New Poems: "I want a girl who writes", "Bastard Pants", "Girl in a Library"

"I want a girl who writes"

(This poem is an omage to Mark Grist's I want a girl who reads.  His is the stronger poem, but as they say, imitation is a form of flattery.  Which usually I don't do, but recently I've been inspired to make an exception.)

I want a girl who writes. . . .

who has something to say,
in a way,
that’ s not afraid,
to take her time to stop and stay.

I want a girl who writes.

Whose poems bring a sudden smile,
all the while,
with sundry styles,
to awe bedazzle and beguile.

I want a girl who writes,

who dares to correspond,
to respond,
whose words go far beyond
the way most girls will just abscond
from being fond,
of any deeper meaning’s bond.

I want a girl who writes.

whose sudden spate of thoughts,
not for naught,
since in melancholy fought,
have a price with which they’re bought
charge of care with which they’re wrought
not just lost
in callous conversation’s cost
with whimsied winds of words unsought
from which no benefit is brought.

I want a girl who writes,

whose mindful meditation,
contemplation,
even prickly consternation
brings elation,
seize my breath and inhalation
words that pierce without pretension
leave a mark, the indication
of her sharpness of dictation,

I want a girl who writes,

whose words can strike me to the core,
through the floor,
make me laugh til sides are sore,
so conversation’s not a chore
not a snore
not a boorish bourgeois bore
not a veritable war,
and oh so much to answer for
with always more she has in store.

I want a girl who writes.

who has something to say,
in a way,
that’ s not afraid,
to take her time to stop and pray.
and much to wounded pride’s dismay,
is here to stay,
so come what may…

I want a girl who writes.


"Bastard Pants"

 Bastards think they “wear the pants”
they always have, they always do.
The rest of us just worker ants,
until their wish or whim is through.

Bastards cannot see the other,
Friend or child or spouse or mother.
Smug or stern but so entitled
with no tact with which it's bridled
Every question is a bother,
Every hug unwanted smother.

Bastards.

Bastards think they “where the pants”
they always have, they always do.
they look at others with askance,
for who are we to judge their view?

who can question their command
of everything, in which they stand
as experts in what they presume,
of buried “facts” without exhume
and thus the right of reprimand,
to all who dare not understand.

Bastards.

Bastards think they wear the pants.
They always have, they always do.
I only hope I have the chance
to cut their pantaloons askew.



"Girl in a Library"  (sequel to, "If Perfection Wore Glasses", which by the way, it does.)

Her soft eyes buried in a book
past hair and glasses, lovely face
the girl for whom I steal a look
allows my artist's heart to trace
and gain a fleeting glance of grace

Alas my heart, that shall grow cold
When memories image fails to serve
As passions pass ere youth grows old
Departs the path upon the curve.

Yet Smitten shall this instant be,
Though moment fades despite the chase
For we who doth have eyes to see
Though selfish be our sight debased
still gain a fleeting glance of grace.