look upon this perfect lady:
see her dewy eyes--a mossy blue
time to time they change to green, maybe
beneath painted lids with purple hue
or deep, pristine shades of indigo, magenta,
and silver too.
watch her pale, pointed cheeks
turn from firm buds to rosy lotus blooms
whence ere the sun comes out and seeks
her stoney countenance--all assumes
she: his most belov'd flower and him: her
bashful bridegroom.
lo! what incomprehensible grace
of narrowed brow and triumphant chin
both puckered slightly on the face
which in perfection has but one sin:
a melted smile for beauty lace,
no twitch nor wriggle to disturb its place.
those lips---no matter how they gleam---
pressed in pink, red, purple or white,
never fold into the rosette they seem
no playful dimples to tease her color bright
such silken petals and satin sheen
forever lost to shadows lean and her mind's
stretching, darkened dreams.
for there she sits---or even here---stout
on park benches or library shelves
otherwise empty, long left without
more than a glance from those themselves
who admire art and irony and romp about
but cannot spare a moment for a curséd
woman with an eternal pout.
i admit to my faithful sun how he burns--
his passion is far too strong for me;
even the many faces of the moon turns
from sharp grin to rounded kiss over valley and
sea.
i pose for portraiture and for poem, and that
moon beams down and spurns
the notion that my self-assured fancy should
forever pout and forever yearn.
