Who can count the times she interposed her slender figure

Between him and the interminable chaos; a geisha, a concubine,

A comfort woman, a wife or a prostitute such as Red Sonya.

So much it availed her coming to him when the darkness of night

Fell to earth; where he himself, lying there under half lidded eyes,

Relieved by sweetness into the most soothing balminess of sleep.

Yes, he gave himself up to her –loved.  Loved even unto his inner

Wilderness where no forgiveness exists but where he felt assuaged

By the assurance that this woman would make the pain disappear.

Yes, there were those who were cuckolded by her; a Napoleon, a

Potentate or whatever, but no one owned her for she partook of and

Was a force of nature unto herself; she deemed whom she would love.

All lovers are sufficient unto each other for they are touched and healed.

And who is there to judge, sanction or even render an opinion about

Women when their mystery is not understood; I know this firsthand.

We increase by the rapture of women because our progeny is the result

And who would say no more to them when satiated by their offering. Who

Among us does not long for the mounds of Venus or her suppleness?

We grow abundant by them, like grapes in great years, because the place

They touch in us allows for us to prevail, while they in there tender giving

Only ask to proffer their magic in a world that is in so much need of them.

He partakes of her love and begins himself over but only because she places

Herself between him and chaos; making sense where there is none and

Suffering the admonition of a world in needing love without understanding

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Starward's picture

This is a magnificent poem from the title right on down . . . but the last three stanzas are more than magnificent: they partake of greatness; and I do mean, Greatness!