|
|
| Watch and hear the author read this poem
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=st2DCKZREaE
Cinnamon Lips
Once I was walking through the wood,
(And yes, I know it was a dream)
When all the wood smelled sharp and good
Along the sweetly flowing stream.
A tiny village spread along
The green and flowered grassy bank.
The gurgling brook sang a sweet song.
I knelt down by the stream and drank.
The water's taste was cinnamon,
Which came to me as a surprise.
Some shops stood near, I looked at one,
Which really opened up my eyes!
The buildings, reddish brown, each one:
The town was built of cinnamon!
On one corner stood a café,
And I with quite an appetite,
Put all thoughts of my waist away,
And ordered Cinnamon Delight.
A waitress brought it in a cup,
With steam curling above the rim.
The scent of cinnamon came up:
I drew my lungs full to the brim.
I'd never had a taste so dear,
Nor think I, had one mortal man.
I sipped and savored, never fear,
As much as any human can.
With every sip, where my blood flows,
My body felt a sweet repose.
That night I ate another meal,
Filled with the taste of cinnamon.
My dream-like state was now more real:
I ate my servings, one by one.
They brought at last, dessert to me,
Served by cinnamon clad misses;
Some Napa Valley dry white wine,
One tray of cinnamon kisses.
I sat enjoying my repose.
My memory lingers by good luck.
Cinnamon kisses, I suppose:
Cinnamon fingers, still to suck.
I slept on a cinnamon bed,
Where cinnamon roses were spread.
Through all the night I had strange dreams
Of warmth and sensuality;
Far more than heaven gives, it seems
For all its immortality.
Through all the night, my dreams did range,
With an intensity unknown,
Of some young maiden, rare and strange,
Who from some distant land had flown.
Near me she landed, quite by chance,
And laid her hand upon my arm.
This last did soon my heart entrance,
For full on me fell all her charm.
Cinnamon kisses . Dry white wine.
Something we shared that seemed divine.
Air replete with cinnamon scent;
Cinnamon colors on the wall;
Cinnamon toned emotions spent;
Cinnamon sounds in every call;
Cinnamon fragrance in her hair.
Cinnamon tones on satin skin;
Cinnamon songs in sultry air;
Cinnamon taste my lips were in;
Think you that in a midnight dream
Could bloom such hot and torrid scene?
Think you the answer then, could seem
Much stranger than the dream could mean?
My dream was filled with Freudian slips:
I awoke with cinnamon lips.
From: The Beckoning Hand Copyright 2006 © James Walter Orr | |
|
|