The Poet

The poet was a lover
he loved to play with words
to twist them and to mold
then let them fly as birds.

Oh, he loved his words so much
each note he crafted slowly
the pleasure that he got
was sizzling outer-worldly.

He spoke of simple love
of truth and trusting hearts
of painting pretty smiles
that was his special art.

One day his words flew by
like seagulls on the beach
as one dear heart girl
saw them and she reached.

She fell in love with them
the poet’s words that is
the magic was so strong
she fell into his wizz.

The Wiz was oh, so pleased
his dreams came finally true
for in his little room
the sun came shining thru.

It flickered bright as gold
with love so warm he felt
the flame ignited him
right below his belt.

The blow was so intense
he couldn’t even if he tried
forget the day he saw her
the day she came inside.

In webs of words he tied her true
“Let’s share n’ love just me and you
I’ll be your man the one and only
safe with me be never lonely.”

But from the start he know he had
conniving heart forlorn and sad
that he could only be it seems
the man he saw there in his dreams.

Their flaming days of steamy summer
were penned in rows of rosy murmurs
as all along he kept the tension
with just few notes he missed to mention.

But as the stories always end
the truth picks up her arrow head
from the deep and from the bowls
to reveal deceptive fouls.

And so one day the truth came splitting
soot and fire black smoke burst hitting
it caught Our Lady she fell down sitting
pray tell she was his prey unwitting.

At once the lass picked up her step
her heart in pieces she took to schlep
along the sandy shores she cried
about her love who dried and died.

Oh, the shameful tale that’s been told
of the masked poet who had the gold
the love the lust so deep so dire
now all in shambles in muck and mire.

These days he sits in his dark cold room
dreaming of her smile to cheer his gloom
he pens verse ink black as red his heart
wishing she’d come back to muse his art.

But love is not just soaring words
to cure oneself like snorting herbs
for love to flourish it needs a bed
of truth and trust on which to wed.

But as he was a meek poet lover
he loved his words more than he loved her
and thus he now lives to use
her lovely heart for his amuse.

The sun is gone so still the air
old father time churns his stern stare
for poet’s soul he cries a prayer
to be a MAN if he would dare.
*
LoveNotes ©Yakira Shimoni Fulks
December 2, 2020 | OC CA

Photography Asaf Fulks at The OC Recording Company
Canon Canon EOS 5DS 260mm
On The Road To Heaven | Mamacita Fuego