By Shirley Segev
© Shirley Segev
Permission is given hereby to all who want to use these poems personally for their enjoyment and/or share them freely with others: verbally, in writing, online, or otherwise, by copying them without making any changes, and as long as they do not receive any payment in return.
Contact: shirley.segev@sympatico.ca
Coming battered and bruised
into the world
is fair warning,
you'd think,
vaccination against
the illusion of expectations.
What blessing this forgetfulness,
belief in the gentle and
cute and cuddly,
— easier than original
sin and expulsion —
memories from a distant Eden
or where.
As much as I would love to think
those days of worshipping youth's bounty are gone
because of all the acquired wisdom and such,
seeing these smooth, pink cheeks, full lips,
fresh curves, May's flower
surprised my guts,
and then the other day
that slice of cake,
(how long since I forgot to bake?)
its moistness inhaled and devoured,
sweet beauty's deepest touch,
telling me about myself, too much.
Solitary confinement
is more common than not.
Unborn babies, grated puppies,
and that bowled goldfish,
souls and hearts, and one's thought,
tree roots and the worm of the fruit,
and the rot in the grave
so still, almost brave.