious my love is, for thee! And our song is, for thou knoweth, resembles the one echoing in yon marvelous Raphaelite painting; my hair sings of your love; just as my poetry speaks of thy bounteousness. Thou art not Him; but still--thou art more bountiful to my heart, than to all our frail counterparts may seem!

And by this I am still your little girl; I shall play with my bike and congratulate thee on crafting off the last bits of my poetry. Like in a nursery once, though I doth remember it thoroughly not; I played with my dolls and later created a bride and groom out of them; I shall perhaps play with them again and make the remembrance of our now astray marriage, this time, their illusionary sanctuary. Ah, Immortal, this love might be virtual--and thus not by any chance effectual; but do remember, in thy severed heart, that it was once real; and that it was, long ago, deeply heartfelt and actual. Immortal, the king of my moon; the very last spark of my charms, I hope thou wilt know one day--how I selflessly loved--and love thee still, purely and artistically, just as how I loveth His other creations and my beautiful poetry; and that I shall still supplicate that you be the first, and last mate in my arms-- for my love is sacred, humid, and eternal; and I want thee thus, to be my only immortal.

I love thee; and thee only, querida. Obicham te, obicham te, obicham te.

"The iniquity of the fathers upon the children."


O the rose of keenest thorn!
One hidden summer morn
Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name
Who wrought my Mother's shame,
And gave me life forlorn,
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
I know her from all other.
My Mother pale and mild,
Fair as ever was seen,
She was but scarce sixteen,
Little more than a child,
When I was born
To work her scorn.
With secret bitter throes,
In a passion of secret woes,
She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed
Took me from the first:--
"O nurse, let me look upon
This babe that cost so dear;
To-morrow she will be gone:
Other mothers may keep
Their babes awake and asleep,
But I must not keep her here."--
Whether I know or guess,
I know this not the less.

So I was sent away
That none might spy the truth:
And my childhood waxed to youth
And I left off childish play.
I never cared to play
With the village boys and girls;
And I think they thought me proud,
I found so little to say
And kept so from the crowd:
But I had the longest curls,
And I had the largest eyes,
And my teeth were small like pearls;
The girls might flout and scout me,
But the boys would hang about me
In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood
A long mile from the town,
A mile of windy down
And bleak one-sided wood,
With not a single house.
Our town itself was small,
With just the common shops,
And throve in its small way.
Our neighboring gentry reared
The good old-fashioned crops,
And made old-fashioned boasts
Of what John Bull would do
If Frenchman Frog appeared,
And drank old-fashioned toasts,
And made old-fashioned bows
To my Lady at the Hall.

My Lady at the Hall
Is grander than they all:
Hers is the oldest name
In all the neighborhood;
But the race must die with her
Though she's a lofty dame,
For she's unmarried still.
Poor people say she's good
And has an open hand
As any in the land,
And she's the comforter
Of many sick and sad;
My nurse once said to me
That everything she had
Came of my Lady's bounty:
"Though she's greatest in the county
She's humble to the poor,
No beggar seeks her door
But finds help presently.
I pray both night and day
For her, and you must pray:
But she'll never feel distress
If needy folk can bless."
I was a little maid
When here we came to live
From somewhere by the sea.
Men spoke a foreign tongue
There where we used to be
When I was merry and young,
Too young to feel afraid;
The fisher-folk would give
A kind strange word to me,
There by the foreign sea:
I don't know where it was,
But I remember still
Our cottage on a hill,
And fields of flowering grass
On that fair foreign shore.

I liked my old home best,
But this was pleasant too:
So here we made our nest
And here I grew.
And now and then my Lady
In riding past our door
Would nod to nurse and speak,
Or stoop and pat my cheek;
And I was always ready
To hold the field-gate wide
For my Lady to go through;
My Lady in her veil
So seldom put aside,
My Lady grave and pale.

I often sat to wonder
Who might my parents be,
For I knew of something under
My simple-seeming state.
Nurse never talked to me
Of mother or of father,
But watched me early and late
With kind suspicious cares:
Or not suspicious, rather
Anxious, as if she knew
Some secret I might gather
And smart for unawares.
Thus I grew.

But Nurse waxed old and gray,
Bent and weak with years.
There came a certain day
That she lay upon her bed
Shaking her palsied head,
With words she gasped to say
Which had to stay unsaid.
Then with a jerking hand
Held out so piteously
She gave a ring to me
Of gold wrought curiously,
A ring which she had worn
Since the day that I was born,
She once had said to me:
I slipped it on my finger;
Her eyes were keen to linger
On my hand that slipped it on;
Then she sighed one rattling sigh
And stared on with sightless eye:--
The one who loved me was gone.

How long I stayed alone
With the corpse I never knew,
For I fainted dead as stone:
When I came to life once more
I was down upon the floor,
With neighbors making ado
To bring me back to life.
I heard the sexton's wife
Say: "Up, my lad, and run
To tell it at the Hall;
She was my Lady's nurse,
And done can't be undone.
I'll watch by this poor lamb.
I guess my Lady's purse
Is always open to such:
I'd run up on my crutch
A ******* as I am,"
(For cramps had vexed her much,)
"Rather than this dear heart
Lack one to take her part."

For days, day after day,
On my weary bed I lay,
Wishing the time would pass;
O, so wishing that I was
Likely to pass away:
For the one friend whom I knew
Was dead, I knew no other,
Neither father nor mother;
And I, what should I do?

One day the sexton's wife
Said: "Rouse yourself, my dear:
My Lady has driven down
From the Hall into the town,
And we think she's coming here.
Cheer up, for life is life."

But I would not look or speak,
Would not cheer up at all.
My tears were like to fall,
So I turned round to the wall
And hid my hollow cheek,
Making as if I slept,
As silent as a stone,
And no one knew I wept.
What was my Lady to me,
The grand lady from the Hall?
She might come, or stay away,
I was sick at heart that day:
The whole world seemed to be
Nothing, just nothing to me,
For aught that I could see.

Yet I listened where I lay:
A bustle came below,
A clear voice said: "I know;
I will see her first alone,
It may be less of a shock
If she's so weak to-day":--
A light hand turned the lock,
A light step crossed the floor,
One sat beside my bed:
But never a word she said.

For me, my shyness grew
Each moment more and more:
So I said never a word
And neither looked nor stirred;
I think she must have heard
My heart go pit-a-pat:
Thus I lay, my Lady sat,
More than a mortal hour
(I counted one and two
By the house-clock while I lay):
I seemed to have no power
To think of a thing to say,
Or do what I ought to do,
Or rouse myself to a choice.

At last she said: "Margaret,
Won't you even look at me?"
A something in her voice
Forced my tears to fall at last,
Forced sobs from me thick and fast;
Something not of the past,
Yet stirring memory;
A something new, and yet
Not new, too sweet to last,
Which I never can forget.

I turned and stared at her:
Her cheek showed hollow-pale;
Her hair like mine was fair,
A wonderful fall of hair
That screened her like a veil;
But her height was statelier,
Her eyes had depth more deep:
I think they must have had
Always a something sad,
Unless they were asleep.

While I stared, my Lady took
My hand in her spare hand,
Jewelled and soft and grand,
And looked with a long long look
Of hunger in my face;
As if she tried to trace
Features she ought to know,
And half hoped, half feared, to find.
Whatever was in her mind
She heaved a sigh at last,
And began to talk to me.
"Your nurse was my dear nurse,
And her nursling's dear," said she:
"No one told me a word
Of her getting worse and worse,
Till her poor life was past"
(Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):
"I might have been with her,
I might have promised and heard,
But she had no comforter.
She might have told me much
Which now I shall never know,
Never, never shall know."
She sat by me sobbing so,
And seemed so woe-begone,
That I laid one hand upon
Hers with a timid touch,
Scarce thinking what I did,
Not knowing what to say:
That moment her face was hid
In the pillow close by mine,
Her arm was flung over me,
She hugged me, sobbing so
As if her heart would break,
And kissed me where I lay.

After this she often came
To bring me fruit or wine,
Or sometimes hothouse flowers.
And at nights I lay awake
Often and often thinking
What to do for her sake.
Wet or dry it was the same:
She would come in at all hours,
Set me eating and drinking,
And say I must grow strong;
At last the day seemed long
And home seemed scarcely home
If she did not come.

Well, I grew strong again:
In time of primroses
I went to pluck them in the lane;
In time of nestling birds
I heard them chirping round the house;
And all the herds
Were out at grass when I grew strong,
And days were waxen long,
And there was work for bees
Among the May-bush boughs,
And I had shot up tall,
And life felt after all
Pleasant, and not so long
When I grew strong.

I was going to the Hall
To be my Lady's maid:
"Her little friend," she said to me,
"Almost her child,"
She said and smiled,
Sighing painfully;
Blushing, with a second flush,
As if she blushed to blush.

Friend, servant, child: just this
My standing at the Hall;
The other servants call me "Miss,"
My Lady calls me "Margaret,"
With her clear voice musical.
She never chides when I forget
This or that; she never chides.
Except when people come to stay
(And that's not often) at the Hall,
I sit with her all day
And ride out when she rides.
She sings to me and makes me sing;
Sometimes I read to her,
Sometimes we merely sit and talk.
She noticed once my ring
And made me tell its history:
That evening in our garden walk
She said she should infer
The ring had been my father's first,
Then my mother's, given for me
To the nurse who nursed
My mother in her misery,
That so quite certainly
Some one might know me, who--
Then she was silent, and I too.

I hate when people come:
The women speak and stare
And mean to be so civil.
This one will stroke my hair,
That one will pat my cheek
And praise my Lady's kindness,
Expecting me to speak;
I like the proud ones best
Who sit as struck with blindness,
As if I wasn't there.
But if any gentleman
Is staying at the Hall
(Though few come prying here),
My Lady seems to fear
Some downright dreadful evil,
And makes me keep my room
As closely as she can:
So I hate when people come,
It is so troublesome.
In spite of all her care,
Sometimes to keep alive
I sometimes do contrive
To get out in the grounds
For a whiff of wholesome air,
Under the rose you know:
It's charming to break bounds,
Stolen waters are sweet,
And what's the good of feet
If for days they mustn't go?
Give me a longer tether,
Or I may break from it.

Now I have eyes and ears
And just some little wit:
"Almost my lady's child";
I recollect she smiled,
Sighed and blushed together;
Then her story of the ring
Sounds not improbable,
She told it me so well
It seemed the actual thing:--
O keep your counsel close,
But I guess under the rose,
In long past summer weather
When the world was blossoming,
And the rose upon its thorn:
I guess not who he was
Flawed honor like a glass
And made my life forlorn;
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
O, I know her from all other.

My Lady, you might trust
Your daughter with your fame.
Trust me, I would not shame
Our honorable name,
For I have noble blood
Though I was bred in dust
And brought up in the mud.
I will not press my claim,
Just leave me where you will:
But you might trust your daughter,
For blood is thicker than water
And you're my mother still.

So my Lady holds her own
With condescending grace,
And fills her lofty place
With an untroubled face
As a queen may fill a throne.
While I could hint a tale
(But then I am her child)
Would make her quail;
Would set her in the dust,
Lorn with no comforter,
Her glorious hair defiled
And ashes on her cheek:
The decent world would ******
Its finger out at her,
Not much displeased I think
To make a nine days' stir;
The decent world would sink
Its voice to speak of her.

Now this is what I mean
To do, no more, no less:
Never to speak, or show
Bare sign of what I know.
Let the blot pass unseen;
Yea, let her never guess
I hold the tangled clew
She huddles out of view.
Friend, servant, almost child,
So be it and nothing more
On this side of the grave.
Mother, in Paradise,
You'll see with clearer eyes;
Perhaps in this world even
When you are like to die
And face to face with Heaven
You'll drop for once the lie:
But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises
Two hundred pounds with me
Whenever I may wed
A man she can approve:
And since besides her bounty
I'm fairest in the county
(For so I've heard it said,
Though I don't vouch for this),
Her promised pounds may move
Some honest man to see
My virtues and my beauties;
Perhaps the rising grazier,
Or temperance publican,
May claim my wifely duties.
Meanwhile I wait their leisure
And grace-bestowing pleasure,
I wait the happy man;
But if I hold my head
And pitch my expectations
Just higher than their level,
They must fall back on patience:
I may not mean to wed,
Yet I'll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream
My heart goes out of me
To build and scheme,
Till I sob after things that seem
So pleasant in a dream:
A home such as I see
My blessed neighbors live in
With father and with mother,
All proud of one another,
Named by one common name,
From baby in the bud
To full-blown workman father;
It's little short of Heaven.
I'd give my gentle blood
To wash my special shame
And drown my private grudge;
I'd toil and moil much rather
The dingiest cottage drudge
Whose mother need not blush,
Than live here like a lady
And see my Mother flush
And hear her voice unsteady
Sometimes, yet never dare
Ask to share her care.

Of course the servants sneer
Behind my back at me;
Of course the village girls,
Who envy me my curls
And gowns and idleness,
Take comfort in a jeer;
Of course the ladies guess
Just so much of my history
As points the emphatic stress
With which they laud my Lady;
The gentlemen who catch
A casual glimpse of me
And turn again to see,
Their valets on the watch
To speak a word with me,
All know and sting me wild;
Till I am almost ready
To wish that I were dead,
No faces more to see,
No more words to be said,
My Mother safe at last
Disburdened of her child,
And the past past.

"All equal before God,"--
Our Rector has it so,
And sundry sleepers nod:
It may be so; I know
All are not equal here,
And when the sleepers wake
They make a difference.
"All equal in the grave,"--
That shows an obvious sense:
Yet something which I crave
Not death itself brings near;
How should death half atone
For all my past; or make
The name I bear my own?

I love my dear old Nurse
Who loved me without gains;
I love my mistress even,
Friend, Mother, what you will:
But I could almost curse
My Father for his pains;
And sometimes at my prayer,
Kneeling in sight of Heaven,
I almost curse him still:
Why did he set his snare
To catch at unaware
My Mother's foolish youth;
Load me with shame that's hers,
And her with something worse,
A lifelong lie for truth?

I think my mind is fixed
On one point and made up:
To accept my lot unmixed;
Never to drug the cup
But drink it by myself.
I'll not be wooed for pelf;
I'll not blot out my shame
With any man's good name;
But nameless as I stand,
My hand is my own hand,
And nameless as I came
I go to the dark land.

"All equal in the grave,"--
I bide my time till then:
"All equal before God,"--
To-day I feel His rod,
To-morrow He may save:
            Amen.

Can I ask you a question?

Yeah sure.

No like one of those serious questions that most people never bring up on dates.

Okay.

What are you looking for in a future husband?

Well, first off, none of that typical stuff, like giving me roses. Not every girl loves roses. And if you give me those I know you don't know me. I'd rather have the purple and pink flocks that grow wild on the side of the road.

And if you're going to buy me jewelry, don't. I'd rather go to a destination than get a diamond.

And I don't want you to say I love you without your eyes speaking it too.

And don't complement me on how I'm pretty. Because if the only thing you can find positive about is is that I'm pretty then I've failed. I want to be so much more than pretty.

And if we're in public don't think you have to always touch me or claim me as your own. No insecurity. You should know I'm loyal without me showing physical affection infront of everyone.

But most of all, I want a man who I can believe in, root for, support and have the courage to not limit me to a wifely role but take me as his companion, his partner in crime.

Never below, never above, beside.

Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shall age and grow but never change;
he shall wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shall never show
Yes, he shall but still look the same tomorrow.

Ah! In his silliness and bold playfulness,
he sometimes makes fun of his own madness,
with a conscience that somehow be rapid
and cheerful smiles so genuine and sweet.
Like a miracle in one dull puppet show
He canst list five jokes in a row!
But a certain poison is in his blood;
and unreachable thoughts forever colour his heart.
His youthful lips are full of secret tales;
and his white skin can at times be pale.
His stories are songs we've never sung
and his breaths are simply words to my poetic lungs.
With daring steps that this earth never fails
into the moors every morning he sails.
Once I found him behind the walls
among the long corridor of my halls.
With lightness he sounded plain but sure
Yet the cold outside made him obscure;
his purity was like a shadow of lightning
so calm but innocent and bewitching.
But as soon as gales wafted through the grass
He would once again; flock away into its mass.
Glee, glee, was what then astonished my poetry;
with tears and feelings that might have lit-
o, immortal man, I have only words to play with!

And ah! How once I startled him by my lover's name;
which he enquired more without any shame.
But envious was my heart's flame-
and delight was sadly never there to tame.
I ran, and ran away-without staring back at him,
no matter how absurd it'ght hath seemed!
With turmoils that were inside of me-
I clouded his picture once more,
stiffened by cries, but hated by my own delight-
scarred by lies, and loathed by very fright-
but now and then he would spring back into my steps,
demanding me to give what had been said away,
but I sped and hurried 'till he no more tapped,
and was turned aback and into his own day.
O, immortal man, please just forgive-o forgive me,
for I shalt have no more courage to face thee.

And lust, and love are but my forbidden triumph
Which he can only be see within my poems.
With his hands that shall stay awake forever-
and never age behind eternal rains and thunder;
to every single day he shall wake gladly in wonder.
Gazing through his very own unnatural universe
with holy regrets but intense admiration
But sadly his life might never be my verse;
neither his charms ever be my wifely laudation.
The fate of his might just not be my course;
and as how my being; is not his envied incarnation.

But blessings be with him, whoever's precious treasure
and be pains his heart shalt never endure.
O, immortal man, our paths are one, but never meet;
and forever are just enemies like coldness is to heat.
Again whenst I am to die I shalt remember thee;
for being more awesome than even the lake
and more delightful than any words canst take.
Ah! And thy silliness is one that makes thee so special
and even lighter than letters that hide behind the wall.
How thou would be one of my firsts to call!
Just like how thou art always immortal;
as thy portrait is eternally young and genial;
from which my pondering eyes shall never stir;
as whispers my human heart forever longs to hear.

Lord Henry Dickenbottem
Lived among his peers
A mind of deepest arrogance
Concealed between his ears
He spent his nights in gross misconduct
Lounging in his secret quarters
Mistress, maid and washerwoman
Ousted mothers, secret daughters
Hiding sordid love affairs
His endless line of ******* heirs
***** Henry Dickenbottem
Stalked above the stairs

Lady Mary Dickenbottem
Did her wifely duty
The slenderest of all her kin
Considered quite the beauty
Though in the dusk the candle burned
Alone, she stitched a pallid face
And in the dark she sought its words
To gain her shallow masters grace
Guiding will and fooling eyes
Beseeching of the dead to rise
Demon Mary Dickenbottem
She the pure despise

Master Neville Dickenbottem
Best of all his class
Beaten all the school boys
And bedded every lass
Allies of the strongest kind
And making merry of the weak
The liberties were his to take
And never one he wouldn’t seek
His gaze surveyed that which he ruled
All logical and water cooled
Nasty Neville Dickenbottem
Devil-fire fuelled

Young Jemmima Dickenbottem
Innocent and slight
Playing on the borderline
And darting out of sight
Only ever at her ease
When no one else was close about
And etched upon her baby face
The guilty shadow of a doubt
Always blamed if something broke
And speaking just above a croak
Shy Jemmima Dickenbottem
Tangible as smoke

Old Mother Dickenbottem
Lounging in her chair
Lavender and nicotine
Are fighting for her hair
Beware, at night she ventures forth
So best keep safe your tiny tots
She’ll creep up to the windowpane
And ****** them, sleeping, from their cots
Humming in discordant tones
Nimble fingers, cold as stones
Hungry Mother Dickenbottem
Gnawing on the bones

Dear Major Dickenbottem
Five years in the ground
Hoarded every ha’penny
But frittered every pound
Long he served his king and queen
A gentlemanly thing to do
He left the port with many men
And brought back homeward very few
He died away in foreign lands
Of syphilis and swollen glands
Dead Major Dickenbottem
Killed by wandering hands

What would you say was the reason you got married?

I loved Patrick and I knew he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. But besides having found the right person, I accepted marrying my husband because I felt like it was the right time for us to take a step and start a family.

With today’s relationships, it’s becoming hard for couples to stay together for long; how did you make it?

I think compatibility plays a huge role in this. We are compatible with each other because for the years we have spent together, we’ve rarely had fights. We are also aware of each other’s weaknesses and strengths and this helps us to avoid pressing each other’s buttons. Keeping a stronger communication between us has also helped a lot.

You’ve been married for over a year now; do you find marriage what you had pictured it to be?

I always thought marriage was hard, but what I have seen is totally different from what I thought; marriage is sweet. However, I think this also depends on one’s partner, and I personally haven’t found it to be complicated in any way.

A journalist’s schedule is always tight; doesn’t it interfere with your wifely duties?

Well it’s tricky but I get to programme myself. As soon as I am done with my work, I head home to take care of my family. My work rarely does interfere with my wifely duties.

That day you walked down the aisle; how did it feel watching Patrick at the altar?

(Smiles)...I was in a haze and so nervous, mostly because of the excitement. After reaching the altar and taking our vows, I knew I had become Mrs Kigenza and it was exciting.

How did you spend your honeymoon?

We took off three weeks and had part of it here and outside Rwanda. It was relaxing and I was so happy because I was at the point of starting a new life and you know when you are with someone you love it feels awesome.

How do you plan on maintaining the sparkle in your marriage?

Surprising my husband. I always do this by taking him out once in a while and this keeps the sparkle because we get to have ample time just for the two of us.

What are some of the biggest adjustments you made from being single to married?

Taking up more responsibilities; when you’re still single it’s mostly you and nothing more, but when you’re married, responsibilities double. You worry about whether he has eaten, what he is to wear, the kids; all this you get to be responsible for. Managing a home is not that easy.

Wasn’t it hard for you marrying a famous figure?

It wasn’t hard for me actually because I had known Antoinette for a long time even way before she became famous. Deciding to start a family with her was because I trusted her, her nature and personality assured me that she was the right woman for me.

Some men have a belief that for one to get married they first own a certain mass of wealth. What’s your take on this?

Well, that’s not necessarily true because this depends on one’s definition of wealth. However, for one to start a family they have to own some kind of stability financially because it comes with more responsibilities. However, I don’t think one should wait to own things like fancy cars or houses to marry.

Men are known to conceal their feelings; how do you deal with this in terms of communication in your marriage?

I don’t think I fall in that group because if I am happy with something my wife gets to know it, the same with if I am not pleased with something I tell her. I am that kind of person who is open.

How do you keep the fire burning in your relationship?

I still take my wife on dates, and this helps us not to be caught up with the routine of life. This way, we get to spend time together and share wonderful moments as a couple.

Why do you think some marriages break up?

Poor communication, this is a key issue in marriage and when it fails trouble sets in. I always ensure an open communication such that if one f us has an issue there is a platform to discuss it because it’s small matters that later bring about a bigger mess.

Do you help your wife with house chores?

Yes I do. I sometimes cook; I love cooking (laughs). My wife and I share responsibilities at home; she can make the bed as I do the dishes.

What is the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for your wife?

It was the proposal, it happened a few days after her birthday on the August 30, 2014. We held a party for her at her home in Nyamirambo. I had a ring, but it was in a beautiful box that looked like a flower, no one could suspect I had a ring. I later asked for a speech and as I expressed my birthday wishes I went on my knees and asked her to marry me. Amidst her being emotional, my partner in crime, my cousin had champagne and after she said ‘yes’ we toasted to the proposal.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

I dreamt my tower before my tower
Arose from oak-treed woods,
And standing far above a sparkling sea
Providing welcome space: a home
From where to think, compose,
Be quite alone.

When becalmed by night, the youngest girl
Of three and yet *****, I sat and pondered
Many silent hours, the house quite still,
(No music sounding out, or I to give it sound)
And sitting so did spin a future for myself:
A castle-keep upon a point of wooded land
With sea to either side and hills behind,
No, mountains surely, and across the water
A sprinkle of isles all shapes and hues,
Their aspect changing hour on hour.

It was not arranged that we should meet,
'Twas a love match made by Cupid’s hand.
At Mrs Morran’s weekly dance he came,
The second son, a slim, dark soul,
Rich in silence and sharp looks
He did at once unlock my heart, so seated
At the instrument my hands did briefly
Falter at the keys to see him frown then look
When I began a *Menuet from Playford’s book.
I sang, but now cannot remember what,
My voice seemed strangely not my own,
But distant, far away and lacking tone.

Faining not to dance he later came and spoke
Of Mr Handel whom he’d lately seen and heard
On that great man’s brief sojourn in our city.
Masterly playing, he said, rich in invention
And delight. You know his work? Oh yes I cried,
Of course, of course I play his keyboard Canzonets
Until my sisters scold me and my finger sore
With trills and turns and ornaments apace
Such grace this music . . . and he laughed.

Six months later we were wed,
He, a most Honourable son by birth,
I, his Lady came to be.
Through music our love begat
An heir then daughters three
Before five years had passed.
And then . . .
With swiftness hardly comprehending
He became the heir and Laird
Of 20,000 acres in Bendeloch, Mid Lorn,
His father and his brother dead, their ship
The Coral foundering in Atlantic storms.
And so did Lochnell, newly built,
Become our home, its policies
******* broad Archmucknisk Bay
That favoured to the west the Isle of Mull
and to the north Argyll and Bute.

As children grew and wifely obligations
Changed I became again a dreaming soul
Returned by degrees to that first love,
My music, that had brought to me such joy,
Affection, happiness, delight.
My husband busy with affairs abroad,
I filled the house with Mr Handel’s
Strains and finding I could improvise
Upon his grounds, discovered too
That I had tunes a’plenty, and not only
In my fingers, but in my restless mind.
Whilst other ladies write and paint
I scribe the symbols of my art, and then
In music’s script composed and scored
To paper with a draughtsman’s pen.

Each day I went to seek my muse,
Would find her form in nature’s grace.
My garden walled in granite stone
Held leafy treasures safe from wind and storm.
But ascending thence through oak woods
To peninsulary heights I glimpsed afar
A fine, majestic view towards the Highland
Ranges so rich in Gaelic names (and oft in May
Still topped with ice and snow).
Such sublimity I felt when gazing
On the aspect of these distant hills
That music came unbidden to my waiting hand
And, returning to my study, I would play and write
My manuscripts till late at night.

My husband smiled at such full-fancied thought
Then hid from me a brave intent and plan.
Whilst away one spring we travelled south
To Venice and Milan, he ordered built
A tower to rise above the trees
With winding stair and tiny chamber
At its top where my small clavichord
might rest and furnish me with
With gentle sounds to speak of music
On the very peak of Gardh Ards.

Arriving home in burnished autumn’s wake
He led me to the very top, and there
Above the forest sward, rose up a tower,
A tower from whose fine granulated heights
A Lady who wrote music might imbibe
A richer view, and then in silent meditation
Take from landscape’s glory all and more.
And so inscribed upon a plaque reads
*Erected for Lady Campbell anno 1754.

Sue walks in where you work
Whispers and looks not understood
Comes to see you as usual
As you are married to her

A week or so later Sue meets a new person working with you
Funny the woman looks like her
Still odd looks from people when she drops in
One day it hits her

You ****** her look alike
Only difference is she is 20 years younger
Worse than that she is a baby compared to You
Someone at worked clued poor Sue in

Everyone saw You together everyday at a lunch
Breaks, little brushups in the cooler
Married but that doesn't matter
As long as your **** is spewing twice a day

Come home expecting wifely duties
Don't touch her she screams
You offer Your most charming seduction
Fully expecting to not be turned down

Sue confronts the girl
She is but a child
Asks her if she has any morals at all
Of course she is sorry, it wasn't meant to happen

Your ***** is all you give a **** about
Not the child of Sue's ***** fathered by you
She is hurt far more than any
Teased at school

You dare ask why that is occuring
Your little ***** attends her schools church
As does her family
Does that matter to you?

You got your little **** wet
Now all you see is paradise
Not realizing the damage You have left behind

All the lives affected
Because of Your infidelity
You don't get it do you?

Your wife, daughter, her family, your family
There is more damage being done
Just so You can get ******
Enjoy Your life

You will be miserable in the end
Just don't look for any sympathy
When you find out what you lost
It won't be here then so don't bother

Oil on canvas c.1926*

I suppose the catalogue tells all
about this painting on the wall.
It had pride of place
in some private collection.
Now, shielded by an electronic guard,
deemed precious, it’s unusual and large;
an early work, when (she said)  ‘I was
full of painting those around me’.

Here they are, my Warwicks:
Joe, Enid, baby Paul
and just in the corner
Auntie Liz.

They are substantial folk
these Warwicks, and have
eaten here a substantial tea.
The firelight’s purple shadows
make a mask of Joe’s wind-scoured face,
and next to the milk jug, look,
his great wedge of fingers lie at rest.
Enid, softly centred in woollen cream,
a wide-eyed Paul on her wifely knee,
seems to gaze beyond her motherhood,
to Northrigg Hill and a setting sun.
There is a general daze of repose;
the meal is over and we are replete with tea.
Lizzie contemplates the washing up.

The artist sits across the table,
rests her sketchbook
on the starched, white cloth,
and with a few firm strokes
collects this family’s shapes and forms
as I do now across the electronic guard
to secure a memory sketch  as
no photography's allowed.

Trending Tags
#love #life
#sad  #pain
#depression
#death #you
#sadness #heart
#hurt

this is my concession speech

having dabbled in the above black arts,
what needs saying, been said
and pun pardon,
not too alive,
like fav jeans,
pretty much worn to holey death,
put aside for a well needed rest

I am losing,
a real loss,
not candor, not inspiration,
but finding new ways to say new things,
well aware that Balanchine said
"there are only new combinations"

nature, I have dabbled,
but ready, easy to concede
this is Harlon's
River, his wilderness territory

he without peer,
unequaled in essaying on
this planet's essentials

as for the magic of daily grinding,
nothing could be finer,
than to see the family and the daily bread
made, fed, and put to bed,
than by the hands of
betterdays,
while
Pradip
makes me laugh,
with his wifely wisdom and jokes
and the humanity of his insights
and prods deeper,
make me a
weeper-profusely,
keeping us all
real and unplugged,
and
Bala's
journal's mysteries illuminate and spice
the places hidden,
by me, from myself

the
r
man who has got his shoes impudently railing,
cap'n never complains or whines,
but in precious few,
he rivets you to the earth,
fixing rooting you to a rooted place,
he intoxicates with
southern simple and pithy,
and makes the title poet,
a worthy one

could I go on naming names?

sure,
Mother
Maria
said, "chile, it ain't necessarily so,"
Kelly
adds beautiful,
and I agree with her rose
that grows even in her rugged soul's clime,
Simrik,
a child who writes
old wisdom from where acquired unknown,
and
Oliviaputs the
O
on my mouth smiling


anyway can't,
write so good no more (see),
finding
SJR's
voices now
in my head,
saying
careful boy,
you already wrote that
in a single consorting chorus voice

been authorized to dribble drivel,
but that don't cut for prideful fools
like yours true and truly,
tho looking at this,
what lies above,
would be doing
an inaccurate accurate,
calling this worthwhile,
feels like
a phony smile

so what to pursue?

silence not an option,
for the brain inferno'd
and the devils pitchfork
pinpricking with stabs of
visionary guilty judgements

so of what to write?

the answering simple uncomplexity,
Shauuna,
so here are the things I tell myself

forget the me in we and write
of thee, let that be my solitary
tag,
pray god don't make a hash of it,
write of new poets uncovered,
play thru ego and play hard to
recover thyself
by focusing on
uncovering
thee,
the new poets who
will lead the way,
bring this old dog~man,
way back from astray

Clothes held close as menfolk left.
Clutched close to wifely bodies.
The scent of that last embrace.
She smells his left behind clothes again.
Nobody else knows his smell.
It tickled her nose.
Memories of last moments of closeness.
This moment maybe their last dance.
Uniforms of formality in such organised organisations.
Firm protection of noble nations.
Action stations, yet again.
And the death bell tolled.
And the trains rolled into the station.
Waiting to clamber on to the war bound train.
Walking away.
Heads held high.
Stiff upper lip.
After kisses goodbye.

Which of the bedfellows will survive?
It's a long drawn out slog.
This war is a dog.
Big.
Black.
Vicious.
Still alive?
(c) Livvi

A harpie you may
have been...
Yet, delicate as lace
your fingers spin around
the spinning wheel.

To sit and watch you weave
is life's delight.
This keeps you near and in my sight
when eyes grow dim.

You weave a tapestry of our
love filled past.
Your wifely smiles are
just for him.

I feast my eyes
upon  you in delight.
You may be his
but not this night...

Our love is such
refined.
The fates we tempt
yet, endure sublime.

Our souls as one
till dust in time...
I can wait and watch
till he is done.

We will play the piano together
With you sexily seated on my laps
If I be in good moods I will sing-
You the very beautiful sweet song-
The most awesome live performance
Karaoke, you have ever heard
A sweet song from my heart and soul-
My feelings as well as my thoughts
I will let out all unreserved

My fingers flowing with its off-beat tone
And your head and heart node
Obsessively following its lone tone
For to my heart and soul you’ll there belong
And to your mind and thoughts I’ll be strong
The voice matters not as the sincerely let-out words

I will delight in your attentive silence
To my off-beat frogs’ croaks romance
Piercing deep your heart as thoughts and emotions
Rather, the talks than the symphony
Of my sonorous sound’s melody
I will watch you with deep admirations-my perpetual possessions
And I will hold you and your now trickling tears
My doting darling from falling and getting any hurt
I will catch your soul as its moved heart cheers

For I swore-in my arms’ sinews you’ll always swing
In my embraces you’ll always find a home to cling
And in your heart’s soul I will always spring
Within us there will be an ever telepathy, a ring
A buried umbilical cord, our worlds to string

We will bake the beautiful breads together
Dusting playfully and suggestively each other
With its fine flour, white dirt
We will cook the delicious meals together  
My arms around your wealthy waist
Your head’s stem rested on my chest
As your gently hands wifely stirs the steaming ***
My soul humbly humming: blessed he who gets such a material mum

Then we will sit on that set table steaming with delis
To fondly feed each other with the spoils before us
Till full and foolish we will richly rest carelessly
On these soft sofas exhausted and excited
Your body flat over mine stretched protective, carefree

I will feel proud and honoured
When I look at your finger
And on it I be merrily met
By that five-carats diamond glint
I will remember the song of your heart
On that our maiden wedding day
‘Yes, I do my love; I agree to be your forever wife
For better or bitter, for good or rude, for merry or moody
Now and until only, sadly, death does us apart!”

And I’ll shed a tear of joy and glory
On the far we have held unblemished the pure promises
The far the Good Lord us has carried and cared, a blessing!  
And I know you will care to know why your man is shedding a tear
In moments such memorable as this, for you are my woman and I am your man…….

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

We don't do much of husbandry and wifely things.  
flashcard conversations.
Scheduled nights.
Quiet dinners.
But the quiet holds a calm energy.
a  gentle love
that my fearful heart drowns in.

when another (anointed as lady lucky)
   resident renter bequeathed her bed
prior to that good samaritan deed thyself and spouse
   slept on the floor like dogs dead
tired from another day acclimatizing ourselves,

   especially when tummies got well fed
and grudging adjustment lying
   supine upon the carpet

   did upon arising found aches and pains from head
to toes, yet financial shortcomings disallowed this Jed
eye wannabe to defer attending domestic chores,
   cuz ma whole body felt like a Led
Zeppelin, and matter of fact oft times,

   thy body electric, though lacked
   no evidence of disease NED
for short, I near felt a need to relearn basic motor skills,
   gingerly, and eagerly reached for performance
   enhancing drug i.e. PED

which coded identification exemplified the a rich color of red
this (and other) prescription medication
   (about a half dozen total found me to sleep akin to a Ted
dee bear, many instances of snoring  
   thine wife claimed emanated –
   probably no more than when we wed

if memory serves me correctly
   twenty plus years a husband aye attest
and find peace of body, mind and spirit most exuberant and best
cherished, when hen pecking wife (yup, this husband

   got pecking, pock, puck size marks to vouchsafe
   his sworn statement)
   some visible on my slightly flabby and hairless chest
and if traced with a ball point pen, the shape
   loosely resembles mount Everest

with evidence of what appears to be erosion,
   but actually evidence of wifely cannibalism –
   viz zit on par as with an unwanted guest
which at first found this pop (sic) hull averse
   to share the same firm mattress lest
she arise like a flesh eating zombie during
   wee ***** weber hours of the morning and taking nest
ling to another level, whereby teeth and scratch marks
   sure testament asper a pest

stiff ferrous mate, this husband would sooner bid adieu,
   letting fate guide  terrestrial quest
that might incorporate undergoing the
   electric kool aid acid test

perhaps buffeting this corporeal essence north west
or maybe the unforeseen sojourn would spirit thyself
   to a distant alien nation
one where each day of soundness of mental, physical
   and spiritual growth will be reason enough
   to celebrate with élan and zest.

Now tis one upside to this stroke when with restfulness
   awake after nocturnally conjuring sheep and lil bo beep
yet, no ambition exists to get down and out
   from this posh plush place to sleep
even wild horses cant drag me away, lest hie weep.

Rattle Snakes along a Dried Creek
Reveal Tracks of Endless
Passageways
Ridden Upon the Flesh of Man
Mini Me's Again and Again
Babushka Dolls Lifted
From Another Time

As Bright Sun Risen
Reveals Daylight
Upon Dead Flesh
ReAwakened For
The Battlefront  Foretold
Moons of 12's  Lost
To Hungry Specter Of World Teeth
Gnashing  Harvest From their Wifely  Souls

Who Shall Take
The Wedding Ring
From the Finger
of The Left Hand
Held In Mourning?
By Limb or Will Shall Loose
God's Life
Foretold By Greater Words
Than These
As Knives of Unseen Hands
Prepare Themselves
And Gather For Certain Circus
Too Much Known Now
For the Picture is a Pretty Thing to Own
As Shame Dances To Other Hosts
In Search of Fresh Fields Devouring Ripe
Skeletal Remains Rise Afresh

Friendship But a Useful Compass
To The  Appetites of ORDER Sold

Internal Monologue


I guess I am truly getting old.
The time has come to let the old me go.
My face of youth no longer suits.
No longer feeling bullet proof;
More like feeling twenty-percent proof,
When I wake up, still in pieces.
I am sure I went to sleep hours ago.
I’m sure I did, I swear it.


My body does not feel rested.
It’s begging out to,
Get your head tested,
If you think I am moving right now pal!
You’re joking!
I ain’t moving unless there is an earthquake
And even then I will only be shaking,
But I won’t get up yet…
I love this bed.
I am setting up camp,
Understand?


She has not got up yet.
Don’t leave her all alone.
Turn off your phone and hold the water flow.
Just go back to sleep.
But I really gotta ***!
No you don’t, just hold it in.
It’s far too warm for that cold room with the sink.


So lay here with her until she wakes up
And when she does, ask her for a back rub.
I don’t know what you did last night,
But it feels like I slept on a log.
Ignore the dog that is scratching in the kitchen down stairs.
He can hold it in too, unless he hears you, walking down the stairs.


Look.  She will wake up in twenty three minutes,
So give me a rest before the invasion of the kids,
The barking dog and the wifely orders;
The chores, the D.I.Y., the school run
And planting those borders!
The shopping’s today and outside looks so grey
And so very, very cold.  
I’m feeling too old; my body aches.
I think in bed you should remain,
Just for a little while longer.
You know you ain’t getting any younger.
So close your eyes, just rest them a while,
So when she does wake you up,
With a word of love,
Or a shout,
Or a shove,
You can greet her with a kiss and a friendly smile
And don’t forget to say:
“Morning love.”


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Earthdate/starttime: 11/04/19 01:10:26 AM
Earthdate/endtime: 11/04/19 02:55:46 AM

Poetic snapshot regarding immediate
actual, physical, spatial... environment
pertinent, relevant, salient... yours truly
commenced within fleeting electronic

date/time stamp indicated above bereft
attempts to describe character sketch,
whereat I sit within Apartment B44:
taking immediate lock, stock & barrel

ordinary repeated situation witnessing
garden variety **** sapien imbibing
familiar scenario, while spouse sleeps
near proximity, CPAP machine regulates

continuous positive airway pressure
offsetting sleep apnea breathe more so
she can breathe free and clear preventing
airway from collapsing when she inhales.

Nothing particularly spectacular wee hour
this ordinary moment beckoned, challenged
decided... attempt to focus (laser like) sense
and sensibility without pride, nor prejudice
essentially simply worded still life repeated
predictably, & regularity glossed over other
instances finding impetus preying upon pro-

fun ditties, and expansive vocabulary unsure
communicated printed idea understandable
aware some readers disinclined wading thru
thicket (quagmire) of verbiage, hence eureka
experience to corral immediate circumstance
(think Will Rogers' 140th birthday his home
spun extemporaneous anecdotal nuggets.)

Many occasions embarking upon complexity
aspire to elaborate intricate worded webbed
(wide aye bother) complex edifice ambitious
invariably confounding unsuspecting readers
suddenly sinking within quicksand helpless

against salvation, hence painstaking effort
to asseverate downplaying sesquipedalian
rather toning down syllabification sharing
trumpeting, undulating humdrum existence
verily reporting sleeping on floor - courtesy
restless leg syndrome, which affects the mrs.

Marriage basically no match heavenly made,
nonetheless dynamic linkedin travails values
wifely attentiveness to prepare unrecognized
frying object (best described as pop slop), +

she tends other domestic chore, viz washing
soiled clothes nsync of kitchen, whiling away
(think dervish) stoking chaos within invisible
re: nearly infinitesimal speck within Milkyway.

concerning yours truly
poor righteous leftist sole.

Attempting nightly ritual
nsync with sole and
instep of beat
January second 11:33
two thousand twenty two
footwear equipped with
custom made cleat
proudly standing tall
(think) as an elite
able, eager, and ready
to sprint skyhigh fleet
ting into netherlands
(towering well over
other wiry contestants,
hence exception to

maximum height waved
outrageous illegitimate forfeit
chore blithely Atlas shrugged off),
the fountain head
whereby marathoner Olympian
amidst godly pantheon did greet,
then melted starter blocks
competitors crouched tigerlike
deftly gunning generating barreling heat
fast as greased lightning
Achilles catapulted courtesy blur,
zee mister (oak kay)
tree - man, i.e. helpmeet,
he roundly squared off
accompanied by his wifely entreat
for sakes Pete.

Thus situated, positioned, and finagled
husbandry duty obliging the misses,
no matter she kick started
(think thrashing outsize toddler)
childish task deemed
markedly cockameemie design,
subsequently these little feet (mine)
stood stolid upon bedroom floor
she did man date me,

supplicating, necessitating,
imploring, and decrying divine
intercession, cuz thee mademoiselle
did authoritatively assign,
thee mister getting mine
handy dandy grip upon her supine
corpulent physique
outstretched leaden legs
awaiting (the missus)

salute perfect sign
to commence powerfully
prying and pulling
first straight then nine
tee degrees practically pulling
footloose and eventually
detaching fancy free
thunder thighs, what strong
amazing anatomical design

nearly defying might
of super rich a$$ a nein
bird brainer heron
an ill eagle cro-magnon scheme
to untie clodhoppers
snug as a bug in a rug,
whence laces unknotted free
and clear whirled,
wide webbed formerly tangled skein
fo shoe more intolerable
than swallowing quinine.

Jumpstarting outstanding undertaking...
bringing jouncy, spectacularly crafted,
nuanced, zesty, noteworthy, creatively
spirited enlightened written poem.

This raggedy man doth inconsolably weeps
kept rudely awake whilst disobedient sheep
incur wrath of Little Bo Peep, she lambastes
protesting courtesy rambunctiousness being
future mutton chops with "haggis and neeps"
though hungry enough to eat a horse, yours
truly - me cannot afford mouth watering heep
meager stacked coins no higher than antheaps.

Yes, I still rant and rave at crooks who won
built and trussed up trust minting yours truly
for all his worth inescapably zapped all cents
of mine labeled as easy prey, branded til time
of his done on Earth immemorial prodigal son
absolute zero (the big goose egg) zilch wifely
survivor benefits nixed in other words... none
meaning, she will no longer address me as hon
mortality gussied up as grim reaper will anon
be taking aging beetle browed foo fighter to
(elysium) elysian fields after tomb morrow.

Red hot poker faced beggars me to seek wage
perhaps being ventriloquist's dummy & bring
about Renaissance of the once renown
Vaudeville (comedy without psychological or
moral intentions, based on a comical situation:
a dramatic composition or light poetry,
interspersed with songs or ballets) stage
door opening revitalization second decade
of twenty first century veritable newage
social media platforms displaying homepage
only more egalitarian than storied Gilded age.

Major blunder blinded insight compromised,
jeopardized, sabotaged novel storied wealth
scam artist affected my sought after demise
courtesy weapons of mass destruction stealth
bombarded, fooled, lobbed..., psychological
manipulation upended marred mental health
hacking away byte size raw bits of gray matter.

Discover re: visa vis yielded me mastercharge
amplified ohm my dog, what in tarnation did I
unwittingly bring about pennilessness wrought
truth out there and trust no one equals lessons
(courtesy Mulder Fox Special Agent and one
of the two protagonists of Fox science fiction-
supernatural television series X-Files) taught
(think unlucky duck) professional quackshot
commandeering, guiding, lying, ravaging...
(albeit convincingly) me to withdraw money,
what amounted jackpot stripping away leaving
yours truly bereft of financial buffer - naught
one red cent barely able to afford one kilowatt
only natural light utilized to power just barley
my gofundme page titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth.

causing percussive rumpus
to vibrate like jelly

Me experienced quite disruptive sleep
(quite early in the morning
of November 10th 2022 -
no shut eye could I keep),
hence though exhausted, I share
childlike trait of mine spouse
insufferable playfulness finds me
ready to collapse in a heap.

Missus as inquisitor a worse
fate than death expounded courtesy
the following cheeky verse
about bearing derrière perverse
antic for wife to adopt role of nurse
Ratched she of (One flew over
the cuckoo's nest fame)
the missus every smack
upon me posterior I did curse,
thus poem not for the faint of heart
some or all of material you may find averse.

Meanwhile good n plenty vibrations resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),

but woody d'ya believe
beating, drumming, flagellating
paddling, and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed tubular *****
(property yours truly).

Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking

undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
formerly cute palm pilot *****,

now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest

against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin ****** ****** in vain.

Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything

(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.

Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye

lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.

What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom

(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me ***
until flesh heavily
spindled, mutilated, lacerated,
fondled and bruised.