Poems ✍️

'She' reads her dust-bathed congeries
of Yeats over and over -
each night; perhaps(thinks'She')
he might appear in her dreams,
a fantasy dream he conjured just for 'She'.
White majique turned ebony,
the darkest black of black?
Such business be exclusively reserved
for bards like Bill Shakespeare;
dreams can be strange and queer?
Think i'll catch a cat-nap, I say,
leave Shakespeare to himself.

When suddenly, I.....

Am startlingly awakened by a sharp, darting pain,
in between the pleats of my trouserss;
the hardbound of Dickinson once in hand
had fallen from my clutches,
and head-ed southward, 'tween my loins.
yes, this book by a poetess quite grandeur
that had taken me to places further than 'She'-
was now firmly upon my nether lands,
hard as ever are those bounded books!
I never knew Emily had a thing for me;

Curling, and slumped, I rise to my pride,
look across the room, and to no surprise-
'She' sits stone-still, looking jocundly jaded
she reads
still reading her Yeats in disturbing silence,
ne're an eye-shot nor movement of muscle projected;
And, I think to myself does this really bother me?
No, I think not, at all.
For She can oogle o'er Yeats, every night of the week;
'Cuz, Emily does it just fine for me!

______________ <F j R> ______________



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Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR