The clock's gentle ticks
sing to sleep the child in me -
within the woman
in your arms.
Past perfumes of sex and sleep
mingle,
further caressing my drunken nose.
I've wanted you for days,
for weeks,
for years.
And as I shift to better vantage
for supping on your smile -
I cannot taste but just your eyes;
I cannot hear but just your lips;
I cannot touch but just this time.
Swirled in tissue paper sheets,
on a morning lily bed -
seven,
ushers in the light
of love’s rejoice.
A contest entry
- Hour by Melissa Gayle.
300 points, ended April 26, 2007, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I dont know what the contest you've entered this is about, but i dont see the relation to the word "hour". of course, im lazy and havent clicked on the link, either. Also, i actually lked this. there was a lot here that was def good writing.
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thanks. the contest holder just mentioned it was 7am (the last stanza is about how its seven in the morning) and this is how i felt that day at 7am. so i guess its not really about the word "hour" but about the time 7 am and what was occuring then for me.
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Ahhh, yes, this sounds like the AureateCorona that I know. This is fantastic, Kerri, with different pictures of taste/eyes, hear/lips, supp/smile. Beautiful writing - could read things like this forever and you've made me jealous again of your ability to do that.
Love it and you,
Dad
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thank you, thank you daddy. its always wondeful to hear your kind and praising words.
Kerri
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