Hot off the press, from a germ of an idea. NO, no one has ever written me a love poem .... except God!
if anyone doesn't know, an epithalamion is a marriage poem
No one will write a poem for me.
My loves are prose who work with patient fingers
To weave a life from solid practicals.
They feel no need to sing my secret song.
No star-shine summons them, no unicorns
Leap from the hedge of fear to lead across
The tired old wastelands to the faerie place,
With moonlight on their trembling, piercing horn.
No strange birds sing in tongues of sheer delight
To break the heart. No honeyed apples fall
Laced with strange magic to enchant the sense.
For them no waterfall becomes a bridge
To the dear country where love sings in tune.
My heart, crack-lipped and croaking, sings alone.
Yet not alone, no wandering minstrel I,
No patch-bedraggled seeker of the stars
Limned with strange glamour to bedazzle fools.
I am beloved in another world
Where this whole earth, dulled, darkened and afraid,
Is a mere simile, similitude..
Therefore I walk in midst of metaphor
Seeking the harmony of offered words
In the One Word once spoken into time.
Therefore I know one love, dear lasting love,
Who writes love letters in the thunderstorm,
Skywrites with rainbows his desire for me
Drops notes with falling petals, laughs his rhymes
Across each new-thrust blade of rain-fresh grass.
And there is more: his epithalamion
Written to me in letters of shed blood
Delivered to me in this wine, this bread:
Here is my poem, my lover and my food.