Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all, cold,
know them all, hot.
I speak Woman.
Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.
There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!
I speak Woman.
There is no **** in the summer.
**** being an **** word.
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days,
vacations, no school, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?
You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you **** and wrong.
Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ****, no prejudice.
In any summer,,
There should be no ****, no prejudice at all.
Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Naturellement, à la française.
Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.
It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.
The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...
Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...
All these say:
Write us poetry in our very own tongue of
I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall
The crayola musical colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses...
Tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.
Just as Byron wrote:
"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"
Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.
My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my
Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.
how to say in the language of Woman, this:
I am nothing,
I am more than everything.
Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.
August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017
First posted here on August 22, 2013
Edited July, 2016, May 2017