Ladies... being English; could you possibly enlighten me
concerning this phenomenon that, almost everywhere, I see?
On TV... at the Movies... in the Media; always, it's the same...
this Holy Grail of Alpha Males..."American Beauty," is her name.
Now, there's a name to conjure with... this stereotype of Hollywood;
do you REALLY think Synthetic *******, and Standard smile, look good?
They'd like to make you think it so; the truth, though... is a different game;
It might look great in photos, but... like Barbie Dolls; they're all the same.

I know that we think differently, but... surely, now your men must see
the difference in the way a natural ***** moves, exquisitely;
whilst implants... whilst defying gravity, might promise sweet delight...
I know which ones I would prefer to cuddle up to, every night.
Each, and every one of you is beautiful, in her own way,
without the need of surgery, or therapy; believe, each day
that, you are... every one... a Masterpiece of Mother Nature's plan;
Yet, still, they try to tell you, you could be improved, by meddling Man.

But, why?... this is so breathtakingly arrogant, in the extreme...
are they, then, so insecure that quoting "Fashion", they demean
you so?
Not wanting you for what you are; but what you might, well be...
eroding your self-confidence... a cruel, manipulative fantasy.
If you want to live The Dream...You have to be a Baywatch clone;
*** and the City... You must be like Carrie... or, stay home alone.

The truth is very different though... for, blinded by the Blue Cross smile;
Intimidated by synthetic cleavage..... most men run a mile.
They really would be lost, with Glossy, Eye Candy to share their life...
a sweet distraction on the side, perhaps... but, somehow... not a wife.
And, that's the Double standard, Ladies, that the Alpha Male enjoys...
Synthetic Pammy in the bedroom... a Trophy wife to show the boys.
So, don't be suckered by the Hype; always, to yourself.... be true;
for, you are beautiful, just as you are... this one won't lie to you.

OK, so you are not a perfect size eight; look at it, like this...
has any lover, yet complained?... I don't think so; for that, would miss
the point completely, of what love, and true respect are all about;
for you are perfect in your Lover's eyes... of that, there is no doubt.
So, does "American Beauty" actually exist... I'm pretty sure
She does... but, not some Media Fantasy... She's just the Girl, next door;
She's You... the One he fell in love with, hopelessly... and, at first sight;
The One who shares his heart; The One he snuggles up to, every night.

No Man is worth a Lady's tears; perhaps, at best... a tiny sigh;
her tears... too precious to be wasted on some hurt, cast thoughtlessly.
For... in truth the Man who is... will never make the Lady cry;
but rare indeed is such a Man... gifted with such empathy.

No Man should take a Lady's trust... her gift, most precious, to bestow,
and bend it to some selfish whim; or worse... such trust, to then betray.
For, without trust, then love is but, a sham... devoid of warmth, and glow,
and, soon enough, will flicker, and will turn to ashes... cold and grey.

No Man should take a Lady's heart, unless he freely gives his own
to her, in its completeness... with no hidden corner tucked away,
where some other heart might dwell; some secret love... to her not known.
Her Broken heart will never fully mend... though he might think it may.

So, Fickle Man... look in the mirror... upon you, does the shadow fall?
For, if you would deceive the Lady... then, you do betray us all.

Or.... What Love is really all about...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Dictionary definition really doesn't help us much;
"Warm liking, or affection;"
no... not quite; it lacks a certain touch
of magic...
but, when you consider it's the concept, deeply thought
out by some dusty academic; little wonder it is fraught
with mediocrity,
but, then... about the passion, and the pain;
the tightening throat, the trembling doubt;
his love of books... not quite the same.

I think, a closer definition...if, indeed, there's one at all,
is
Love, is God's Banana skin; encounter it...
you slip... you fall.
And, He must have a sense of humour; think of all the stupid things
we humans say and do, when love engulfs us with luxuriant wings.
I mean... when first in love, how our brain softens, and we cannot think
or speak, in normal conversation... into baby-talk, we sink.
The child-like actions... tickling, nibbling;
feeling we could almost fly;
Yes, you can almost hear the laughter echoing down from up on high.

Love has a different set of rules... a much more tolerant mental state;
no matter, if your lover's body fails what fashion now dictates...
or accidentally breaking wind whilst making love...
Calamity!
Collapsing in each others arms... both giggling, uncontrollably.
Blind to those annoying habits we all share, it must be said;
Underwear dropped in the corner...
biscuit crumbs left in the bed;
toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle...
leaving up the toilet seat;
my last ****** razor has been used by her to shave her legs...
how sweet!

Perhaps, your definition strives to reach Romantic's heady feel
for love,
but, this is what you get... if you are fortunate;
it's real consideration for your needs; warm contentment, company.
Hearts and minds in step, together...
and that's good enough for me.
The poems and the songs of love, though charming, just cannot begin
to weave the magic found...
when you've just stepped on God's Banana Skin.

They say that if you looked across the meadows when the day was late,
you could see her standing on the rise above the old Estate;
gazing with unseeing eyes; all lost, in times long gone before;
The daughter of the Local Lord... the tragic Lady Eleanor.

Her story is a tragedy of young love slaughtered out of hand;
of Class intransigence, which, in Edwardian times, still stalked the land.
Her heinous crime? She fell in love... the blacksmith's son; she was sixteen.
Her father forbade any meeting; the Family name, she would demean.

This tragic couple met no more than once... or twice, or so they say;
the merest handful of sweet kisses... nothing else, most certainly.
For, she was watched; and when the time for shoeing horses came around...
they locked her in her room; so, of the boy, she had no sight, 'nor sound.

The story might well end here... just a first, young love, that could not be;
but there is more. Dark clouds were gathering over Europe, threateningly.
Spurred by this simple act of bigoted, parental arrogance...
the boy, heartbroken... volunteered; and marched away to fight in France.

And, in the first months of the War, at some Entrenchment... some Redoubt;
with death, he kept his rendezvous... and felt the Reaper's hand reach out.
In ****** Flanders field he lies; just seventeen, his dreams... no more;
alone out there, forgotten... but, still loved by Lady Eleanor.

When, in time, her father died, and the Estate came to her hand,
the meadow where she first had kissed the blacksmith's son was pasture land.
She saw that it was yearly ploughed, left fallow... no crop there, she said;
and, in time the poppies grew... a carpet of the deepest red.

Just like the fields in Flanders where her first, and only love still slept;
Lady Eleanor had no more loves... her faithful vigil kept
to the memory of her one, and only love... the blacksmith's son;
the true love of her life, whom she remembered with each evening Sun.

Standing, gazing... lost in time... alone except for memories.
Perhaps, of what there might have been... long lost, beneath that blood-red sea
of gently swaying poppies fading purple in the setting Sun...
they say she stood there, motionless; until the Sun's last rays had gone.

But that was long ago, although the poppy field remains today;
and Lady Eleanor died long ago; but locally, they say
if lovers meet in Flanders Acre, the name the field is known by, now;
they will remain together... always, if their whispered words are true.

And Flanders Acre holds no echo of the sadness of the past.
Perhaps, the soul of Eleanor met with her long-lost love at last.
Perhaps... together, on the rise, they watch the poppies sway and blow;
and see the lovers, hand in hand...
Yes... I would like to think it so.

She comes to me at dead of night, when I am close-wrapped in my dreams;
I see her face, I hear her name; and that is all; but yet, it seems
that I have waited all my life, for someone; could it really be
perhaps, that she is so much more than just some dream that comes to me?
Does she actually exist? this glorious creature of the night?
She comes to me with gentle, loving words that fill me with delight.
Or, is she just some sweet, ephemeral thought? perhaps a memory?
Some book once read, some film once watched;
some half-remembered symphony

of unrequited love;
perhaps, a chance encounter? Fleeting glance?
Ships that passed by in the night? Some hope of love? Star-crossed romance?
All long forgotten; lost, down through the drifting mists of passing years;
some memory remaining, nourished by such long-forgotten tears?
If so; how can I then, explain this dream? This one bright truth, that shines;
remembering the taste of her soft lips, more sweet than summer wine.
Remembering the glory of a love burned deep into my soul;
remembering, she folded me in wings of love and made me whole.

Perhaps, we were together in some other place, some other time;
perhaps, not knowing of such things; this time around, I missed the signs.
Perhaps, as yet, we have not met; but, I feel that she is there.
Perhaps, if love is kind, we may yet meet
some time, somehow, somewhere.
Oh, sad, deluded fool; I hear you say; I would not disagree
with that,
but then, I find it strange, that she should come so frequently
into my dreams; and if, she never was, or shall be; it's alright;
I know that she will come again, softly in the dead of night.

If there is but, one tiny grain of truth; some possibility
that the life force does return; ever circling endlessly
in time and space
if, this time, we chance not to meet; then I intend
that, should it take a hundred lifetimes, I shall find her in the end.
For she gives me a feeling, I have never felt, have never known;
I've lived without it, all my life; yet, softly... quietly, has grown
this instinct that she is out there;
where do I look? where do I start?
Perhaps, within the deepest, and most secret reaches of my heart.

Don't look at me.
Enveloped in your steady gaze, drowning, drowning in your eyes
whilst willpower flees as swift as sand slips through the fingers of the hand;
crumbling scruples ebb and wane, exquisite trap; sprung once again...

Don't smile at me.
I cannot tolerate your warmth; to sense, to feel... your thoughts to touch.
All instinct tells me I am lost; one soft half-smile... and all is dust.
I cling to morals; play the rules, if I succeed I surely lose...

How I could have loved you.

Don't talk to me.
During conversations shared, is there some message in your eyes?
I search for some unspoken word, perhaps imagined... never heard.
What would you say if I reveal the hidden thoughts my heart conceals?...

How I could have loved you.

Don't touch me.
l can withstand your word and gaze if I am brave; if I am strong.
But, your caress burns deep within, I long to touch your velvet skin,
soft, warm and rounded... sweet delight to taste your lips; to hold you tight...

How I could have loved you.

Don't ignore me.
The glance, smile, word; and touch denied may break my heart... but not my soul.
But, disregard has no respite... the chill caress I cannot fight.
Without you, words no longer rhyme, confused and pointless; lost in time...

How I could have loved you.

The place that I live in the heart of the Shires; they call it God's country; this County of mine.
With rolling green pastures, and wind-swept high Wolds all scattered with sheep, and forgotten by time.
A child could not wish for a happier place to play, and to grow... to learn about living;
to romp in the wheatfields on bright summer days, and, rather than take... find more pleasure in giving.

This is how I was taught in those innocent days where all were accepted... and none preconceived;
but, then I grew up and those values were crushed; but, I still hold to the truths I believed.
Why are there more words used for hatred, and envy, than ever there are used for tolerance, and joy?
Don't reach for the Prozac... just walk through my memories... experience that, which I had as a boy.

My Grandfather taught me that we are all equal...  in birth, life, and death we are all just the same.
"Shrouds have no pockets"... he said, as I listened, "It's all down to you... and how you play the game.
And what you will do with the time you are given is how they'll remember you, boy... have no fears."
and, ******* his pipe; he said, "Always remember, to just leave them smiling... and not shedding tears."

Now and again, I return to those high Wolds, and wander through meadows where I used to play;
remembering words that my Grandfather taught me... remembering wheatfields on hot summer days.
I hope that I've followed the truths that he taught me... his countryman morals that never efface;
and, if by his words, you should find some contentment... perhaps, this world might be a much nicer place.