The Handkerchief..

The Handkerchief..

If memory serves, and doth serve me well,

‘Twas a chance meeting on the steps of St. Paul’s,

Was a service for some civil event or other,

Tho’ what, for the life of me, one no longer recalls,

But I was passing on those wide, gracious steps,

When it caught my eye that her hanky she dropped,

Was pure chance I was there to snatch it from the wind,

And I remember thinking ; “what a delicate thing”…

Unusual for a woman of these times,

When forceful character is demand of the independent kind,

To clutch an embroided haberdash’d cloth so fine,

Seemed to me to frame a delicate but thoughtful mind.

Another fortunate stroke of fickle luck,

Happened as I politely proffered it back,

For that sprightly wind then tried to snatch her hat,

And she had to act quickly to repel such attack,

So she, and me with hat and hanky in tow,

Made our way to a sheltered elbow,

Around the corner of those steps of St. Pauls.

She gave her name as Kathleen, and touched back a lock,

Of wayward hair that the cheeky wind had swept,

We adjusted ourselves with hat and coat,

And upon invitation, I led her to a warming bistro..

And that..was the start of our regular assignation,

Over coffee and cake and gentle conversation,

Between Kathleen and myself at that café station.

(But say..: Would you like to know more…one ear cocked agin’ the private door?)

Of course thou would!

For is there a thing more hasting in want,

Than details lurid or other of a couple in love?

And..

Of course we men flirt with the ladies,

And why should we not try,

Does not the honey bee flirt with the flowers,

Does not the hummingbird flirt with the sky?

Mark the loquacious mopoke, with its subtle lover’s song,

And what of the curdling howl, of a dingo all night long?

And of the wide, vast, expanse of ocean,

With its currents, deep waters and lagoons,

Does it not reflect the sensuous glory,

Of a brilliance of shine from the moon?

So leave us please sing our love songs,

To our Helen or Kate or Kim Soon,

With all the passion and hunger,

Of a wild beast’s mating croon.

We are but singing as a loving swain,

Serenading to the women, mostly in vain,

Attracting attention in our exaggerating swoon,

Under a new and full, September Moon.

So of course, we will flirt with the ladies,

Indeed, damn us if we don’t always try,

Tempting them with poetry or high dinner,

Tempting them…with a flirtatious twinkle in our eye!

She slipped off her velvet glove,
One delicate finger-tip at a time,
Once this obstruction was thence removed,
She lay her hand in mine.
I tender-touched her whitened palm,
Made note of the softness of her skin,
A sign I pondered in my conscious mind,
Of the lady’s gentleness within.
It felt that this one small action of her hand,
Gave cause in gentle touch, all that was in demand,
All that was wanted and needed,
Between the woman and the man.
For the intimacy of love need not be ordained,
By a passionate embrace between a woman and a man,
Enough for love to be built on a tender touch,
Of a lover’s offered hand.

But stay!.. Let my heart stay young,

Like the Gardens of Gethsemane stay young,

Let my heart seek love’s joy,

Like a child would harbour a favoured toy,

Let me, in this, my last remaining times,

Embrace that joy granted, of love sublime.

While all about is awry with turmoil and strife,

Let me serenely sail through on love’s delight,

While all about is bent to sorrow and pain,

The heart will reside in comfort of love’s domain.

Don’t force my heart to grow old,

Like the Gardens of Babylon have grown old,

Don’t soak my heart with saddened tears,

Before I have reached my terminal years,

Leave me if I may, sing Aphrodite’s sensuous song,

Praising her beauty in loquacious tongue,

Prithee. . .

Leave my heart stay young!

Now…

Across the table she does patiently sit,

While I pour forth with my urbane wit,

Not a flinch of eye nor lift of brow,

Gives away what she’s doubting now,

That my weakness lay not in my verbs,

But rather in my prolix words.

So there she sits and there she knows,

More solid in sound than an auctioneer’s close,

Her sympathy smile like his gavel blows,

Her words as gentle as a nurse’s touch,

Never a hint that I’m too garrulous,

In the playful world of cunning men,

She reveals so little,

Because she knows so much!

Still I admire..

This little bit of beautiful,
Just a touch of fine,
A small blush of wonderful,
This little moment in time.
A little bit of beautiful,
A simple thing to see,
Those tender moments of sunshine,
Within the soul of thee.
That little bit of beautiful,
Those small touches of fine,
When you blush it’s wonderful,
To know our feelings are one.

For me,

It’s the gentle ones that pleaseth most,

Of the fierce or vengeful I am most loath,

To company seek, such friendship boast.

The mature woman (if I may humbly appraise),

Hath heard the worst and endured the most,

That fragile male could, in enticing toast,

Flatter in fawning adulation as cajoling host,

Knowing while she does his salacious intent!

So prithee, let us not delude with naive invent.

If company of thou is sought by mature women,

Rest assured it is wanted and valued by them,

And there, in their patience and obliging reprieve,

You have free rein to espouse what you believe,

To the extent you amuse, not abuse, if you please.

I confess some have deep gazed into mine eyes,

Though disguised, have discovered my latent intent,

But with a Mona Lisa curl of beguiling smile,

Let me off the hook, tolerant touch of fingers lent,

And I humbly imbibe of such svelte, demure consent!

For truly..

As does healthy fruit grace a flowering vine,

So will healthy women be graced with concubines,

For is it not the will of nature’s design,

Beauty of the female spirit should honoured be,

With men’s singular attention, waiting patiently,

One would forever be a suitor forlorn,

One would desire to be a lover sworn,

Whilst the silly one could resort to bad poetry,

All will take their place in her itinerary!

For why should a lady in demand so grace,

This or that suitor a favour of place,

Feign that chance would give such a taste,

Would lead a damsel to loss of face,

And end elusive mystery in wanton disgrace?

No…

Let sit at ease this natural state,

That women may lead with men in chase,

For order is set in such concourse,

That follow in junction orderly laws,

Where woman’s beauty of spirit holds forth.