They swing on the polished wooden swing for hours,
drifting back and forth through the lush green flowers.
She has been waiting for quite some time.
A sunlit young maiden with no speck of grime,
Her rippling gown, diaphanous and white,
swirls 'round her sensual body, half following the light.
Her feathery golden hair flutters through the breeze,
the tangles here and there loosen with ease,
The radiant sun, intercepted by the trees,
provide enough warmth to dissipate her unease.
He must come, he is bound to come!
Her heartbeat whispers like a distant drum.
A fleeting flashback to their past year,
full of happiness and joy and bliss and cheer.
But her stringent father, in his icy-rimmed crescent glasses,
had discerned the relationship through his own daughter's passes.
She sprints to the forest, to the veiled paradise they found,
her feet ruffle upon the earth, barely touching the ground.
Cool, refreshing water frothes upon her toes,
washes away the clinging dirt and fear that rose.
She reaches the clearing, and slows down her pace.
As she gulps down the fragrant air, tears stream down her face.
Mutely, she waits next to the old wooden swing,
Hoping and praying he'd walk down the path with a spring.
Around her feet, serpentine vines cling.
He had been dozing on a bough when he heard her silent cry,
and nearly tumbled down when he heard her rush by.
There drummed a soft pitter-patter of her delicate, cream feet,
and he knew the confrontation had not been so sweet.
He, in his favorite copper tunic,
swings down from the branches but slips in his panic.
He flies down briskly, his heels colliding with the dirt,
he skips like the wind, with a mission to reassert,
that their love still rings true,
with no reason for adieu.
He sprints swiftly, ducking the occasional slap of the leaves.
No groves would hinder his movement, those pesky time thieves.
The thickets blur into a green mass--
Where is she? Where is the fair lass?
His heart pounds wildly against his heaving chest,
threatening to burst if he did not rest.
Sweat coats his tan skin, his hands and his feet,
Down to the dirt he slips, tired and beat.
He looks up, his blood pounding against the veins of his head,
His dizzying world sharpens, his angel with her wings spread.
He reaches for her, in the middle of the spring,
She reaches for him, pulls him close to her in a sling
her arms had formed, and together they twirl
united, head to toe, in a colorful new world,
in that timeless lavish forest, forever young.
His long sturdy fingers grip the coarse-grained rope,
her small, nimble fingers grip his sun-kissed body in hope
All around them, the lush scenery gushes with life,
Everything melts into harmony--no strife
Silky, saffron butterflies hum through the air,
A soft, vibrant breeze ripples through her hair.
A sliver of sunlight peeks through the leaves,
Dances playfully around their bodies, fuses and weaves.
Birds tweeted cheerful tunes, dedicated to the cherubic lovers,
a sweet aroma of refreshing bluebells wafted from the flowers.
In that eternal paradise, they embraced with cherished joy,
He would fight through wars to keep her, his Helen of Troy.
The young maiden, she lingers by the spring,
The protective lad, he came bouncing with a spring,
Their clear eyes reveal they are beyond the summer flings,
for out of the tender, budding forest, their love springs.
The thing that impressed me the most is that you managed to make your poem rhyme! That must have taken a lot of time and effort, I applaud you for your diligence and style. Your poem truly captures the beauty of the painting. I almost cried. Almost. You were so close.
ReplyDeleteHi, Karen. I respect your efforts at making the poem rhyme. It is quite impressive. I enjoyed the diction (cherubic, diaphanous, etc.)
ReplyDeleteHOWEVER. I was slightly confused throughout the poem. It seemed as though your use of description became a bit excessive, leaving me wandering around the dust searching for the direction you were taking. I know how hard it must be to make a poem rhyme, but I must point out that the storyline felt a bit contrived.
Lastly, I enjoyed the implicit sensuality of the piece. My favorite is "He must come, he is bound to come!" which could have rendered the whole piece as a metaphor for coitus? Heh. Wow, Karen. Or perhaps I misconstrued that...