Beauty

Deflowering Fields

~ Iyan Igma

As if in a dream
I run deflowering fields
Of the spring’s newborn
Bounteously petaled yields.

It’s rare one sees blue
In nature; the oceans are green.
Yet, childishly, the sky adorns
My fingers and in between.

From peedabeds and aphids
I’ve fashioned a toga.
In this black-eyed Susie
Hut I meditate in yoga.

With a honey-suckled daisy diadem,
I naturally rule in thought.
My embellished ways have more flowers
Than any florist has bought.

Excessively I’ve strewn petals
Where their transpiration splatters
To find out if she loves me
Or not and other such matters.

Olive

~ Iyan Igma

I fancy you’re something of an olive,
And, though those branches mayst be by a dove
Bourne, there is none superior to thee
And none higher, though thou be from a tree.
Much of that color is your complexion
Naturally, with tanning’s neglection.
Voluptuous, you’re nicely pump and round,
Though not as most portly fellows I’ve found.
You’ve no need of envy; should you be green,
It’s only because there’s much you’ve not seen.
It’s well you’re not black; it’s such a sweet taste.
Green bitterness prevents meaningless haste.
You must be unpitted [you have a heart.]
An onion you’d be, knew I where to start.

Ashore

~ Iyan Igma

Albeit, I know you could never sin,
Since perfection comes without from within.
It touches ev’ry aspect of your form—
The round eyes your golden face does adorn,
Thy blemishless skin ‘neath which you take dorm,
Your ears, and how your hair is shorn.
To gaze upon your form does me distress;
Even reverent glances must transgress.
What a radiant goddess graces earth!
How you have mortal men much affrighted!
We scurry lest defects should be sighted,
Which’d afterwards make us e’er curse birth.
Prithee, what is it like within your core,
Since countenance’s where weak wash ashore?