PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Poets---chaired and crowned

at the Eisteddfod---everywhere abound:

look and, as well, listen all around."

These are  the words of the anthem solo

he will sing.  Two years into his adolescence---

unashamed and unconcerned that societal inhibitions

do not provoke in his a sense of guilt for his desires

(desires superlatively empowered by his pubescence)---

he will not trim his soft, auburn tresses, middle-parted,

that now cascade, over the white surplice, and below his

shoulder blades (his parents, forward looking, allow this

decision to him).  Look at that face:  sculptors of

long standing on ancient stone still wish to replicate

such exquisite beauty (painters to draw it, poets to describe it). 

His voice---high tenor, perfect pitch---reminds some of the

angelic song they will someday, raptly, hear; and others of

what they will never, ever hear (being surrounded by

insurmountable walls of cacophony, the agonized screams of

those who sear in the roasting pits of Hell for their prejudices).

Beneath the ground-length hem of his choir cassock and the

cuffs of his pleated "dress up" slacks, his slender feet

are casually bare, on the plush, thick grass in this summer's

warmth; and, tonight, forecast with cooler temperature, he

will sheathe them in semi-sheer socks (fawn gray).

But never shoes:  oh no, not ever, ever, shoes---because

this pleases and arouses his boyfriend's eager pleasure;

his boyfriend (just a year and a half older than him) in the

audience, fiercely attentive to the choirboy's gently

melodious presence.  On the ring fingers of their left hands

glisten the polished silver of modestly crafted friendship bands.

J-Called

[*/+/^]