Rhythm

Woman, you are a drumbeat,
When steady you can make me march to war,
If you speed up you hold me fast with crashing chaos,
Percussive perfection leads me on to stay or go, whichever one you will.

Woman, you are a saxophone,
Speaking coolsmooth Duke Ellington satisfaction,
You are no piano,
No concertos on smokey cottonclub nights.

Woman, you float above it all
Until you lie down coyly on lines and notes,
Your time signature your own,
Not to be played by me, but only heard.

You dance me into synesthesia,
A storm of tactile eyes and ocular ears.

Reviews

[Emily Rose]

This is the kind of work that I wish there were more of on the Cafe; gems like this are few and far between. This poem has everything - a wonderful and original metaphor that renews and reworks an old and dusty subject. The words themselves are beautiful too - you really get your point across by making it ocularly pleasing, so the sounds themselves twine gracefully into your subject. It is a poem to be read aloud, and a marvelous read at that.

Normally this is the part where I would nitpick and point out defects, but I can find nothing to criticize. Wonderful piece; thank you for sharing!

[Ash.]

I am entranced by this piece of writing.
You are so smooth with your writing, dear.

[Lorrie]

I like you images.
Very graceful.
Worth the read