PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Jesus, I need a moment's word with You.
Please heal this wrenching pain that cuts me through.
I hired her, nightly, just to dance for me.
She was a tavern slave in Galilee,
more beautiful than told in poetry.
I neither sought, nor purchased, nudity.
No, she danced clad in lavender (silk, sheer),
because I did not want crude degradation
(as did the shucks who drank there just to leer).
Rather, I liked the hints of intimation
(far better to my wild imagination).
Lately adult, but still (in mind) a boy,
I wanted her with all the callow joy
that fills an adolescent.  So I made
a deal with her proprietor.  I paid
a little extra---toward redemption price
each week.  My coin was gold, my manner nice.
Of course, as I had guessed, the quoted cost
inflated, threefold.  But, nothing was lost
(I figured) in that slanted, sly transaction---
if, in the end, I had my satisfaction.
By day, I sought to find and hear You preach
about a spiritual Kingdom within reach,
wherein we too (yes, she and I) would be
welcomed.  Also, she would be wholly free.

She was a gorgeous, waif-like, barefoot girl---
red-blooded and athletic.  She could swirl
the very air around her, and her gaze
looked always right through me.  Such were her ways
that I could only sit, transfixed, and stare
inside that private room they gave me there.
I told her of the contract, and my plan
to liberate her; and, though just a man,
give her the privilege of a bettered life,
no longer bound to tavern-sex and strife.

But, on the final night, she said to me,
"I only wanted to find out how much
"I could entice you into giving such
"devotion.  But this kind of liberty
"is not my goal, much less my destiny.
"I must apologize for my deceit
"these three months.  But your passion at my feet
"is really bothersome.  Emancipated,
"now, I am not yours, and not obligated
"to go with you.  I choose, rather, to stay.
"The owner now demands you to keep away.
"You made your choices, just as I have my
"preference.  I do not want to watch you cry
"each time I dance for clients.  I suppose
"you can find other girls who want their toes
"adored by you---who pants for just one kiss,
"like any dog.  Something is quite amiss
"inside your soul---but what, I cannot tell.
"I have to go now, Roman.  So . . . farewell."
 

Starward
[jlc]