The Hair
It breezes by as she
rocks and moves,
grips me and throws
me…
I barely can hang on.
No one thrills me
like her.
and it is better each time.
My hair is short. it
cannot be stroked by L or pulled by J.
The wind in the ear,
like the whisper of E,
the whistle of speed through the head, like
the words of S.
The ride of H and the
soar of M.
They are all
wonderful women. They are not her.
This is my mistress
that is here.
My true love.
She has wrapped
herself around me
and I am holding on.
She makes the earth
move, move like no other.
She is the one, alway
has been,
the devil who waved
her finger in my direction
as a young boy.
I trembled when I first approached her.
she led me on and
brought me on.
I was scared. still am, and it thrills me.
And it always will.
For her to hold me
tight
and to have me let
go. to really laugh.
to really hold. to really let it go.
She goes by many
names, this devil woman.
The Racer. The
Jackrabbit. Pippin. Thunderbolt, Dipper
Wait
for her so that
she
may breathe this air,
so
strange to her heart. cloud by cloud.
and
wait for her
We drive the dreams
to delicious reality ul
Tom Squitieri
Tom Squitieri is a
three-time winner each of the Overseas Press Club and White House
Correspondents’ Association awards for his work as a war correspondent. He
reported from all seven continents, always writing as a voice for the
voiceless. His writing and reporting have been published in an array of
newspapers and magazines. Tom has taken his love of storytelling to
poetry. His poetry has appeared in The Raven’s Perch, No Strings Attached,
Style Sonata and The Griffin’s Inkpot.
Tags:
Poetry