Her ten bare toes

nudge the thick purple moss,

afflict the crimson grass.


As before a Milanese diva,

the blushing summer sun

flings its bouquet of fire-lilies

in rapturous abjection.


Shopworn jargonings

of trade, of opinion

fall mute as surpliced acolytes

in a Mass of Tridentine rubric.


Watching her shape

havoc the atmosphere,

who would not celebrate?

Whose nerves would not ache with grace?

Whose blood would not dance,

manic hooligan

amid nineteenth-century artifacts?


How paltry now seems

the harvest of August,

how trifling the treasures

of our affluent moment!

Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 107 times
Written on 2019-07-10 at 12:36

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

Ngoc Nguyen The PoetBay support member heart!
A subtle and well-dictioned poem (of the protagonist's encounter with lust), indeed! Kudos (to you), Thomas!


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!

You've painted an unusually beautiful portrait. I agree with Josephus's comment as well.

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
A rhapsodic encounter with just a tinge of healthy lust. Nice captured, my friend!