beauty marks the enchantress

really, what more could be said,
to describe the goddess in red?
appreciating her beauty
is considered my solemn duty.

there’s warmth in her face
mixed with style and grace.
says her inviting smile,
“can we talk for a while?”

alarming my senses
unarming defenses
here come those chills again.
how does she do that to men?

from her waist to her head
wearing championship red.
covered with sensuous nevi
and low riding, front lacing levi.

her sinewy arms
just add to her charms.
her delicate navel exposed,
three inches above, what grows?

beauty marks the enchantress.
the circular melanin dances.
revealing the source of her power,
growing in strength by the hour.

the whirlpool pulls me in
i’m engulfed in an uncontrolled spin.
i’m resigned to this place
and confined to my space.

opposing the forces of nature,
i haven’t the strength to sate her.
my energy spent,
i give in and relent.

with a smile on my face
i await her embrace.
with my last breath i defend her
and raise the white flag of surrender.

rmb,od 09/06/2004

Kate Rusby is also a lovely lady. Nice poem.

Can't believe I was so bored that I wrote a poem about Dana's mole. How pathetic! You never know where inspiration comes from, right?

I haven't heard of Kate Rusby?

try and catch Underneath the Stars by Kate. Beautiful song and shows off her Lancashire dialect.

re: Shawn Phillips, try these words of his:

WHAZ' ZAT (1970)
Lightning slaying shadows
In the tremors of the night
While he creeps among the alleys
Bringing fear before the fright

She sleeps in tattered trousers
In the ballroom's decadence
Moaning gently of her dreaming
By escorted precedence
Antiquated babblings
From a constant stream of thought
Sensitively wringing out
The rags that he has caught

Patting yet her bulging belly
She so slowly cries a smile
In anticipated suffering
Of her slowly growing child
He is speeding in a vacuum
Going nowhere but, of course
He might believe in discipline
Of a bloody kind of sort

Naturally a state of race,
A never-changing spate of hate
While everything in some weird way
Does manage to relate
To her it doesn't matter more
Its chasms have been leapt
And she leans upon the skepticism of her chosen fate

Stand tall, you spittle-smattered son of man
Stand up, you hear them say
To slap you down and kick your teeth
And smile across the bay

Irrelevant eloquent pleading
Wasn't what she did this year
She passed it by and told a lie
And shed a crystal tear
For him to see, from valley's edge
From 0plateaus in the sand
And yet he has beshit himself
For being just a man

A bragging crowing sort of twit
A cast-off shade of pink
Who's brought himself and all the rest
Unto the very brink
Yet that magic urge
Continues on and plays continuum
A song of pleasure and of pain
Until that will be done

Very impressive work from Shawn. I'll check out Kate. Thanks for the tips.